I leave the navigator spire and pass multiple security checkpoints on my way to the closest train station. The station has two tracks, one stacked on top of the other for travelling in opposite directions.
A rectangular, chunky carriage, three point five metres wide and twelve metres long decelerates then hovers sideways from the main track up to the platform. With this arrangement, up to four different pods can be loaded and unloaded per layer without blocking each other, so that loading cargo doesn’t slow down passengers or require a separate station. Not all pods have to stop at each station either, depending on the journeys requested by the passengers. It’s more similar to a bus or a lift than a train.
The trains run on a loop around the vessel and there are lines on #K2 and #S2, between the first and second hull, and a station every five hundred metres. There is a third loop on #C1 where the officer and guest quarters as well as the arboretum filled with lethal flora. A single, heavy cargo rail runs along the centre of #M1.
Thirteen other passengers step off the carriage then I and six others embark. No one pays any attention to me; I have my helmet on and I’m not broadcasting who I am, nor is the insignia on my armour particularly noticeable. No point encouraging snipers on the battlefield any more than I already do.
The carriage has no seats and multiple handles are welded to the ceiling and side panels. Two lines of recessed cargo rings are spread along the floor.
The pod can hold up to ten, two cubic metre pallets or between twenty space marine sized individuals and forty uniformed passengers, depending on how much gear they’re wearing.
As the carriage slides back on to the mag track and shoots off, I dream about selling the arboretum plants and turning the facility into a series of secluded gardens: multiple different styles from stone lanterns, moss, and delicate bridges to yew hedges and box topiary with sparkling water features to tie it all together. Sure, I can walk around such environments in the noosphere to a fidelity that it is easy to believe it is real, but how it comes together with all the senses is just lacking enough that I want a space with the real thing.
The difference is deliberate, not a limitation of the technology, so that users do not forget where they are. Noosphere environments are intended to alleviate stress and provide leisure, training and teaching environments and they do in the overwhelming majority of cases. The balance is ensuring it isn’t so marvellous it leaves the crew distracted when working, or plotting how to beat their colleagues in the next arena match, instead of doing their jobs.
Despite the lowered settings, we have had thirty-seven cases of severe depression in the last two years related to noosphere addiction and two hundred and three accidents where the culprit admitted they were thinking about their noosphere activities rather than on what they were supposed to be doing.
This contrasts with only nineteen incidents related to drug and alcohol abuse, which is much easier to police.
The train arrives at the barracks and I disembark. Almost everyone I pass is fully kitted out with tense postures and a brisk pace. I can’t see their faces through their helmets, but I doubt they look happy.
Noosphere issues have been way less severe than the five hundred and twenty-nine cases associated with marriage, deaths, and other interpersonal relationships.
Overall, discipline is excellent and morale is high. Having a highly educated and trained crew makes a massive difference as most personnel have an excellent idea of what their responsibilities are, how to execute them, and what the consequences of fucking up are. Friends and family on board encourage personnel not to mess up.
With five watches, personnel are retrained every twelve months and at that time they can try a new role or advance their education. They can also request to change teams, which is a good way for us to track inept or cruel officers, or pick out people who are disruptive and belligerent, who hide their habits from standard screening.
Right now, these people are easy to replace as we are right next to a population centre, but I’m unsure how I’ll handle it once we’re deep in the void. I don’t see much point in giving such hidden fools a second chance, but neither can I space every asshole in case there’s an error or a plot.
Personnel work six days on, four days off with three weeks of additional paid leave a year. I even offer six months maternity and paternity leave, as well as free child care, medical care, and high pay.
I press the intercom on Thorfinn’s door and chuckle. If conditions on other vessels in the Imperium are anywhere near as bad as Jamie’s videos suggest, the one thing I won’t have to worry about at new ports is desertion. I am quite certain that some twit will accuse me of heresy for my employment practices and another will think I am an adherent of Slaanesh because I don’t starve my crew.
Thorfinn’s voice comes out of the vox caster, “Name and rank.”
“Magos Explorator Aldrich Issengrund. Void ship captain.”
“Ah, hello Aldrich. I wasn’t expecting you.” His voice is a little wobbly. The door opens, “Come in.”
I enter a small room with wooden panelling on the walls, a slim desk and three office chairs. A cogitator perches in the centre of the desk. A las pistol is mag locked to one of two panels that curl at the base and hold up the desk.
Headmaster Aileen is also present and has his arms wrapped around Thorfinn. They separate as I approach. Both men have tear streaks on their faces.
I remove my helmet, “I’ve come at a bad time. I can give you both a few more minutes to steel your nerves if you need it. I do not mind if Aileen stays for our discussion, Thorfinn. He has the rank for it.”
Thorfinn slowly shakes his head. “No, no. I’ve been in the military long enough to learn to cry while working and sleeping.” He gives us both a small, sad smile and wipes his cheeks with his thumb. “Take a seat, both of you. Please.”
I sit. My servo harness keeps me from leaning back, but the position is sufficiently comfortable.
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“Thorfinn, I am aware I am acting like a grox in a granary. Before I open my discussion with you and Aileen, there is time to air your sorrows, if you wish.”
Thorfinn points at the unopened bottle of ancient amansec and three glasses on the wall of shelves in his office. I gave it to him when he became Distant Sun’s Master-of-Arms.
“I think it’s time. Do you mind, Aldrich? A glass each, please. Two fingers.”
“Sure.”
I prepare the drinks and pass a glass to Thorfinn and Aileen.
“Thank you, Aldrich,” says Aileen.
Thorfinn takes his glass and holds it in both hands without drinking a sip. After a minute of silence, he says, “My sister, Thurid, and her two children were working on the shipyard when Green Tick struck.” He takes a snip, “I couldn’t get a message through, so I asked Aileen for a favour. He scried for them. They’re dead.”
“Oh, Thorfinn. I am so, so sorry.”
Thorfinn frowns, “I finally understand what you told me all those years ago about the terrors of the galaxy. The tau were bad, but it wasn’t personal, at least for me. I always secretly thought you were a paranoid bigot.”
I smirk, “I am.”
Thorfinn snorts, “Yeah, the difference is that now I can relate to it.” He waves his glass at Aileen. “Thing is, my loss is insignificant compared to some.”
Aileen sighs and sips his amasec, “Almost all my students are dead as well as the majority of Marwolv’s order of psy-errants. They perished with the manifestation of that vile avatar. Any who were not behind a gellar field, or those who had not adopted your warding electoos, died.”
“I knew it was bad, but I don’t know the numbers.”
“A single student, Åse Lochridge survived,” says Aileen. “She was praying in a chapel at the time, before she went on her qualifying hunt with her fellow students. Åse isn’t a great believer in the imperial cult. She and her friends were just praying for fun. None of the other students with her survived.
“As for the exact numbers, I believe that, across Marwolv, some three hundred thousand psykers have perished. Most are weak, you would class them as iota level psykers, capable of minor cantrips and of little consequence. I do not know how many survived.
“Of those three hundred thousand, approximately thirty thousand are around theta or greater and had to graduate from the Clubhouse or be killed. I have told you of Åse Lochridge, and my current students. There were also two hundred and eighteen theta level psykers on your payroll. One hundred and eighty-eight survived. Beyond these individuals, I do not know the number of theta level survivors across Marwolv. I doubt more than a handful remain.
“There were four hundred and three eta psykers, eighty zeta psykers and seven epsilon psykers on Marwolv. These three categories are a lot more powerful and dangerous. Of these three categories, six psykers, one of whom is an epsilon, survived.
“I am the only delta class psyker on Marwolv and the Distant Sun’s gellar field protected me. I will be getting those tattoos later today.”
I sigh, “At least a few of them made it, though they may not feel the same. You too, Aileen. I’m glad you’re taking further precautions as well.”
“It was the closest I’ve come to death in a hundred and fifty years,” says Aileen, his voice trembling. “Most of these more powerful psykers were my colleagues and friends. I am happy some were spared. They grew up aware of my presence, many were foolish little children at one point who would reach out and say hello to me, not knowing what they were doing or why it was dangerous and I had to desperately shield them from hungry maws. This time? I didn’t stand a chance.”
Thorfinn reaches over his desk and grabs Aileen’s hand, “It’s not your fault, Aileen.”
“I know. That doesn’t make it any less painful.” Aileen squeezes Thorfinn’s hand, then lets go and leans back in his seat.
Thorfinn returns to holding his glass in both hands and stares at the swirling liquid.
“There’s one thing that puzzles me,” I say. “With all that sacrifice, it’s a miracle Marwolv is in one piece.”
“It was almost imperceptible,” says Aileen, “but the demonic avatar spent much of the energy it acquired maintaining Marwolv’s integrity. Possibly it wished to drag it into the warp to breed more psykers. Any power it saved for its next move was lost when it spat out the orks, then threw a tantrum when it knew it no longer had enough for whatever it planned. I’d say we should be grateful for the interference, but” Aileen glances at Thorfinn, “I don’t think that would be appropriate.”
“We need to kill them all, Aldrich,” Thorfinn looks up and stares me in the eyes. “That’s why you came here, yes? To make a plan? Almost all the accounts I’ve read imply one can’t wait for orks to come to you or they get out of hand.”
I nod, “That’s one reason and yes, I have some ideas. Maeve is busy and while her input is valuable, she’s an assault commander, not a fortress commander. We should focus our support on Drumbledrone off Dôl’s west coast. I have Eire’s list of available forces. Twenty-five percent are at Drumbledrone. I’ve forwarded the list to your noosphere address.”
Thorfinn turns on his cogitator and the screen springs to life. Using his implants to control the device he views the files I have sent him.
“Forgive me, Aldrich,” says Aileen, “for asking such a simple question, but why are you preparing for a campaign? Why can you not cleanse them from orbit as soon as Distant Sun is finished with its current operations?”
“I do intend to bomb them. The problem is we can’t do so immediately as all that dust and dirt thrown into the atmosphere is filled with metal particles from the asteroid and continuous lightning. We know where the orks hit, but they did so at an angle and likely slid considerable distance after impact.
“Current simulations suggest six to eight weeks for the dust to settle, but if we wait that long, the orks will dig in and spread out, making them harder to remove. I want to set out within the next forty-eight hours.”
Thorfinn looks up, “So our goals are: locate the rok impact site, contain the orks, interrupt whatever they are up to, then wait out the storm and melt them.”
“Not quite. My first choice would be to sneak a targeting beacon in and blast them immediately, but I’ve no idea if that’s possible, so we need to have our contain and strike plan in place before we try the easy solution as no matter what happens, I doubt it will end with a few lances from orbit, or dropping our kinetic armaments.”
“That’s not all, is it?” Thorfinn grimaces. “When we strike from orbit it will throw more crap into the atmosphere. That will keep our D-POTs grounded and maintain the rok’s cover from orbit. If a lance takes out the beacon, or hits the spotters, we’d be back to the start with nothing to show for it.”
Alieen clears his throat, “One more question, if I may. What happened to the sensor net you placed to detect tau vehicles? There’s also all those sensor stations you placed to monitor earthquakes for Marwolv’s polities. Would they be enough to hit a two kilometre asteroid from orbit?”
I grin, “That might do it!”