Six hours after the Eldar terrorist attack, Eire, Owen and I wait in a dull, featureless room with nothing but a plasteel table and four large chairs. A single, blazing spotlight illuminates the central table.

Two Heralds frog-march Orodor into the room, then secure him to the table with hefty cuffs and a short chain. Orodor’s armour is battered and his face is badly burned on one side. Though it has been resealed with synthskin, the muscle behind is ruined and half his expression is slack. A barely contained psychic aura surrounds him and his sickly green, pupiless eyes have a mild, blue-white glow.

Orodor shuffles in his seat and tugs at his chains and snarls, “Why am I not dead?”

“Your bombs, your tech, you tell me,” I say.

“Don’t play the fool, you know what I meant.”

“Do I?”

Orodor scoffs, “Your so-called healers patched me up; why bother when you’re going to shoot me? That’s what you Monkeigh like to do right? Shoot ‘xenos’ like foolish children who do not understand the weight of their actions.”

I lean over the table, looming over Orodor, and stare into his eyes, “Since we met, Exarch, I have kept my word to the Yme-Loc Eldar. I have offered help when I did not have to, traded in good faith, and now I am treating two thousand Eldar prisoners with more care than your own people. Yet still you call me a barbarian, a Monkeigh. The option to leave all your men and women to die remains undetermined. Will you answer my questions with the grace of a good guest, or the vitriol of the terminally ignorant?”

Orodor cowers slightly, then straightens up and glares back, “Don’t try to make yourself sound so great. We each had our own reasons.”

“And we have paid for them,” I say, “In blood, fire, and betrayal.”

A single tear runs down Orodor’s ruined cheek, though his expression remains firm.

“Why did they do it?” says Owen. “What did they possibly hope to gain?”

“Orodor, I can see the tendrils of your power,” I say, “Do not pretend you do not know.”

“The Aspect Warriors have kept much from me,” says Orodor.

I lift an eyebrow, “You mean to tell me that, in the hour of their triumph, a great victory no doubt written in the stars and dreamed of for aeons, your people did not gloat?”

Orodor grits his teeth and his hands curl into fists. “They found a Dolmen Gate. A small one, suitable for infantry and small vehicles. We believed your aid our due and paid it no heed. The worthless trinkets you asked for, a joke. Then you brought in the Macro-Crawler. Our laughter withered to fear, and festered as humiliation. How could a lesser race save us? The ancient rulers of the galaxy.

“Humiliation regrew as hate, as it always does. Why not get a little revenge on the way out, once you were no longer needed? Nothing like a potential suicide mission to purge unruly individuals in the ranks. A necessity, even, for surviving the Webway. Daenthala laughed when she heard that I lived. A punishment for my weak heart and soft mind.”

“You, soft?” says Eire “How blind could they be?”

“You claim to see more?” Orodor leans back in his chair, his chains clanking. “I did not punish the Guardians who found brief companionship or camaraderie among your Heralds. Neither did you. Some Bonesingers were equally enthralled, even if it was only to show off their superior craft. That was the final fuse. What did it matter if a little friendship, true or false, helped us survive one more day on this dead world? Who would shield my people if not for you? Yet now it matters not.

“Every Eldar you directly saved was abandoned, because they dared shelter in the arms of a Monkeigh. It does not matter how we survived. It should not. Those with thicker armour and dull spirits thought otherwise.”

Eire pulls a datapad from a satchel hanging on her chair and detaches the pen, “You owe reparations, weregeld. Only then will we return you to the stars.”

“Have we not paid enough?”

“No.” I say, “There is nothing you could pay that would outweigh the sins of your species. Not even your deaths are helpful, with She-Who-Thirsts gnawing at the carcass of your civilization.”

“Magos, how could you possibly understand the sorrow of our people? The depths of our scars. You cannot. You do not have the capacity to feel such things.” Orodor sighs, “Forget my people’s past. I only care for the future. Name your price.”

“Your Bonesingers will transcribe and teach all their knowledge in full with a cooperative attitude,” I say.

“You ask too much. Choose one technology.”

“Twelve.”

“Magos, they will die before they teach you that much. Two.”

“Seven, then.”

“Terran stories often feature three tasks. We will do three tasks for you, be it teach one subject, develop one material, or build one machine.”

I glance at Eire and Owen. They are watching Orodor closely, attempting to divine his intent. They notice my gaze and use their implants to vox me silently.

“Demand all their maps of the Koronus Expanse too,” says Eire, “I doubt they have Warp routes, but surely they must have a full scan of all four hundred thousand odd stars.”

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“Knowledge is great, but it will not appease the people,” Owen says. “Insist that each Eldar lays a wreath of flowers at the main altar in Iron Crane’s Cathedral. Their rights to wander the vessel must also be restricted in the same manner as the Tau: puppeting Servitors only. They must also accept an MIU and all their interactions on the noosphere be restricted to their own network.”

I acknowledge Eire and Owen’s additional demands and convey them to Orodor.

“You can have the maps,” says Orodor. “They will be scrubbed of all webways and Exodite worlds will appear as dead worlds. I don’t see why you’d want the maps though, most are millions of years out of date.”

“It will still be better than our long range scans.”

“Evidently. As for the wreaths? Not a chance. The same goes for your crude cybernetics.”

“Then we are done here. We will inform all Eldar of our demands and let them choose for themselves. You will be returned to Kinbriar within the hour to wait out your final days.”

“At last, you resort to threats.”

“It’s not a threat, Orodor. I was not asking, I was informing. Goodbye, Exarch.”

“What?”

“Take him away, Heralds. Don’t forget the ball and chain. We wouldn’t want him to forget his pride.”

Orodor inhales to speak and is jabbed in the neck with a shock baton. His body seizes and he gasps.

“Silence, prisoner,” says one of the Heralds. “Good day, Magos, Commanders.”

“Godspeed, Heralds.”

The Heralds remove Orodor from the room.

“Such a waste of life,” says Owen. “I doubt he will change his mind.”

Eire hums, “I am not so sure. He is dedicated to his people and will likely believe himself the only person capable of watching over them.”

I shrug, “I will transport them whether they like it or not. Their chains will be of their own making.”

“Chains? Well, it’s not like you can make them dig their own graves in space.” nods Owen, cupping his chin and staring absently into space.

“Humorous philosophy aside,” I grin, stand, and walk towards the door. It opens automatically and I look back. “Thank you for your support and ideas. I’ll see you both at the meeting next week if not before.”

“Bye, Aldrich,”

“May the Emperor bless your day, Magos.”

I leave and take the Thunderhawk to Kinbriar with the Space Marines. The young souls need lots of walks and our presence will speed up the evacuation. I may even assist in disassembling the Macro-crawler. There won’t be time to take all of it, but we can still strip the most valuable parts.

A week of labour later and the fireship is launched. We immediately depart from Kinbriar. There is no fanfare and Brigid and I are actually in bed at the time. It feels anti-climatic, but when most endings in this galaxy are death and dismemberment on a good day, an easy departure is a miracle. The Necrons didn’t bother us as they were far too busy trying to kick the Eldar out of the North Tomb.

On our way out from the system we will fill our holds with metallic asteroids and icy comets, even towing a thirty-three kilometre asteroid, using the combined thrust of all our ships. It’s also a handy space to store all the blackstone.

We plan to curve our trajectory as we distance ourselves, ensuring that when the fireship strikes Kinbriar in nine months time, both the Sun and the asteroid will be between us and the blast. Hell, the blast isn’t even being directed in the direction we are travelling in.

Even so, I’m not quite sure what will happen and I am taking no chances. The Eldar don’t know what will happen either.

Orodor and his people have been stuffed into cargo containers and are guarded by two battalions of Heralds at all times and we have begun recovery of the majority of their living space, now there are so few to house.

Staring at the ceiling, I enjoy Brigid’s warm presence in our extra large sleeping pod. Light from a single candle flickers over our pale skin. My electoos occasionally flicker with minute bursts of power.

Brigid rolls over, flops over my chest, and looks up at me, “Aldrich, I’m terrified.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“How could you be? You’re a man,” Brigid flutters her eyelashes at me and pouts.

I give her a lopsided smile, “We are talking about two different things and you are messing with me.”

“I am,” Brigid reaches up and strokes my hair. “We are rather too old for drama and games, but I fear that is what we will find when we reach the Imperium.”

I hum, “You want us to get married.”

Brigid nods, digging her chin into my chest with significant force, “We have a long period where no emergencies should happen. It is a good time to raise some kids and strengthen your line of succession. Just Quaani is not enough and it will deter any so called nobles and other social climbers from bothering us too much. I know you don’t care that you’re not supposed to, because you're a Navigator and are only supposed to ‘breed’ with your own kind, but I still want to head off any ‘offers’ before they have a chance.”

“Brigid. You don’t need to justify it. I don’t mind looking like a romantic fool before the Imperium.”

“I can’t help myself.”

“Neither can I,” I envelop Brigid’s hand and caress the back of it with my thumb.

“Are we talking about different things again?”

I ruffle Brigid’s hair with my other hand, inflicting her with a serious case of bed-hair, “I don’t think we’re too old for a few games.”

“Then you can make me something shiny and come up with a fancy proposal.”

I raise an eyebrow, “Who’s proposing to who here exactly?”

“Well, you can’t ask my parents for permission. They haven’t been born yet.” Brigid huffs, sticks her nose in the air and switches to High Gothic, “As head of my house, only I can grant that privilege.”

I laugh, “Indeed, my love. May I have your permission to ask you to marry me?”

Brigid wriggles up and gives me a peck on the lips, then wiggles her eyebrows, “What’s in it for me?”

“You would extort your son-in-law for favours?” I say with a slight tremor in my voice while looking Brigid up and down.

Brigid’s eyes widen, “Ew! Aldrich! Too far!”

“What, aren’t we roleplaying Imperial Nobles right now? We need to get that practice in before we do it for real.”

“I’d rather run those explosive astrophysics calculations with you again” says Brigid with a wicked grin. “Let’s see how many moons you can pot with that cue of yours.”

I laugh, “Oh, I’m sure I can stimulate an eclipse or two.”