Into the Breach

Pilot Levi Toth waited patiently by his battered shuttle for his client. The lighter, an Argus pattern shuttle, had been in his family's possession for nearly 150 years. His grandfather had acquired it using a lifetime's worth of saving, old navy contacts, and the Emperor's blessing. Ever since, the lighter had taken three generations of his family's men where few had ever been. Beyond Fistae Munda's tempestuous atmosphere.

Barnabus, the lighter, was a cankerous old fart. Stuck in its ways and impervious to correction, but Levi knew how to handle it. Named after his grandfather and sharing quite a few similarities, the lighter was his pride and joy. Despite its homely appearance, Levi had put in extra effort to make him presentable, because today's client was someone special. An authentic outer stellar Rogue Trader, not one of those in-system charter captains that like to boast, but a living breathing scion from a thousand year old dynasty. The contract had come on a gilded scroll with the endorsement of an imperious seeming vice facto named Villaneuva and full payment upfront from a certified counting house, the Laes Fortinito bank. Levi had looked it up, it was the capital city premiere treasury. What the scion of the Lucius dynasty might want with his old dingy was beyond him, but none of his business, every generously overpaid throne was reason enough.

So stock still, in his best body glove, he awaited his patron at landing zone 3H4R, grit blowing in his face from all the neighboring dust offs. Argus lighters were best used as cargo conveyors, stubby things for sure, but sturdy and dependable. Maybe the Rogue Trader wanted to haul up some baubles he had purchased, too precious to transport in his own ships for fear of a rival's treachery. Levi stopped a moment to ponder it uncomfortably, tongue rolling in his mouth. Perhaps this contract was not as much of a blessing as he had originally thought.

The day promised to be like no other, and the star port's habitual dealings only made the experience more surreal for it. Everywhere around him, cargo was being ferried to shuttles of all makes and sizes. His own made all the more puny beside the hundred thousand ton ships that blanketed the periphery landing zones with their shadows. Despite watching the giants defying the planet's gravity, and slowly rising up into the tumultuous skies, he felt every bit the giant. Today was going to be the best day of his long career.

Then his musing was interrupted.

"Toth and Sons,is that you?" asked a stranger in an old duster.

"What…" Blinked Levi "yes, that's me, I mean my charter. Who are you?"

The man nodded and whistled loudly at a group of shady men nearby, who then signaled a monstrous looking vehicle to come closer. The massive transport bucked, chortled to life and started to roll on over. It was covered in mismatched armor plates and garish looking paint.

"Alright kid, you were waiting for us, time to load up." Without waiting for an invitation the men walked over to the open cargo ramp and guided the spikey transport into the lighter.

"Kid? Excuse me! No, no no no, I'm waiting for an important client, a Rogue Trader, he's reserved this transport to go out world." Levi chased the man that had addressed him while trying to flag down the thugs. None of which paid him any attention.

"Did you hear me?" He creamed over the clanking machine which was waddling into his cargo bay with all the grace of a dreadnaught. "I'm not available for services!"

The stranger smirked and brushed his long coat open, harnesses and belts cinched tightly to his body and festooned with all manner of lethal implements. He reached into a pouched and flipped a small metal disk, which Levi barely caught before it could smack him in the face. It was a crest, of the Lucius Dynasty, the same that had decorated the gilded scroll. The pilot mouthed his confusion wordlessly and stumbled towards the envoy which was even now swaggering his way up to the cock pit.

Besides him, the monstrous contraption came to a stop, and the thugs started to secure it with loading straps and wheel chocks. They evidently knew what they were doing, even in the heavy gloom of the lighter's cargo section, moving with the confidence of void born deckhands.

Levi was beyond himself, this was not what he had expected. He searched about his modest cargo hold for something to make sense of this travesty, as if something would magically materialize and explain these happenings. From behind the armored slit of the driver's cab he spied the glare of a man, large bloodshot eyes peering out of the darkness, too big for anyone's good, yet intently focused on him. Disdain dripped venomously from them, and the beleaguered pilot immediately knew he wanted to see no more of the man inside the ramshackle contraption. Levi shuddered and sought comfort elsewhere only to notice for the first time the partially hidden armament the thugs bore under their weathered coats.

"This is bad, very bad." One of the thugs, scarred and blinded in one eye, winked at Levi mockingly and drew the attention of his fellows.

"What is it fly boy? See something you like?" he growled with a gravely voice. "No? Well then, maybe you'd like to have a go at knuckles then?" the thugs roared in laughter as they looked up at the drivers cab, its first step as high as most men are tall. A sudden boom echoed from the driver's side door, the entire structure rattling. Levi scampered off in a panic, to mocking jeers, this time accompanied by the resounding guffaw of the mysterious driver the thugs had named Knuckles.

"Alright, first thing's first" Levi said, his voice still shaky. "This is my ship, and you and your men will respect my authority aboard it."

The cramped confines of the cock pit left the long coat wearing stranger craning his neck to look at the pilot's flustered entrance, and subsequent attempt to sit himself down. The chartered pilot's hand were shaking as he buckled his grav harness. Levi glanced sideways to find the stranger, perhaps in his early 30s, waiting on him to continue.

"What?" Sputtered Levi.

"Well, when someone say's first things first, there's usually more… than just that one thing."

"Right, well… you will address me as captain. You will also go sit in the cargo area with the other passengers, and… and you will follow my exact instruction, in all things, until you disembark."

"Nope…" chuckled the stranger. "That's not going to happen kid," and reclined propping his leg up on the co-pilot's instruments.

"Good, and then…wait, what?" Levi blinked a few long moments. Never in his entire career had he been so disrespected. So dismissed. It was his ship for Saint Sandra's sake "What do you mean nope, and stop calling me kid, I'm you're elder by at least a score."

"No, you're not, kid. And I don't take orders from you." The stranger's eyes hadn't left his coat, which he now inspected intently. Evidently, he had been shot at, and he was counting the holes with a disappointed sigh. He then finally met Levi's eyes and smiled so openly and honestly that the pilot was unsettled by it. The stranger had gone from affecting a mien of disinterest to that of warm fellowship in the blink of an eye. Surely the man was mad. Best to leave madmen alone, Levi reminded himself, after all you can't reason with a mad man. And chances were he had a ship full of armed, and very dangerous, mad men aboard.

The burnishes sky cape fell beneath them as the shuttled rose. The feisty thermals that made the conveyer guild so crucial to Fistae Munda seemed to hamper their progress only slightly. At least, to an untrained eye it would have seemed so, but neither man in the cock pit could accurately be described as such.

"What's this bucket of bolts worth anyway?"

Those irreverent words had been the first spoken since dust off and Levi's awkward attempt to assert his authority. The man still had his boots up on the ships instrument, which angered the powerless charter pilot increasingly.

"This ship, is worth more than you will ever have. And to me, it's priceless."

The stranger smirked, "nothing is priceless." Waiting patiently for a response.

With a frustrated grumble, Levi relented, it was obvious that the wretch of a man was intent on pursuing the conversation. His dark eyes had never left Levi's face. The man was a typical bully, the star port's cantinas were filled with his ilk and Levi knew it was best to just stay out of their way. It was wisdom he could hardly allow himself in the confines of the cockpit.

"It's been in my family for as long as I can remember, and flying has been in our blood. It's everything that makes me…me. I don't expect you to understand."

"You'd be surprised. Ever wanted to be something else?" asked the stranger, strangely interested in the subject.

"Than a pilot? No, my father told me stories of how the stars looked once you crossed the threshold. It's what he called it, the shield that holds the bosom of Fista Munda in place. Like a magical portal that leads to… more. I was hooked on flying before I could even walk."

The man snorted, "Romantic bluster, nothing more. It's precious how people wrap things up. All to make their miserable existence bearable, one dream at a time."

"Frak you!" Levi spat. His face was set, grim and hurt. Who was this man to spit on all that gave his life, that of his father, and his grandfather before him, its meaning.

"So you've a spine after all," the stranger laughed, and genuinely apologized before taking his dirty boots off the instruments.

It took a few moments of silence before Levi had fought the rising ire from his stomach. He glided along the gravity tides he was so familiar with, making a daunting flight look easy, weaving between the navigation points that made Fistae Munda's low orbit a graveyard for the inexperienced. Something happened a long time ago, when the imperium was young, which made this world's atmosphere one of the most inhospitable to traverse. A battle that shook the heavens and deployed Dark Age of technology weapons. Fistae Munda had never recovered, not really.

The stranger paid close attention to Levi's manoeuvers, honestly impressed with them. Something raw and genuine welled up from him. Whatever his failings, this man obviously knew the wonders of the void and still felt the wonder of them. He caught himself warming up to the bastard, much against his will. There was something about the man…

"You're not what I expected." Levi finally admitted.

"Thank you," the stranger said, offering a playful smirk.

"No I meant it. At first I was expecting you're noble born master. Pomp and circumstance at hand. Well groomed and dashing. That sort of thing. I was being naïve of course. Why would a distinguished man ever set foot on my shuttle? I should have guessed I'd be taxying his … well whatever you are."

"Lord Sigismund Lucius likes to keep people on their toes. Keep them guessing. Always do the unexpected. The Emperor favors the Bold, he often says. Keeps men like him alive in this business.

Levi was guiding his shuttle out of the worst of the gravity wells, checking his auspex for the location of his destination, the Semper Fidelis. Once he locked on to her location, he let old Baranus coast towards her. The stranger was still speaking about the Lucius dynasty with something approaching pride and, surprisingly, eloquence.

"So," Levi asked timidly, "what exactly are we carrying? All I saw was that junker."

The stranger's infectious smile, there it was again. "Knuckles' rig? No that's just to keep him happy. It's important to keep him happy, if you know what I mean."

"I can only imagine, that man seems… dangerous."

"What makes you think he's a man?" chuckled the stranger. He shook his head again. "You never told me what this bird is worth to you."

Levi's discomfort crawled back into his awareness. If this Knuckles character was not a man, then, what was he? What had he gotten himself into, he wonderer again. "It's priceless… I told you."

"It's time we cut to the chase mister Toth," the stranger's tone lost all warmth. "A bird like this is worth fifty thousand on a good day. Yours couldn't fetch more than thirty, I'm guessing. But you seem like the kind of pilot we need right now, your skills anyways. I can get you sixty for it and your services."

"Thousand?" blurted Levi incredulously.

"You're a bad negotiator mister Toth." The man chuckled.

"That's generous, and I'm grateful for you're interest, but I couldn't. I told you, it's a family heirloom."

"That's not what I want to hear, kid." The stranger propped his legs up again, much to Levi's discontent. "We have a few thousand clicks before docking with the Semper Fidelis, and you are going to regret not making a deal by the time we get there.

Levi turned to face the man with an icy stare. "Is that a threat?"

"Consider it friendly advice. By now, the proper authorities will have been alerted and the identity of our off world transporter known. You'll be considered guilty by association. The offer is now fifty thousand."

Levi was livid. He knew this had been too good to be true. Such a fat commission. Stupid, stupid man. He yanked at his control and started to turn the shuttle around. A loud, threatening click made him turn his head. The stranger had upholstered an ornate bolt pistol and laid it across his extended legs, muzzle aimed at Levi's chest. Sweat suddenly beaded across the pilot's brow. His mouth achingly parched.

"As I said, you're a very bad negotiator mister Toth. We relieved the high pontiff of his staff of office, you understand. Someone wanted it more than he did, and that person paid very well. Now, if you return to the surface you will be as good as dead, I hear they still hang people on your world. That's a bad way to go, trust me, I've seen it. You can either turn a tidy profit or you can die, you're call."

Levi swallowed painfully, his throat constricting. Bile slowly rising up and threatening to spill from his quivering lips. "You… you can't kill me. I'm the only pilot here."

"You have no idea," the stranger tapped his trigger finger along the side of the weapon.

"Evidently, mister Toth, you under estimate us. You're world's strange gravity wells and hellish thermals were a bit too tricky for me to pull off, but out here, I can easily land this piece of junk. Now don't make me go down to thirty thousand. I know you're worth more than that."

The rest of the flight was spent in silence. The thug had thankfully holstered his weapon, feeling confident in his victory. And why not, Levi was terrified. He could barely keep his hands from shaking as he set the lighter down in the warship's auxiliary hangars. The thugs unloaded the armor plated monstrosity as efficiently as they has loaded it. Knuckles, its driver, all snarls and growls, stepping out to inspect his baby. It was an ork. A massive, tusked, nauseatingly smelly ork. Levi stood at the top of his loading ramp, mouth agape, as the stranger slapped him on his back and chuckled.

"He's nicer than he looks." He offered.

Inside the hangar, dozens of voidsmen bustled about. Everywhere there was movement. Industrial servitors carried impossible loads across the gunmetal grey deck. Maintenance crew serviced other cargo shuttles. A tech-priests, inured to the dangers of radiation and void shock, inspected the outdated ablative shielding of Levi's shuttle and blurted binary disappointment as his personal servitors attended to its tired machine spirit. Levi had never seen such synchronicity and discipline in a work crew, even at the star port he had spent his life traveling to and from.

A lithe well dressed woman walked up to the bottom of the ramp. She wore a dress of such singular craftsmanship that it was impossible to tell whether she was an Imperial noble, a merchant guild diplomat, or a governor's mistress. An escort of smartly dressed armsmen at her side were led by a fiery haired woman in a chief bosum's uniform. Their ceremonial weapons looked more than just parade ready. Amidst them, an elderly gentleman parted from their ranks and came to take the stranger at levi's side's coat. He then replace it with an ornately decorated buccaneer long coat and a tricorn hat.

"I trust you're adventure went well Lord-Captain," offered the attending gentleman.

"As planned Hubert, thank you." The stranger straightened up and affected an air of authority and control. In a blink of an eye, the Lord-captain had gone from hired thug to master and commander.

"You're… You're him," stammered Levi, on the verge of fainting.

"Always do the unexpected mister Toth. Consequently, I apologize for the deception but it was quite necessary to our endeavor. I would, however, be remiss if I didn't win in the bargain. Hubert, please settle mister Toth in his quarters, midship if you please."

The old man raised a thick eyebrow in return. "midship sir? The junior officers will not be pleased." The steward looked Levi up and down, then to Sigismund again.

"He's deserved it Hubert. Besides, he pilots for us now."

"Very well sir," sighed the elder as he took the overwhelmed pilot by the arm and walked him away. The Lord-captain joined up with his entourage, who smartly saluted with the exception of his vice Factotum, and marched at a firm pace.

"You know very well that when you go about, doing what you do, in any way that pleases you, I am the one that has to balance the budget you leave in tatters." The vice factotum scribbled frustratedly on her data-slate.

"Yes Sola, I know. But you're so good with numbers, coming from a forge world and all. And so enticingly beautiful."

The vice factotum rolled her eyes as she began to tabulate expenses and unapproved hiring. "Thank you Sigs, but honestly, you have to stop doing this." Sola's autoquill flitted over her data slate. Numbers and contracts shifting and reprioritizing before they had left the hangar bay. As they walked into the cramped corridors linking the hangar to the ship's spine, Sigismund couldn't help but smile.

The innards of the Semper Fidelis were not pretty, but they were functional. Fielded during the Angevine crusades and a thousand year old, she had fought and scrapped her way through a hostile Calaxis sector all the way into the hands of the Lucius dynasty. Then scrapped some more. Her non-standard pattern hull contained some of the finest, even if some techpriest might say heretical, technology available. Those would not have been the Adeptus Mechanicus who stoked her plasma core to life, or lovingly attended to her machine spirit. Some modules even dated from the dark age of technology itself. All purchased and recovered from countless worlds in the endless quest for profit and adventure that was a Rogue Traders life.

Crewmen hugged the wall as their captain walked the corridors on his way to the command deck. Their reaction turning from awe and loyalty to fidgety fear as they saw the chief bosum trailing behind. Woe any crew that crossed Ribbella the red. The chief bosum was uncompromising. Discipline was her lover and punishment her pleasure. Under her ministration, the crew was one to rival any segmentum Battlefleet in efficiency. She could whip drunken wastes of space into zealous ratings in the time it took to leave one port and arrive at another. Even the detachment of storm troopers, seconded to the warship for a hefty bribe, respected her even if they would never admit it.

Sola's administrative details continued unabated, and mostly fell on deaf ear, as Sigismund finally arrived to his destination. Before his footsteps could ring to and fro a young woman's voice shrieked across the deck.

"Captain on Deck!" every single officer rose from their station at attention, obeying the commander Evangeline Lucius, youngest of Sigismund's half siblings and, for all the old man's insistence, understudy. She was formal, disciplined, authoritative, and barely out of her teens. And though he care for her as any sibling, even a half sibling, could, he resented having her in the command chain and wholly under his responsibility.

"Thank you Eva, no need to stand on formality men, back to work." The deck resumed its busy buzzing as Sigismund climbed the steps to his command throne and was promptly assailed with Evangeline's watch report. He leaned in and whispered in her hear, to which she turned a fiery red and stormed off silently. No need to erode her command in front of the men, after all.

Sola's disapproving features was enough to curb the smile he was trying to hide. "She's a fine young woman Sigs, you shouldn't treat her like that. She is trying to learn and looks up to you." The graceful factotum stood beside the Captain's throne as he reinitialized the command scepter that would signal to the machine spirit the beginning of his watch. Then, he took in the sight of his mighty command deck.

By the standards of most ship, the deck was cramped and undecorated. Banks of cogitators lined every recess of its length, officers and slaved servitors bustling about their surfaces managing the massive amounts of data that traversed them. It had a low ceiling lined with auxiliary power cords and large pic slates that featured the synthesized reports he needed to command. To its fore, a titanic armored steel-cryss bay allowed a humbling sight of the many spires and macrocannon batteries that lined the spine of the ship. Death and destruction within eye sight always reminded him of how much he loved this ship. Fast, lean, powerful, she deserved her role as the sword of the Lucius dynasty. She had none of the Son of Utramar's majestynor the stealth of The Chariot, she was not a stately cruiser nor a furtive cage. She was what had founded the Imperium, a warship through and through.

Sigismund snapped out of his reverie at Sola's insistence. "Yes, yes" he waved dismissively. "Do what you do and make it work. You know I trust you." vice factotum Villaneuva slinked off. She knew better then to expect Sigismund to care about the mundane details required to run an empire. He was not like his father, and many sworn to the dynasty feared the day he would come to reign over it.

He rested his arms on his throne and kicked up his feet irreverently onto his command lectern, years of habit placing his heels away from the runes that would send a general quarter alarm ringing across the ship. His comfort was impeded however, by a data slate left behind by the vice factotum, outlying the requests and petitions passed down from his father's senatorum to his care. Why old Anthonid Lucius bothered with the traditions of their far off home world, even after millennia of separation, was beyond him. Especially the tradition that let senior officers of the flagship deliberate on the course of action best suited for the dynasty. It was clearly within the dynasty's charter of trade to do as they willed outside imperial space, why should his father be bound to the opinions of his underlying? He certainly disproved of Sigismund, his eldest son, whether he attended sanatorium sessions or not. It inhibited swift action. Sigismund was yet again thankful his command was a sword-class frigate. No standing on tradition here.

"Boring, nope, boring… pilgrims? Nope." Sigismund skirted through what amounted to a glorified to-do-list until finally settling on one that sounded interesting. A far off world, abandoned after a diversionary action by the Imperial guard, crawling with orks, and petitioned by a noble war heroine. This sounded very promising.

Sigismund turned to him carto-artifex, a glorified map keeper who advised him on the currents of the warp, and called for his attention. The man, if one can say such of thing of a member of the navis nobilite, was a junior navigator with the infamous house Nostromo. He was also insufferably smug, narcissistic, and unfortunately, very good at his trade.

"Master Nostromo," he called to the cloaked figure stood which off to his right. It stood near an alcove with piles of star charts, sipping at a glass of wine worth more than Sigismund's wardrobe.

"Nostromo!" Sigismund called again. Still, the mutant navigator ignored him. "Remi!"

"What!" spat the navigator caustically, finally turning his hooded head towards the lord and master of the Semper Fidelis.

"I need an estimate navigator," sighed Sigismund dejectedly. The two often quarreled, this posturing was nothing new. "Some place in the galactic west, Jorunga sector. Relatively close to Persius Gama."

The navigator smacked his lips and put down his wine with purposeful languidly. "Some place, captain? The Jorunga sector has more par secs than you have beard stubble. Which reminds me, incidentally, what do you do that is more important than keeping decently groomed? It's disgusting."

The captain breathed in slowly and left his command throne, scoring a sinuous smile from the Nostromo. He leaned in to allow for a discussion which would be more private. The captain often wished to have the navigator shot for insubordination, but then he would end up elbow deep in reparation to his house. The Navis Nobilite were untouchable. Essential to all warp travel and secured by treaty and contracts the length of a planets equator. Dealing with Remi was taxing, but also essential, Emperor knew the navigator primaris was even more cankerous and incomprehensible. The warp could twist a man and snap his mind in the time it took for his heart to beat twice. These…mutants, spent their lives staring into that daemon infested abyss to guide the ships of the Imperium to safe harbor. It put them in an advantageous position, and they knew it.

"All I need is an approximation, to know if it's possible to get there from here. Or would you rather we run out of air and water before then?"

"You peons might, but we in the spire would be fine. We have… contingencies." The navigator ignored his captain's murderous glare and gathered an esoteric map of the surrounding constants. Each house had its own cyphers, which were partially physical and partially psychic. It was not unlike translating a dream, with the help of notations, and all in the blink of an eye. Even when deciphered, they were cryptic, and required as much intuition as technical expertise. Only the Nostromo could read these chart's cyphers, which made comprehending the implications of even the slightest warp jump possible.

"Yes." Answered the navigator.

"Yes, what?" growled the captain.

"Yes, it is worth it. Yes, we will have enough supplies for your underlying. Yes." The navigator shrugged exasperatedly. "Should I speak slower, perhaps in speak low gothic?"

The Nostromo spoke as if to a dim witted child. He never deigned to use any of the tools at his disposure for such a task, each worth its own fortune. Had the navigator ever been wrong then Sigismund would have had grounds to replace him. But he had, until now, never been.

"But if you want more details then that, I need to know the name of the planet we are expected to arrive. It is essential to coordinate with Navigator Primaris Pater."

"Kursk," grumbled the captain, jaw clenched in restrained anger. "The damn dust ball is called Kursk."

Few places aboard a void ship were as feared as the navigator spire. The enginarium was a mysterious temple dedicated to the machine god, the domain of the Adeptus Mechanicus and their incomprehensible engines. From there the drive master tended the heart of the plasma core, second only to the enginseer prime whose followers were all those sworn to the Omnissiah. Those laymen foolish enough to merit punishment were sent to die within its halls, performing duties fit only for servitors, which many became after they expired from heat exhaustion, radiation poisoning, or unfortunate plasma venting accidents. Given the fact that the Semper Fidelis was one of those rare ships with auxiliary plasma banks, those accidents were common enough to merit dreading.

Those more fortunate were sent to toil in the underdecks where the filth that accumulated across the kilometer and a half long ship was distilled, and where chemical torrents rushed beneath ill maintained gangplanks. Feces and rotting foodstuff pooled in great bilge tanks the size of hive city hab blocks. Saturated engine coolants stored in armored vats hosted hordes of nightmarishly mutated vermin between the recesses of their curvature. It was a dirty, unpleasant life, but barring the occasional flesh eating mutant, it was tolerable. The ship's twist catcher Devros, the man responsible for hunting down the often feral mutants that risked overcrowding the sumps, even enjoy it. In an Imperium that religiously feared the witch, the mutant, and the alien, the twist catcher even put the less savage of them to good use. He fed them in exchange for their help tracking down the dangerous ones, even calling a few friend over the years. It was very lonely in the bilges.

Those even more fortunate worked tirelessly on the gun decks. These were pressed ganged criminals whose home worlds had clamored for the opportunity to hand them over to a generous rogue trader. These indebted slaves hauled shells the sizes of habs, hundreds pulling chains to elevate the ammunition out of their magazines, which fed the macro cannons in time of war. These batteries of monumental size clung from the outer hull, unarmored and vulnerable, ready to fire death and destruction across the unbelievable distances that separated ships in the void. Men here were the first to die in the event of a catastrophic failure, or simply a retaliatory strike. Hundreds would be blow out to freeze and choke to death in the emptiness beyond the hull of the Semper Fidelis. But these men also had hope, for a recommendation from their battery captain could see them elevated to the rank of ship rating.

These ratings lived just below the mid decks, in the sweltering heart of the ship between the warp engine and the plasma core, and were trusted enough to be left to toil in small groups or even alone. From sanitation to cookeries, these men and women, ever fearful of returning to their previous lives under the lash, kept the ship's unessential systems functioning. A few with aptitude even progressed further. They became voidsmen, who worked in the lighter bays, armory, and luxury compartments, or crawled through broken life support system to rewire faulty connections. Those who distinguished themselves even further became trusted voidsmen, given free range of most of the ship below the command deck. These few were as free as a civilian could ever hope to be on an imperial ship, allowed shore leave, and even had contact with more than just petty officers.

These officers bunked were midshipmen, separate from everyone else. They ate, worked, slept, and socialized in privileged spaces bestowed them by rank. Pilots, gun captains, bosums, damage control experts, medicae staffers, ministorum clerics, seneschals, and atmospheric reclamators all spent their free watches in the roomier quarters offered to them. They lived, served, and died never meeting another soul below deck.

The last and most powerful caste aboard the ship was the senior staff, whose roles on the ship were the most crucial, and rewarded.

The master at arms, commander of all militant forces aboard the Semper Fidelis. The master of ordinance, whose cannon wrought the end of worlds. The master helmsman, whose steady hand guided the warship in the worst of storms. The master of etherics, whose auspex could elucidate the mysteries of entire solar systems within minutes. The chief surgeon, whose skill had saved thousands of wounded and stricken alike. The vice factotum, whose purse knew the wealth of worlds. The first officer, companion and replacement for the captain. And finally, the lord and master, whose decisions dictated the fate of the twenty-five thousand souls that called the ship home.

The command decks berth them all except for two of the most feared and reviled organs of command, loathed for their unnatural calling but whose existence allowed the ship to exist. The witch's tower which housed the choir of astra telepathica psykers, whose minds sent missives across the warp. Even more feared were the denizens of the navigators' spire. While the wards protecting the astropaths from the psychic turmoil of life also allowed the command staff to visit in times of need, no one, for no reason, ever wanted or set foot within the spire that housed the scions of house Nostromo.

House guards armed and armored to the highest standard and independent of the ship's hierarchy defended their masters here. An army onto themselves, they guarded the spire that duplicated every life sustaining function of the ship for the comfort of its guests. A world within a world. Every void ship required one, and although they often differed, they all segregated the mutant strain of humanity bioengineered by the Emperor himself to navigate the hellish realm of the warp. The only means of superluminal travel known to man.

Each navigator possessed a third eye nestled within their brow. Few had ever seen it in the flesh and most who had, died the very instant they witnessed the kernel of the warp's true nature within. Worst yet, the eerie effervescent light of the warp shone through it. It beckoned to be watched, only to then devour the fool who did. Consequently, all navigator bloodlines hid the third eye from sight. The method differed from navigator to navigator but was usually inspired by their own private eccentricities. This spire in particular held the dubious honor of housing three such navigators.

Navigator Primaris Pater Nostromo was the senior most scion. Well past his first century, the decrepit creature was incoherent most days. Once ensconced within the navigator's chair however, Pater came alive and was capable of guiding a ship through the mercurial eddies of the warp for months at a time without more than the trivial matter of eliminating bodily waste, which the chair regulated, along with the vital functions of any who interfaced with it. He was seconded by Remi Nostromo, a skilled navigator who had yet to reach his apex, yet felt well within its reach. Finally, came Meyer, a timid Nostromo will little to no talent in navigation proper, but impressive knowledge of cryptology, psychic imprinting, xenolinguistics, and none too shabby recaff brewing skills. His presence on the ship was felt to be gratuitous, especially by his peer. Ironically enough, he was the most pleasant of the navigators to speak with, as his timid and generally friendly nature made the presence of his murderous third eye bearable, almost. Meyer, at least, had not yet shorn the soul of a spire servant, unlike his fellows.

It was to him that the unpleasant task of awakening his senior had fallen to. Meyer careful entered the sanctum of the Primaris, its stately appointed embellishments rivaling that of a world bound imperial governor. Rich nano-woven silk bandoliers dripped from the tall gothic arches and carved pillars of his dormitory. The floor's authentic hard wood came from a world that had died eons ago. Its dark recesses were impenetrable, and only the shallow death like rhythm of Pater's breathing could be heard.

Holding a tapering candle as the only source of illumination, Meyer approached the sea of covers that snaked over Pater's resting place. Beside it, huddled like a dog at his master's bedside, was the child retainer the Primaris so cruelly fancied. Its eyes reflected the only source of illumination in the gloom that perpetually accompanied his master. The lights, Pater insisted, were uncomfortable to his unnatural sight.

As navigators aged, they were prone to more disturbing mutations then the last. Meyer himself was without hair or any kind on his body, and hid his patagia underneath voluminous robes. Remi's were subtler, he moved with an unnatural grace and his translucent blood sealed any wounds he suffered, healing before it could scar. Pater's were…. Indiscernible, which made them all the more frightening. All that was certain was that the old bat was as mad as a grots' uncle.

"Master," begged Meyer at Pater's bedside. Fearfully, he pressed on. But the creature only fidgeted in its womb like tomb of silk. "Primaris, sir, the captain requests transit." Beside him, the boy's brow furrowed. He knew the folly of waking his master even at such a tender age.

After a few more moments of beckoning, Pater slowly opened his eyes. His pupils, large black voids that threatened to swallow light whole, shot into pinpricks. His lips babbled, but he was not yet fully awake. When the gash on his forehead finally pealed open, the roiling mass that could have one time been an eye shifted towards Meyer. The boy, with his head between his knees began to wretch as the warp seeped into the material world around him. The poor thing was painfully silent, fearful of offending the monster it was bound to. Finally the warp eye closed and Pater stirred into a sitting position.

"What is it?' he rasped, a wet ripping sound that cleared only after further effort. "I rest, imbecile, tell the captain I served him only yesterday!"

Meyer cleared his throat, letting the methuselah blink the cobwebs from his mind.

"My Primaris, you have been sleeping for days. A week almost." It was true, the child was practically skin and bones. No one had fed him, for fear of waking Pater, and the child had clearly feared leaving his master's bedside.

"A week? That long… you say. Then take me to the chair. I can't stand this wretched place. Oh, and extinguish that damnable wick while you're at it, moron."

Meyer quickly found Pater's wardrobe and hid the candle from Pater's sight. He slipped one of the many robes from its perch and handed it to his senior, careful to keep the candle behind his back. After stubbornly struggling with the trappings of his calling, Pater gripped his child retainer's skull and used it as support while he lifted his carcass from the enveloping bed. The Primaris eschewed walking sticks, or any of the hundred staffs they had in the spire. No, he preferred the feeling of human suffering to buoy his dignity. The child would be a suitable support until he grew too tall, a day the poor soul no doubt dreamed of, if it could still dream that is.

As the two navigator walked the corridors from Pater's sanctum to the occulus where the chair awaited them, news spread across the spire that the Navigator Primaris had risen, and all the artificial lumen globes dimmed to practically nothing. Still, the cankerous old man spat a litany of hate. Meyer sighed, he couldn't see in the dark like Pater, so he weathered the storm until the natural lighting of the stars made it possible for both Pater and him to function. With a painful groan, the ancient navigator aligned his body with the mind impulse grafts of the chair, and sagged in relief as he became one with its miraculous engineering.

"Has the ritual sacrifice been prepared?" asked the Primaris.

"It has, master." Meyer had been sure to prepare all the necessary materials. It served no one to upset the old creature, and Pater was notoriously impatient. As if on cue, the Primaris mumbled beneath his breath, nocturnal eyes darting about. His senility and constant awareness of the warp tides around him muddling his perception.

"Its… yes… smooth like… marbles, good. Prepare my wine. Wretch" he spat to no one in particular "opals in night sky… forever burning." The navigator did not suffer the material plane well. He had spent too long peering into the warp, or journeying in his dreams. The trick was knowing which instructions were delusional ranting, and genuine requests. Nodding to the servants hidden around the armor-cryss domed room, Meyer watched them decant expensive amasac into the cupped hand of the child retainer. Peter enjoyed his intoxicants at body temperature.

"The omen, frakwit, is it ready? Purple sheets tying necks in…." Pater muttered darkly, "I hate cheese, it stinks."

Meyer turned to the marble bowl that stood feats away from the navigation chair. It was a classically sculpted bird bath, its polished white slabs veined with pitch black lines. Knowing what Pater wanted, he held out his hands and a hooded servant carrying a gilded cage stepped forth. With practiced gestures, Meyer enticed the dove into his hands, and then snapped its neck. Drawing a silvered blade from another servant's platter, he sliced down the breast of the creature and carved in the sigils of the Nostromo house, letting the blood pool into the bowl bellow. Its pattern would instruct them on the proper way to breach realities and enter the warp.

The disturbing slurping sounds behind Meyer informed him that Peter had already started to imbibe. The dove had bled an image of a willow's roots spreading. Meyer was sure of the omen's meaning.

"The tides favor a diffused entry my Primaris, the paths are narrow but lead to a strong current. Choose well which you travel." Meyer intoned the traditional response to this particular pattern. It was not criticism, but Pater took it as such.

"Bugger off you mindless newt, I guide the ship, not you! Why are my toes so… big?"

Meyer sighed, the servants dispersing before Peter opened his eye and generated the warp miasma that had killed so many of their predecessor. The child was still tipping his fingers against the Primaris' lips when Peter unleashed the hell inside his eye. Meyer looked away as yet another innocent soul was burned from its carcass and sent roiling into the warp. A half cackle drew his attention back to Pater's gibbering.

"Ugh, I did it again. Meyer, come here and pass me the amasec!"

Navigators were far from neurotypical individuals. Their minds were hard wired to process the maddening scape of the warp. Even within bloodlines, navigators experienced the warp differently, for Pater, it was an unbelievable symphony of light, multi-hued and sparkling. It was the only light he could still experience without crippling discomfort. Cords of luminescence guided his way, discord the evidence of warp events or shallow reefs. It was a sea of souls, every one a different note, every one a thought set free into the aether. Pater followed the most soothing melodies, their beauty enchanting, and their expression mirthful.

He was hardwired into the chair, his every synapse firing being translated by the cogitators appended to the miraculous machine. He felt the brushing of the warp as a prickle against his skin, a twitch of his fingers informing the helmsmen dozens of meters beneath him to change course and pursue the symphonies in his mind's eye. The Gellar field, the thin membrane that separated the endlessly shifting sea of souls from the ship, allowed it to exist in this slip stream of raw energy. As daemons smashed themselves against it, Pater felt it across his skin as raking claws. A nod of his head reinforced those sections most at risk. He was part of the ship, his nervous system a messenger to a hundred different systems. Alerting all, protecting all, creating his own symphony of machine and men to rival the aethers.

As part of the ship, Pater lost conscious experience of time. He could have been guiding the ship for hours, days, or weeks. The life sustaining chair maintaining his semi-conscious stupor until they dropped back into real space. Energized by its mysterious powers and the vicarious sensations of the warp, he was more alive now then ever. His endurance of the exhausting effort required to shepherd a ship through the impossible vistas of the empyrean was second to none, but it was not unlimited. Just as a soothing note attracted his attention, his senses taxed, he missed the critical junction that would lead the Semper Fidelis away from a tangling of currents.

The symphony darkened, notes clashing, and generated a cacophonous dissonance that ripped at his mind and sent his skin shivering uncontrollably. The tremors were a tactile manifestation of the Gellar shield wavering. It was losing consistency and weakening, just as the ship barreled into a symphonic movement of singular intensity.

Evangeline watched the master chrono on the command lectern tick away. Seven days, fourteen hours, and thirty-six minutes in the Empyrean with no anomalous report. Her watch had been uneventful so far. One more hour to go before handing it over to Sigs again. Warp travel was never easy. It involved all manner of strange occurrences and because the warp reacted to human emotions, it usually got stranger as the immersion progressed. Not to mention time dilation, which made subjective time keeping, like the chrono Evangeline stared at, little more than a guessing game. Ships that had been in the warp hours had been known to arrive at port months later, and vice versa. Any jump you came out of however, was considered a success. The alternative was all too frightening to contemplate.

As her fingers absently caressed the head of the command scepter slotted in the captain' throne, a rune blinked into existence on the lectern. It informed the commander that the gun decks were experiencing difficulties.

"Master of Ordinance, report!" Evangeline bellowed the order with all the over compensation of a junior officer. The command crew were veterans however and much to her relief, had never complained, obeying succinctly. The Master of Ordinance's gruff voice rang back.

"Aye, aye commander. Reports of a minor altercation within the pressgang crew are in progress along the port side batteries, decks 12 to 16, that's third battery ma'am."

Evangeline's eyes darted across the warning runes, a multitude of neighboring systems now reporting issue, their numbers increasing in quantity and severity. The runes blazed to life so fast she could scarcely understand their meaning. Before she could ask, the command deck erupted in reports, data wafers and binaric chants filling the cramped confine of the bridge.

The ordinance section yelled out as large tremor coursed through the ship. "There was an explosion in the point defense systems bellow third battery sir! Gun captain Everett is confirmed dead sir! Infernus master informed, damage control on their way!"

"Sealing battery sections! Armsmen deployed to the munitions magazines. Chief Ribella reporting for duty in the middeck," the master militant reported to the command throne.

Omnisianic congregator Leitchwig, the techpriest envoy that coordinated the different factions of the Mechanicus across the ship calmly walked up to the commander. The machine priest screeched above the reports and counter orders filling the room.

"Statement: I am receiving a data communion from the drive master and the warp core enginseers. Message: Magos Tesslin wishes me to inform you that whatever you are doing is upsetting the generator, a catastrophic drop out of warp space is a 36% probability if further detonation proceed towards the central deck core."

"But I'm not doing anything," said the young commander, panicking on the command throne. Lights blinked everywhere, data runes scrolled feverishly across her overhead viewers, junior officers were gathering around her with reports from the cogitator banks.

Leitchwig increased the amplification of his vox unit, forcing the officers to clamp their hands over their ears. "Conclusion: then your inactivity is what is going to cause the warp core to malfunction." Answered the congregator matter-of-factly.

"Enough!" screamed the commander at the crowd leering over her, she catapulting herself out of the captain's throne.

She gripped the edge of the command lectern and activated the ship wide vox. "This is commander Evangeline Lucius, acting first officer. Code black is declared, I repeat, code black. All unessential personnel is to report to their berth and await further instruction. This is a complete lock down, effective immediately!"

The junior officers that had gathered around the commander stood stock still, paper sheaf in hand, eyes wide at their commander's sudden resolve.

"What are you waiting for? Go wake my lazy brother up, now!" Evangeline grabbed a report from a midshipman barely her junior in age and scanned it rapidly. A warp riot, madness had claimed part of the crew. The ministorum had performed their rites, and the ship purified before the jump. The Geller shields were still functional. The navigator had not mentioned any problems. Why was this happening, why now?

It was not usually in her purview to negotiate crew disputes, but Sola's role extended far beyond that of vice factotum. Sigs trusted her, depended on her, and she relished the privilege it bestowed upon her. She had been called down to the atmospheric reclamators' hall to discuss the unscheduled termination of their assigned duties. They refused to crawl into the underdecks, not the true underdecks that process the bilge sump, but those that allowed for the maintenance of essential systems between decks. Another guilder had died there this month, due to an electrical mishap.

Were the techpriest inclined to debase themselves in the cramp quarters, this could have been settled, but they claimed a higher calling and refused to assume the role of the lay technicians. They had more important duties, or so their responses expressed. So Sola had been called to convince the reclamators to return to work.

It was in mid argument that the tremor had started, knocking the glasses of recycled water onto the deck floor. The lumen strips that illuminated the hall went next. The gaggle of lay technicians stared dumbly at the ceiling as the red emergency lights came on line and began to debate their significance. Sola tried to reach the bridge for an update but only received an automated message informing her that the vox lines were being prioritized. A few more failed attempts hadn't solved the issue. Then, Evangeline's voice rang out across the hall declaring a code black. It was firm, and concise, befitting the rank she occupied.

"Good girl," smiled Sola. Evangeline was showing the promise the vice factotum knew she possessed deep down. Sola reached across the mediation table and activated the personal vox channel she shared with the captain. It was time to use some of that privilege she worked so hard to earn.

"Sigs, are you there? Can you tell me what is going on?"

"I'm up, I'm up, everything is good." Mumbled a groggy Sigismund.

"No Sigs, all is not good. You're sister just called a code. Care to fill me in?" Sola heard a panicked junior officer get into the captain's vox thief's range. She could only make out half the conversation between him and the captain, but it bode ill.

"Listen, Sola." Sigismund spoke slowly and calmly into the vox. "There's a warp induced mutiny in the battery decks. Where are you?"

"With the reclamator guild," answered the factotum worriedly.

"A little too close for comfort then. The bulkheads are going to be sealed by now, but these bastards have access to plenty of tools. Stay put, arm yourself, and wait for Ribella. She should get to your deck soon enough."

"Understood." Sola stood up and slipped her hand within a carefully designed slit along her dress, reaching for the compact auto pistol Sigs insisted she carry. Checking the slide, just as she had been shown by Ribella, she breathed deeply.

"Alright gentlemen, I suppose you heard the gist of it. Use these tables to barricade the entrances and remain calm. Help is on the way."

The technicians nodded and fumbled to follow her instructions. Being some of the most well treated ratings on the ship, they were unfamiliar of the brutal reality of serving aboard a warship. Violence was inevitable aboard such a ship, though it usually came from outside sources and were met by the armsmen and storm troopers first. The novelty of the experience was terrifying, but Sola was not entirely inexperienced with the concept. Both from before her tenure with the Lucius dynasty, and from her involvement in Sigismund's particular brand of leadership.

The first attempt to breach the bulkheads of the reclamator guild were felt minutes later, and continued for many more minutes after.

Ribella activated her shock maul and readied to face down 2nd battery's mob. Shot gun wielding armsmen breached the compartment bulkhead and spread out to take down the mutineers. They stood in indecisive shock as they took in the scene, their chief bosum included. The warp played terrible tricks on the mind, making someone's worst fear a reality. After butchering their gang mates, the madmen had fallen onto each other in packs. Pressgang workers laid in bloody, battered mess upon the deck corridors. Many had their eyes gouged out or their face bitten off. Dismembered body parts were strewed about and the recycled air reeked of charnel house slaughter.

"Open fire!" ordered the chief. Those condemned souls which remained in the corridors were shred to pieces mid feast or murder. Those caught in their grasps given merciful deaths or tallied up as collateral damage. A spanner wielding man, flesh flayed from his frame, charged Ribella with an inhuman howl. She cracked her baton down on his skull and left the madman convulsing on the deck from the electric discharge.

"Spread out and sweep. Anyone out of their berths is fair game!" Ribella marched down the blood covered corridors, barely wide enough for two men to walk shoulder to shoulder. She had to step over vicious pools of blood that had formed around the victims of the warp madness. Even during the worst of the hive wars she had witnessed as an arbites, never had there been so much senseless killing. A cross section sent two mutineers crashing against her thick armsmen body armor. She used her shoulder to shove the thickly muscled laborers back and shattered the first's knee with a powerful downward strike. The second, waiting for his mate to fall aside, raised a bloodied gaff hook still dripping gore. As he moved towards Ribella, she trust the tip of her maul into his throat. The man folded onto himself with a warble, his vocal cords shocked spastically.

Every stroke of her maul incapacitated a foe in the close quarter confines of the thorough way. Ribella had long mastered urban fighting techniques in her past life, which made her the perfect vanguard. With each further step, shotgun blasts echoed in her wake as the armsmen and bosums under her command let Red Ribella live up to her namesake.

The pacifications proceeded until Ribella's enforcers reached the battery proper. The chasm like component was dozens of meters tall and twice as wide. Gantries and plank ways crossed its section with massive pulleys and chain obscuring line of sight. Barking her orders, Ribella sent her squads up the gantries to secure the high ground. A writhing mass of bodies turned to meet her at the 12th deck's bulk ward, above her, four more decks allowed for the murderous madmen to outflank, or worst, cut off her lines of reinforcement. At least the macro cannon shell magazines had been shut and locked as per warp transit protocol. It would not make her day easier if the mutineers had access to enough ordinance to blow the entire component into the void.

With a deck shaking cry, the mass of frenzied killers waded their way towards her and her firing line. Ribella pressed the transmission stud on her armor's gorget and gave the signal. In seconds, dozens of mutineers flooded the deck with their blood as over watching armsmen on the gantries pumped shell after shell into the riotous mass. Combine with the point blank fire from Ribella's position, the throng had considerably lessened. But not enough to stop the survivors from swarming the chief bosum. She swung her maul with great precision, knocking her assailant to the ground or shocking them into unconsciousness. Finally the mob won out, their filthy hands and bloodied tools hooking into her armor and dragging her to the deck. There she howled, defiantly resisting the doom which crept over her.

The particular mass hysteria that had claimed Ostwick's 36th pressgang had convinced them that the Semper Fidelis burned at the behest of a daemon in the cargo holds. They had battered and butchered all those under its influence and finally reached the forbidden hold, an illusionary blaze hastening their mission. With zealous intent, they set upon breaching the bulk ward door. The 36th had once been murderers and heretics, but they would soon be heroes for saving the ship. The captain would no doubt reward them for having cleansed his domain of those mind controlled freaks and the infamous creature that dwelled in the hold. Warm bunks and easy duties were theirs to be had. All they had to do was breach this gate and slay the creature.

With liberated plasma torches and industrial sheers they set upon the door. Taking it apart to ease its mechanism free. After long minutes they finally managed. With the clanking of heavy cycling gears, they pried the portal open and were wafted with a putrid smell. Hot and humid, the forbidden hold was pitch black and smelled of rotten eggs, fungi, and animal urine. Ostwick's gang leader stepped up to the darkness.

"You're reign is over daemon, it is time you reap what you have sowed. In the Name of the Emperor!"

The leader exploded in a pink mist of pulverized organs as he flew back into the fold of his waiting followers. His chest was collapse and he gargled incoherently as he died in his mates arms. They hurried to raise their improvised weapons and awaited a daemon that never came. Instead, the bristling shape of a muscle bound nob stepped from the darkened hold into the red tinged light. The ork's knuckles were red with the press gang leader's blood.

'Oie! what'cha babbling about? Why yuz gitz messin'with me doorz?" Knuckles panned his bug eyed gaze across the humies. They were covered in blood and froth drooled down their chin. Their bodies were scored with wounds and their cloths were in tatters. They paced back and forth chittering and sizing him up with strangely lit eyes.

"Ya wanna tussle huh?" the beastly ork chuckled darkly as he limbered up. "Capt'n ain't gonna miss gits like yuz, Iz thinks. Go ahead, make Knuckle happy."

In a warp induced howl, Ostwick's 36th charged, and were promptly relieved of duty.

Having armed himself with his family's finery, Sigismund prowled the reclamation deck with Remi at his side. In an uncharacteristic offer, Remi Nostromo joined the captain's efforts to reach the besieged Sola. The two were slowly making their way past discarded bodies. More than once, Remi had cleared an entire corridor of madmen with the blink of his third eye, setting mutineers ablaze and shearing the tethers that bound their souls to their bodies. It was a sobering reminder to always stand behind him and avert your eyes when he unceremoniously stepped up and lowered his hood.

"Why you insist on recruiting such substandard specimens is absolutely moronic, Sigs." Remi had taken to calling the captain by his pet name, like Sola, to chafe him. He covered his brow with his hood as yet another dozen bodies laid smoking at his feet. The smell was strangely reminiscent of grilled grox.

"Not now Remi." Sigismund took point again, his silvered aspis shield raised. The masterfully crafted shield was decorated with a majestic lion's head, and secreted within its core was a refractor module capable of blunting most attacks directed at it. When it worked that is. In his other hand, Sigismund carried an ornate powered gladius, whose energy field could deliver a lethal thrust capable of penetrating even power armor. To remedy any lack of firepower, he also had a forearm mounted storm bolter on the same arm.

In comparison, Remi was unarmed but twice as deadly. He had long enjoyed the threat that his mysterious third eye posed, and had practiced its use extensively. It was the only weapon he needed, even if somewhat indiscriminate, it proved effective. The navigator followed Sigismund's lead silently, his unnatural grace eerily reminiscent of the loathed Eldar race.

"It is never time to discuss your immeasurable lack of leadership is it? How could you let Sola get into such a dangerous situation? Why does she even tolerate you?"

Shots rang out further down the auxiliary thorough way they were using, momentary flashes of light disintegrating the slugs. At least the ancient war spirit of the shield had been attentive. Sigismund triggered a short burst from his storm bolter, the result was a torrent of explosive shells that shredded the mutineer hiding behind a nearby structural support.

"Because unlike you, Nostromo, I'm a pleasant companion to frequent." Retorted Sigismund after the danger had passed.

"We get along swimmingly when I visit her quarters." Remi replied with snarky condescension.

"Wait?" the captain interrupted, lowering his guard to turn towards the navigator. "You were invited to her quarters?" Remi only smirked arrogantly.

Before Sigismund could press the issue, a mutineer flew out from the cross section and crumbled against its bulk ward. The pair dropped into combat stances as Knuckles squeezed into the corridor, a mismatched two-handed axe in his hefty mitts.

Shortly after his first tussle, Knuckles' orky instincts had kicked in and compelled him to assemble the monstrosity he now held. It was a heavy hafted weapon with a mix of miscellaneous collected industrial parts. Knuckles had even added spikey bits to insure maximum rippy-ness.

"Oie, boss man! I waz wundering where ye waz at." The nob almost looked happy, waving in the constrained confines."

"What are you doing here Knuckles? The ship's on lock down." Sigismund tried to step around the pools of blood seeping down the grills of the deck, making his way towards the giant xeno.

"There's fightin," he simply said, shrugging. Sigismund didn't care to press his concern. It was perfect orky logic right there. "Alright then, you're with me and Remi, watch our backs. Just… let us pass."

"Right boss." Knuckles backed up into the cross section and let his humies go first then lumbered behind them. Remi could heart the pop of crushed limbs as the ork followed their lead. He sighed. This is what you get when you mingle, he muttered to himself.

Before long they reached the reclamation guild hall. Discarded tools laid at its bulkhead entrance. The portal itself was in a disgraceful state. Gouges had been melted into the steel and parts of the mechanism were pulled out. It looked like the madmen had actually made the portal less functional in their attempted to open it. Whatever madness had taken them, they still had the sense to abandon this endeavor and move to something more rewarding. From the far off sounds of shotgun blasts, it appeared they had been woefully wrong.

Sigismund exchanged glances with Remi and pointed at the door, as if expecting the navigator's third eye to be able to open it. The eye imparted had many abilities, none as mundane as opening jammed doors. With an incredulous sneer the Nostromo shook his head. Sigs turned to Knuckles.

"You're up buddy. Go at it." Sigs encouraged.

Knuckled nodded emphatically and punched the steel door in appraisal. He moved closer, pressing his slab like face to the portal and banged it again, listening to the reverberation. The ork nodded again and with a toothy grin, ripped the access pad by the portal's frame and gutted the wiring.

Sigismund instinctually looked about for wandering tech-priests, who certainly would not approve of this mishandling of technology. When he realized how unlikely it would be to find a magos wandering the blood stained corridors, in the midst of a warp induced riot no less, he returned his attention to Knuckles.

The brutish ork was chewing on some wires, sparks flying out of his mouth. He seemed inured to the power coursing through them. Like most orks, Knuckles brushed off what would be otherwise be lethal for a man. None the less, after crossing some angrily sparking contacts, Knuckles looked up with a blood shot eye and gave Sigismund a thumbs up. Moments after, the door popped ajar.

"How did you do that?" Remi said astounded.

"I dun know how, I just do," shrugged the brutish xeno. The knowledge was just there when he needed it. Hardwired into his brain by Gork and Mork knows what. Knuckles had an undeniable need to fix stuff, as he put it. He had built his trukk from scrap, same as the axe he held. When he looked at things, visions of destructive machines just filled his mind, the side effect being that he could hotwire a bulkhead on lock down when he needed too, apparently.

Sigismund smiled broadly. The day he had bested Knuckles in combat had been one of the best in recent memory. There was no end of adventures to be had with a big bloke like that. As long as Sigismund held the bigger end of the stick, he could count of Knuckles obeying. He rued the day he wouldn't however, which could be fast approaching. The ork had clearly grown in size since that fateful day, and the captain knew exactly what that meant.

With a curt nod to his fellows, Sigismund slipped passed the half opened door. He relished coming to the aid of damsels in distress. After a few steps into the besieged hall, Sigismund was shot flat onto his back, his xeno weaved buccaneer coat taking the brunt of it.

"Sigs!" yelled Sola, "by the Omnissiah, couldn't you have called out first?" the factotum dropped her autopistol and kneeled at Sigismund's side. Behind her, hidden amidst the improvised barricade, the technicians peeked to see what was happening. Remi and Knuckles slipped into the room seconds after the shot, the ork wrenching the hatch in a screech of tortured metal. The navigator sighed in disappointment. The captain's antics often ended in such ridiculous spectacle. Knuckles on other hand, privately reconsidered his place in the pecking order, his xeno mind urging him to take the opportunity to assert his dominance. The urge abated the moment the captain proved to be unhurt however.

"You really need to work on your reaction to being saved," grunted Sigismund as he sat up with Sola's help.

"Who said I needed help?" the factotum chided.

"Well, seeing as Chief Ribella hasn't arrived yet, I was thinking, maybe, you?"

"Oh, she was here a while ago. She said the deck wasn't safe yet so I volunteered to stay with the technicians while she sabotaged the bulk ward's mechanism to lock us in. you might want to consider giving the woman a raise, you should have seen the state she was in. she looked like she had been trampled by a heard of grox."

With a pained groan the captain stood himself up, rolling his shoulder to ease the stiffness of Sola's shot. She looked up at with an impish smile and Sigismund narrowed his eyes suspiciously, knowing what that look usually forebode.

"What?" Sigismund groaned.

"Oh nothing much, I just negotiated the return of the reclamator's guild services while we were waiting," said the vice factotum playfully, "how was your day?"

All told, the mutiny had been short lived and well contained. Evangeline was praised for her handling of the situation and garnered much deserved respect from the command crew. The cost had been surprisingly high for the pressgangs afflcited by the warp madness. It would warrant another recruitment drive when next they reached safe harbor. When Pater had been call to answer for his lack of forewarning, Meyer had been sent to smooth the issue. It truth, there was not much that could be done. The ship had weathered the empyrean, and that was all that could be asked of the navigator house.

Four days later, the Semper Fidelis broke out of the warp into the Kursk system. The crew had been reorganized by then, and the decks cleared of any remains. Astropathic reports were sent to the Son of Ultramar as protocol required. Sigismund did not doubt he would be required to present an account of the events of the dynasty senatorum. These tedious administrative details always rankled him. There was time before that would happen however, enough to make up for the costly tragedy of their warp jump. According to the petition, the left over forces of an imperial army remained marooned on Kursk, an ork infested world. From the standard Imperial dating system, the poor souls had been on their own for the better part of a decade.

The ship's jaunt, which had subjectively taken only 11 days, had dropped it six months later into material space. This sort of time dilation was common, exemplifying why a retreating imperial force, followed by a demobilization of its regiments, and their subsequent warp transits, had let ten years pass since the unfortunate last stand of Lady Della and her Persephonian comrades. By Administratum standards, this rescue mission had been a lightning fast response.

According to her reports, the men marooned were highly capable and determined. There was hope they still lived, and a noble house's fortune in thrones made Lady Della's insistence on a rescue very palatable to Sigismund. Additionally, an unusual stellar body nicknamed the Beholder held telltale signs of xeno design. If the rescue would go poorly, there was still profit to be had plundering the strange planetoid.

These were the days Sigismund relished being the scion of a rogue trader dynasty. Profit, adventure, and glory awaited. All within his grasp.