“I was thinking we could do a jetbike race across the hull of the Distant Sun,” says Thorfinn.
I lean forward in my chair, “Tell me more.”
“We could drop the artificial gravity on the vessel and put it in a variable, one gravity spin. We could also have various teams trying to intercept the racers and other obstacles.
“This would make the race more challenging and the stress should let us nail down any weak spots in our safety protocols and double check everything is properly stowed and secured after the refit and new crews. Search and rescue would also get a shake down as we can station them to collect anyone or anything that gets thrown from the Distant Sun during the race.
“I think the idea is good, but we can do more.” I cross my arms, “First, those Shamshir pattern jetbikes are pristine relics, each one is worth more than this vessel. I’d like to keep them that way. Neither are they suitable, ergonomically, for regular humans.”
Thorfinn sighs, “That’s a shame, they are a lot of fun to ride.”
I grin, “Yes, they are. I think your idea of using this to unify and educate crews as well as have fun has great merit. We can use twenty teams, four from each of the Distant Sun’s five watches. Half of the teams will race at a time, while the other half work together to disrupt them and we’ll hold two races, allowing each side to swap. There will be prizes for each side, based on how many complete their race, with a bonus for managing to win both sets, or come first within your race.”
“That should mean the teams will work together properly,” Thorfinn rubs his chin, then points at me dramatically. “How cunning!”
I laugh and wave him off.
“What do you want them to race?”
“This is a chance to link the new adepts to Holy Mars,” I smirk, “and while seeing them all drive around in white vans would amuse me, I’m the only one who would find it funny. Let’s have them race in their own designed and built dune buggies, something the first tech-priests used when they were still part of the unified mechanicum, rather than the adeptus mechanicus.”
Thorfinn frowns, “I don’t have the background to understand why that’s important, but it’s still a race and that’s what interests me. If you’re going for a technical race, could you have the buggies carry a fixed set of tools and spare parts and have them called out to fix specific problems on dummy systems? It’s not quite the same as chasing sensor ghosts, but it’s not that dissimilar.”
“That sounds great. We’ll have the dummy systems fail in a humiliating and messy way if they fuck up as well and have the opposing team choose the sabotage, so long as it is fixable with the tools and parts they know each team will be carrying.”
“Now that’s just mean,” Thorfinn sniggers. “Make sure the teams are mixed; guardsmen and tech-adepts and they all have to help design, build, race, sabotage, and shoot. That will help each discipline have a better understanding of each other, especially if we turn it into a holoshow for everyone to watch.”
“That would be ideal. We’ll hold the races a week before the Sanguinala and the top three places will get to lead the parade on their winning buggies.”
“No getting out of the parade, eh? I suppose it is important and we shouldn’t piss all over a holy day, just because we’re not in imperial space.”
“Yes, Thorfinn. We should not do that. It was your idea, so you can oversee the committee to organise it, but do delegate most of it unless you really want to do the extra work.”
“Alright. Just a couple more points to round it off. Number of people per team and which Sanguinala, the one in two months or next year, and how will you make the teams equal?”
“It’s a lot of work and teams will only be able to work on it extensively during their three days off they get every nine days of work.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that too much,” Thorfinn shakes his head. “We’re not on an amber or red alert so the crews only do one six hour shift every eighteen or twenty-four hours depending on what the training watch is doing.”
“True, even so, I think we should hold it next year, but we could do a trial race, prototyped by the committee at different budget points and also test different routes across the hull to see what works. A teaser for next year and a draw for people to apply to the teams.”
“Makes sense. Do you have time for a game of something yourself after this?”
I shake my head, pause, then nod. “I was going to say not this evening, but screw it. I’m still feeling a bit odd in the head and I should take more time off for my mental health. What did you have in mind?”
“Ah, there’s some recruits who’ve gotten cheeky in the void ship assault sim. Me and a few of the survivors from Operation Sea Mither want to put them in their place. Care to join?”
I snort, “For their own good.”
“Nope.”
Laughing, I say, “Sure. I’ll join. Before we jump into the noosphere, tell me your thoughts about the names.”
“Right, the guardsmen. Thing is, they're not proper imperial guard, they’re your personal troops and should have a name that reflects that. It will prevent any administrative confusion or political puffing once we eventually reach the Calixis sector. We should sort it now before everything gets too established. Maybe make a thing of it at the next parade? Give me something to make it more interesting at least!”
I hold my hands up, palms forward, “OK, OK, you made your point.”
“Course I did. Nothing but the best from my noggin.”
“What name did you have in mind?”
“I was thinking, star marines, or solar legion. Troops could be marines or legionnaires, or if you’re feeling fancy, heralds.”
“We should avoid anything related to marine as it infringes on the space marines. The same goes for guard, auxiliary, or militia. They’re not guardsmen, as you’ve pointed out, and they’re no supplementary force either.”
Thorfinn sighs, “You’re not finished, there is something wrong with legion too, it’s all over your face.”
“Thanks to some tumultuous imperial events, the word legion is associated with the defunct organisational method of the space marines and now associated with the more chaotic elements of human based, anti-imperial forces.
“The only people who still use the word, that I can think of, are the titan legions. A titan legion often feels an ironic name, as it’s rare for the Imperium to field more than one or two titans at a time. They’re so revered, and powerful, however, that no one wants to tell the pilot and the supporting forces of a one hundred and fifty metre war machine that they can’t call themselves a legion. Even the smaller ones are an absolute terror.”
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Thorfinn raises an eyebrow, “I’ll save my laughter at their name choice for when I’m staring down one of their weapon barrels.”
“That sounds prudent,” I say, while suppressing my amusement.
“Well you shot down all of my ideas,” Thorfinn groans, then squares his shoulders, “What names do you have in mind?”
“I think Stellar Corps. It has a dash of word play, refers to the skill I expect and the level that soldiers can aspire to. It also touches on the pressure they are forged in and can withstand.”
“There’s no way you just came up with that. You’ve been thinking about this for a while.”
I huff, “I think the problem is that I can, on occasion, think too fast.”
“Right, right, sorry, didn’t mean to poke a sore spot.”
“It’s fine. I still find the relative time I endure somewhat confusing, even after a decade of use.”
Thorfinn nods, “Well if you’re not going to call them marines or guards, you’re going fancy, right?”
“I was thinking that commandos would be good. They are supposed to be an elite force.”
“It’s good, but commandos are about small teams, like the Catachan jungle fighters I read about. Your private forces are more traditional. They back up your word and announce your presence with a big fucking gun. In what way are they not heralds?”
“Seems a little on the nose. Flamboyant too.”
“Well yeah, it is. That’s important so that even the dumbest shit in the galaxy can understand what they are. Also, your forces shoot flaming bullets and coherent light, then, if that doesn’t work, hurl destructive fireworks at the enemy. How is that not flamboyant?
I slump slightly in my chair, “Fine. You made your point. Stellar Corps will be the group name and herald the name of an individual within the group.”
Thorfinn gives me a big grin and a thumbs up. “See, that wasn’t so hard, Mr Grimdark.”
I chuckle, then descend into full blown laughter, my eyes wet with tears.
Thorfinn rolls his eyes, “It’s not that funny.”
“It’s not important,” I dab my face with a napkin. “Thanks for cheering me up, Thorfinn.”
“You’re most welcome, my friend. Now let’s go put those newbies in their place.”
“Sounds great. Lead on!”
Unfortunately the newbies really were that good, and Thorfinn, his team, and I, got wrecked. Aruna assured me they weren’t cheating and I didn’t want to ruin the puzzle and joined the practice for the next two months until we worked out how to counter them and were, at last, able to blast the pesky buggers into pixelated ultra-violence.
After our petty victory, Distant Sun’s chief bosun, the ship’s primary drills and discipline officer, contacts me.
An idle thought-stream fires up and takes the call in my mind, via my machine integration implant.
Chief Erin Ogilvie’s bright red hair and freckled face appears in my mind.
“Good afternoon, Erin.”
“Hello Magos. I have an unusual disciplinary case and require guidance.”
“Go ahead.” As we talk, I stroll through my quarters to the lab to work on my prototype lasgun, while other minds examine forms, set up material simulations, and remote experiments, and oversee the construction of the Iron Crane.
“We have our first murder and it's a triple.”
I sit at my work bench and design a work order for my mechadendrites on my back and the servo arms on the bench. Then watch them work as I focus on the call.
“Thank you for contacting me, Erin. Please tell me what you have so far.”
“The offender is Artisan Drest Boswell, he is, or rather was, in charge of constructing the Distant Sun’s prototype orbital kinetic weapons.”
“Ah yes, I wanted something halfway between nuking the tau and firing the ship’s lances at the planet and igniting the atmosphere. Please continue.”
“Yes, Magos. Artisan Boswell was subject to a remote, non-destructive, non-lethal breach of his implants. The thieves were searching for data on the Distant Sun’s stockpile of world ending weapons. Rather than reporting the breach, Artisan Boswell spent five months investigating it, then picked off the thieves with an industrial accident, a sabotaged hyperweave suit, and a faulty sensor on a bulkhead door.
“The three thieves had all lost relatives to the tau from their ritual sacrifices and were looking for ways to bombard every ghost sensor on Marwolv or elsewhere in the system themselves.”
The lasgun assembly is complete and I start taking the weapon apart by hand, looking for faults and testing user serviceability.
“How did you identify Artisan Boswell?”
“We, well, this is where the case gets really messy. Aruna identified him after Artisan Boswell had removed all three thieves who were intending to misuse the vessel’s weapons.”
I remove my helmet and gauntlets and gently massage my face, “Well, I did ask Aruna not to use an airlock on troublesome crew and to report them. I did not specify when it should make such reports and, like all loyal and competent machine-spirits, it has done exactly as I asked while ensuring the integrity of the vessel and crew. Objecting would make no difference to the case, at this time.”
I stare up at the vaulted ceiling searching for non-existent answers. I could update Aruna’s protocols, and I will certainly check them, but changing anything is likely a waste of time, as Aruna will calculate loopholes in protocols that I haven’t even thought to write, let alone the ones I actually do update.
“What do you want me to do with Artisan Boswell?”
“Artisan Boswell’s,” I pause, “extended self defence campaign will be treated as a triple homicide. His current reserve of bytes will be stripped from him and he will be placed in the brig for two months for each murder. During this time, his pay will be reduced to the default stipend of twenty-five bytes that each resident on the void ship receives.
“During his incarceration, he will be subject to an hour of psychotherapy every three days. His messaging privileges and the quality of his diet will depend on his cooperation and good behaviour. No entertainment will be permitted for the first two months and after that, only educational materials will be provided.”
“That’s pretty lenient, Magos.”
“I’m not quite done. While I am reluctant to place a skilled and educated labourer in a front line position, during and after his time in the brig, Artisan Boswell will be placed in a shock trooper role for six assaults, again, two for each life he has taken.
“Should he survive the ordeal his sentence will be considered complete. Once he is out of the brig, and until the assaults have been completed, he will be placed on half pay and demoted to tech-adept. He may not be promoted back to artisan until two years have passed. He will, however, still be eligible for the combat pay bonus.”
“Yes, Magos. Should I follow this pattern for other violent crimes?”
“It’s a starting point. Artisan Boswell made a poor choice and he didn’t act until he was provoked in a manner that could affect his livelihood significantly, or kill him. For those who commit a similar crime for more selfish reasons, you can up the base multiplier to three. For fools who assault others physically or mentally, but do not kill, keep it to one.”
“What about those who show little sign of correction or are completely off their rocker?”
“Give them the full, three times sentence and if they have shown no improvement after that, I will sign off on their execution. The same goes for prisoners who deliberately endanger or disobey orders of their squad mates during military actions. We have the means to identify and treat mental illness and deficiency. There will be no insanity plea bargains.”
“Yes, Magos. Should I match verbal sexual harassment to assault, physical harassment to, I’ll call it defensive homicide, and physical sexual assault to the maximum three times?”
“That’s fine. Make sure it’s all written up properly and defined in a precise and clear fashion. Apparently, ‘Don’t be an asshole’ isn’t enough for some people.”
Erin chuckles, “Well, I do like a juicy target for my shock maul.”
“Thank you for that image, chief bosun Ogilvie.”
“Is that all, Magos?”
“Yes. Good day to you, Erin. May the Emperor guide your aim.”
Erin chokes a little and her eyes bulge, “Aye aye, Magos.”