I consider my exchange with the prime minister and how to approach negotiations. He has been concise and the balance of power is so far in my favour, there is little need to dance around my requirements. Maintaining brevity should aid negotiations.
“I would like permission to restore the mechanicus enclave in the northern mountains of this continent, the right to recruit your citizens for my ships and the enclave, and a trading licence.”
“The first is no problem, this continent’s, Brisgean’s, northern mountain range, Spòg-chait, is only nominally claimed by the Gael Democracy. So long as you keep your activities to the Spòg-chait and your actions do not affect the surrounding lands, you are free to do what you wish there.”
“Thank you, prime minister.”
“Recruitment is a greater issue. While this is a free country and you could, no doubt seize or tempt a small number of individuals, I would prefer if you would hold off on recruitment. I cannot condone sending my people off into the unknown without completing my due diligence.
“I will not have our citizens enslaved, or committed to crushing labour without respite. Perhaps a place of cultural exchange could be arranged? Once our citizens know what they are being committed to, I would be willing to assist in the employment of a limited number of citizens. Is that agreeable, Magos?”
I ponder the issue. It’s not like anyone I recruit will actually be useful for years, as what I need are tech-priests, not drudges.
“I have a counter proposal. I require educated citizens, those who can read and write and have an interest in crafts, smiths, carpenters, chemists and so on. Those with skills in accountancy and logistics are also welcome as well as retired military personnel.
“Once I have restored the enclave, you will send one hundred such individuals to the enclave. There, I shall teach them the arts and rites of forging great machines, ones that can alleviate your fuel issues. Half shall join me and teach the next batch, which will be bigger, say, five hundred. The other half will return to the Gael Democracy.
“This cycle will continue, each group larger than the previous one. In exchange I shall provide the food and shelter these individuals require while your government shall pay them a suitable stipend.
“The Gael Democracy will pay me for the machines and materials that I shall provide so you can advance your own industrialization with your share of enclave educated persons.
“I shall receive payment in raw materials in great quantities, such as metallic bones, living flora and fauna samples and other goods to be decided at a later date in exchange for these machines and any further consultations that are required on their workings. Your thoughts, prime minister?”
Callen nods, “I will discuss it with my cabinet. There will likely be several alterations required, but your proposal is sufficient to begin negotiations. Now, to your final request, Magos: trading rights.
“We will permit a trading post to be established ten kilometres or further from our capital, Pearroc. Citizens who enter may trade goods with you freely, so long as these goods cannot cause direct harm. No weapons, harsh medicines, or toxic chemicals may be sold by you, though I do not mind what you purchase.
“Everything you provide must either be objects our own craftspeople cannot produce, or goods that they can, but priced the same as our own. Additionally, trade goods must match or exceed the quality required by our laws and you cannot sell advanced technological goods that require upkeep that only you can provide. The training you offer will drastically alter the boundaries of this final condition.”
“That is a lot of concessions you want from me,” I fold my arms. “I can agree not to provide arms and armour to civilians, or to disrupt your economy with a flood of low priced goods.
“In exchange, I would expect a contract from your army to outfit your troops with superior gear. Gear that within five years you will be able to manufacture and maintain on your own should you accept the enclave training trade.
“As you will be able to significantly increase the safety of your citizens and the size of your exploitable land, there is no way you will not do so as it will drastically improve your reelection chances. I will teach one hundred trainers how to use high tech gear as part of resource exchange I will gain from selling such gear.
Callen shakes his head, “This is a matter for the cabinet and the defence minister. Demonstrations must be arranged, trade shows organised, and infrastructure established. We require information parity for further negotiations. While what you propose sounds generous, what you offer is new to us. We do not know what you are selling, or why we would want it.”
I nod and keep my expression neutral. My last negotiation was with a gretchin and I am certain I just embarrassed myself.
“Please submit a detailed proposal for your second and third request and we shall discuss it promptly. You are welcome to begin the recovery of the mechanicus enclave. Before you leave, I will have a contract drawn up that details your rights and responsibilities towards the enclave, Spòg-chait, and the surrounding lands. I will also sign over a plot of land so you may begin constructing your trade post. This is a gift from me.”
“Very well, prime minister. Thank you for your time.”
“Likewise, Magos. I do hope we can continue to seek common ground. I will send over my secretary with a map and a contract within the hour. Please wait here. The young man who bought you tea is outside. Seek him out if you require anything.”
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I present my hand and we shake, “Good bye, prime minister.”
“Enjoy your stay, Magos.”
Callen leaves and I return to my seat.
Turning to Thorfinn, I say, “Have you met your prime minister before.”
“No,” Thorfinn shakes his head. “I don’t think he even noticed me and he never addressed Navigator Quaani. I haven’t decided how I feel about that. You are a little distracting, Magos.”
“He did a fine job of keeping a straight face. Perhaps he didn’t want to join the commissioner’s collage of surprised expressions.”
“Perhaps so!”
The three of us chat for forty minutes. Thorfinn tells Quaani and I about what it was like to grow up on this world and I talk a little about my travels and trials. Quaani does his best to explain what a navigator is and does, leaving Thorfinn pale and pacing around the room.
The prime minister’s secretary, a slim, middle aged woman called Róisín Creek, joins us with a map and half-a-dozen potential locations. We visit each one in the chimera and I choose a landspit with a good view of Pearroc and its cove.
My site is one point eight-four square kilometres, expanding to two point five-three kilometres when the tide is out. It is mostly flat with little vegetation. As Thorfinn is still hanging about, I have a D-POT deliver a power axe to the site and gift the vox sets to Thorfinn and Róisín so we can stay in contact.
I send the pair off in a chimera and return to the ship where Quaani and I discuss our goals for our time at Marwolv and assemble a nominal timetable. Servitors are delivered to the enclave, trading post, and Erudition’s Howl. Quaani returns to his studies, reading through his family records for ways to mitigate mutations.
I have a new ship to explore!
From my command throne I direct servitors over Erudition’s Howl’s hull, looking for access as their hangar doors are unresponsive. With over a hundred servitors hopping about, it only takes twenty minutes to find an unsecured hatch where the electronic lock has failed and can be teased open with a magnet.
Dozens of feeds light up my bank of screens as the servitors swarm through the hull in pairs.
Erudition’s Howl is cramped, its corridors low and narrow save for a single highway that runs in a loop along its main deck (#M1). Decorations are crude and chunky, though the bridge has some excellent statues of the Emperor and their auto-temple has been integrated with the ignition chamber in their central, primary thruster. The thruster is still in working order and you would not want to be in it when it fires.
As I explore, the vessel comes to life, its lights turning on faster and the environmental sustainer begins to blow once again.
There is no sign of the crew and the only sign I find of their fate is a miniscule splinter of wraithbone, the primary material used by the eldar, lodged in one of the air filters. I can’t even be sure they’re to blame as the vessel could have been boarded at any point in its history by the psychotic space elves, but I’m going to blame the eldar anyway.
It’s only proper.
Erudition’s Howl is in good condition. All the machine-spirits, however, have been wiped. The ship is running under the equivalent of a PC’s ‘safe mode’. There is almost no electronic data on the ship, though there are plenty of physical records to examine.
A servitor team blares alerts. They are under attack by humanoid creatures. I order them to subdue the... people? Oh wow, these are mutants. The exploding limbs, blasted off by lasguns, gave the auspex a positive ID with all the blood splatter.
I wonder how they hid from Quaani?
Once the mutants are down, they are secured with wire and their wounds sealed with a coagulating foam spray. Two servitors watch over them, while the remaining eight press on, exploring the edge most subdecks of the keel.
I rush to the hangar and have the thunderhawk and a new servitor team escort me to Erudition’s Howl, then I lead the servitors to #K1Q4 where there’s a subdeck filled with coolant tanks and grotty barracks littered with mildewed rags. Every available space has beaten metal boxes filled with organic waste, including corpses, all sprouting with mushrooms, as well as hundreds of tanks filled with sloshing algae and fouled water.
Within these scabrous halls shelter a community of fifty seven mutants, thirty of which are children, whose parents I’ve just crippled. All huddle in a group, surrounded by servitors, shivering in the cold and flinching every time a lasgun shifts towards them.
Each mutant is different, with twisted bones and bubbling flesh. Strange growths jut from their ragged forms.
I am grateful my helmet shields me from this horror and hides my expressions. This is no way to live. The Imperium’s cry of ‘kill the mutant’ is almost a kindness for these broken people. I, however, have the resources to help these mutants and a pressing need for bodies. They will be given a chance.
“I cannot have stowaways on this ship. You have two choices. The first is death.”
My servitors raise their weapons and the mutants tense. I grimace, I hate the role I have to play.
“The second is to become cyborgs. I shall give you new bodies of metal, free of pain and suffering. In return, you will work for me until the end of your days. No others will hunt you for your deformities as there will be none to see. You will be paid and provided a private space, as well as time to pursue your own interests.”
A large mutant, as tall as a space marine struggles upright and stands on one leg. A beard of blind, fluttering eyes runs from his cheeks down to his chest.
He coughs and spits, “We have our pride, Imperial. We refuse!” He splutters a sloppy, guttural diction that requires E-SIM to decipher.
I fold my arms, “Pride is a bitter fruit, mutant, and does not fill your belly or cure your children. I am offering to turn you into tech-priests, not drudges or cannon fodder. I have servitors for that. What I want are your minds, the final spark of humanity caged within your knotted meat and faltering bones. I ask you a second time, mutant, gainful employment, or death?”
The mutant next to the bearded one, grabs his hand and tugs it. He wobbles and looks down, then back at me.
“Fine. We will work.”
“Good. The servitors will help you to the medicae deck. There, your wounds will be treated. I shall examine you and decide on an appropriate new form. Now, follow me.”