I am not fond of compromise. I would much rather that everyone do exactly what I tell them to and not scheme against me. Yet, without challenge, one does not grow. Quite literally in my case. Thus, I can only accept that the deal with Thalk went rather well.

By laying out my demands and negotiating from a superior position there was an element of killing a conscript to scare the mon-keigh. I doubt it will have much effect though. The Imperium is too large and Humans are too curious and ambitious to not poke the post-Human cyborg. It’s more a game of whack-a-mole than an achievement that will keep the Navy, or any other faction off my back. I am, at least, confident I have established control in SR-651 for now.

Nothing else of note occurs and the gathering soon winds down. I leave with Brigid on my arm while Annette and Alpia follow us like lost ducklings to the Navigator spire. Alpia is gently grasping Annette’s shoulder as the heavily pregnant woman waddles along.

“Is everything under control, Husband?” says Brigid.

“Well enough,” I say. “The Navy has been intimidated and bought off, the Zombie Plague has been irradiated into slurry and I can already see the Warp settling. Now it’s a matter of waiting for the scars to fade. Did anyone bother you this evening?”

“No. It was all rather tame. The boys tried to wheedle their way out of their punishment and I sent them on their way. I do hope they’ll grow up a bit while we’re away.”

Alpia laughs, “Fat chance of that.”

Brigid sighs, “Come now daughter mine, we shall not give up on them so easily. Their dreams will come to them in time.”

“They didn’t step up while I was arms deep in zombie guts. They’re not going to start now.”

“That’s unfair and you know it,” says Brigid. “They have their own mission and exposing every potential heir of our dynasty to a chaos driven plague is asking for trouble. They called you at least once a week right?”

“Yeah, OK. My brothers weren’t completely useless.”

“Glad to hear it, Sweet Pea,” I say. “What do you want to do now that our latest troubles are over?”

“Sleep!”

I laugh, “A fine plan. How about you, Annette.”

“Off to be fussed over by the hospitallers and look after Quaani. He is... not well. I have assigned the wards House Ortelius sent us to assist me. Only Navigators can withstand his presence now.”

“I did not know it had become so bad,” I say.

Annette says, “He didn’t want anyone to know! So stubborn. Still, I will be giving birth any day now and his silence helps no one. Quaani would hate for you to flinch when you see him too. I hope that a little warning will keep your heart steady so that he continues to feel loved.”

I smile, “You really do fit perfectly into our family, Annette.”

“Thank you,” Annette blushes.

“You’re going to see him immediately aren’t you,” says Brigid.

“I am. We’ll likely talk through the night so don’t wait up.”

“Fine. I want to go on a date tomorrow though. There are a few interesting spots in the Receiving Yards that I know you would like to see. Ancient machinery, hidden chapels, museums and markets.”

“Can I come?” says Alpia.

Brigid says, “Do you really want to be a third wheel to your parents?”

“I can’t go out by myself anymore!” says Alpia. “Well, more than before anyway. I have a small army following me everywhere. If Dad is there no one will dare bother me though as he scares the shit out of everybody even when he doesn’t mean to. There’s all sorts of crazy rumours flying about among the penitents, gangsters, and new hires. Please?”

“So long as you promise not to pull a stupid face every time Aldrich and I kiss or hug we’ll make it a family day,” says Brigid. “I’d ask for your opinion, Love, but we both know you’ll say yes.”

“True!” I laugh. It’s good to be back among my family. A few silly little interactions and I can already feel some of my angst melting away. “I’m guessing you don’t want to be on your feet all day, Annette.”

“No thank you. I will feel much happier once you’ve had a chance to help my husband. I want him in a good mood for the birth.”

“What of you though, Annette?” I say. “How have your explorations into the Emperor’s Tarot been progressing?”

“I’ve been reading different accounts of previous users and keeping everything theoretical. I did not wish to risk possible mutations channeling even the smallest amount of the Warp while pregnant.”

“I quite agree,” says Brigid. “There is no great rush. It is enough that you seek to improve yourself and not base your life around Quaani, fond of him though we all are. Children and family are a blessing though to let them consume your life is folly. You know better than most what is out there, Annette and we cannot keep our family safe without a constant fight against entropy through self improvement and discovery.”

“Yes, Brigid,” Annette says, her tone somewhat meek.

“None of that now,” I say. “You don’t have to agree with everything that Brigid says.”

“I don’t see you disagreeing, Dad,” says Alpia.

“Not on this,” I say. “It is a Tech-Priest’s duty to turn chaos into order, fusing one atom at a time.” I grin, “Then blow it all up again so we can do it again.”

“Urgh, you are impossible, Dad. We’re here now, just go and see Quaani.”

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“Alright, little miss grumpy. Dad is off to save the day again. Later, Brigid.” I lean down and kiss Brigid.

“See you later, Aldrich.”

I open my arms dramatically, “Bye Alpia.”

Alpia pouts, which looks ridiculous on a four metre tall woman, then wraps me in a hug. She leans down and mumbles in my hair, “Thanks, Dad.”

I’m not sure exactly what she is grateful for and I’m not going to ask. My frame groans slightly and I receive multiple stress warnings. After a full minute, Alipa finally lets go and I discreetly send my nanites out to repair my body.

I give Annette a delicate hug farewell.

“He’s in the chapel,” says Annette.

“Call me if you need help,” I say.

Annette says, “I will.”

I stroll through the extravagant spire, passing numerous paintings, tapestries, and statues. Servo-skulls occasionally pass overhead with a quiet hum while finely crafted servitors wander the halls, dusting surfaces and polishing cogs.

Like everything else on this ship, and rather unlike my own designs, the doors are more art than impediment with imagery of a House Lafiel Navigator burning sinners with their third eye.

The millennia old xeno flora doors open without a sound and I step beneath the arch into the chapel. It’s a substantial room with obsidian pillars and a marble floor. The pews are carved from rosewood and gilded with gold. Thick cushions, embroidered with Imperial Cult iconography line the pews.

Quaani kneels in undyed linen robes before the Altar, a grand structure of white jade, fine cloth, and platinum the size of a Leman Russ tank. I am appalled at the waste of so much valuable industrial metal yet at the same time I can’t deny the bubbling glee at owning so much shiny wealth and putting it on display. Looking at big stacks of shiny metals never gets old.

I approach the altar and kneel next to Quaani, then make the Sign of the Aquila over my chest. I clasp my hands in prayer and silently recite psalms in my head, not in praise of the Emperor but because the words remind me of the glory of Humanity and why I am still fighting.

After ten minutes, Quaani finally sighs and says, “Are you just going to pretend everything is normal?”

“Are you ready to speak?” I say.

“You’re not going to leave until I do, are you?”

“You know me well,” I say with a small smile. “Annette is worried for you. So am I. You have quite the new look.”

“I look like a demon, you mean.”

“It’s not that bad.”

Quaani’s voidskin has turned purple, and his artificial hair has been replaced with electric blue feathers. His warding electoos are obvious against his skin as they constantly glow with a blue-white light. The nictitating membranes covering his three eyes are still present, as are his longer fingers and thumbs with their extra joint.

The mutations, while odd, are within the bounds of Navigator’s expected debilitations. That they warped his voidskin and thermoregulation hair and returned to being organic is concerning. The electoos are organic as well. Most notable, however, is the aura constantly blasting from his third eye.

Within my warp sight his aura is a mass of golden threads that look like the end of a frayed rope. They are spread throughout the chapel and constantly try to jab inside my head, only to be rebuffed.

“I guess I got too used to looking and feeling normal.”

“Nothing wrong with that. I’m sure a quick ritual will fix the worst of it.”

“It won’t,” says Quaani. “Your ritual uses yourself as a template to reset a Navigator’s genetics back to what their own body considers natural. This fusion I have undergone has changed my default to this new state. I’m an Abhuman of an Abhuman.”

“So that’s why you asked for the ritual data. That certainly makes things tricky. I’m not sure I would dare to change that ritual.”

“I came to the same conclusion. I can live with looking a little different. The aura, however, is a real problem.”

“What does it do?”

“Depends on the person. A Warforged, Magos, or Space Marine is briefly stunned. A Herald Conscript will void their bowels and run away screaming. An unaugmented human either curls up and waits for death or falls to their knees in worship and cannot be roused from their state of prayer. They become effectively catatonic. There have been no recoveries and none are expected. It’s a soul mutation. The ritual could fix it.”

“But?”

“It would require you to channel more power than the powers that created it. My body and soul were a battleground for the Emperor, a demon infested book, and Tzeentch. That I still live is, quite frankly, a privilege. You would not survive trying to remove the aura, uncle.”

“Indeed it is. One I am most grateful for. He doesn’t have to answer, even if I do pay Him for his time and skill. I just hate how often I am placed in circumstances where I am forced to ask for help. There is always a hidden cost that I never see coming as well. A favour to the Emperor is not so easily repaid.”

Quaani says, “That is only right and proper, otherwise everyone would petition Him for all and sundry. Not what truly matters.”

“Like nabbing a book that explains how to kill gods and demons, or achieve apotheosis?”

“That’s not quite the auramite bullet one would hope for,” says Quaani, “though if it survived the conflict, it will have far more use in the hands of the Emperor.”

“How so?”

“Were one to use the methods in the book, yes, one would slay the god in question, and then become them, subject to the will and beliefs of their followers like every other Warp deity. The book did not let me speak of such caveats before.”

“The book was an invitation.”

“Indeed it was.”

I clear my throat, “I really, really want to know.”

“I am still forced to say their names and have already spoken one. Do you really wish to risk another?”

“A stupid wish, on my part.”

“Tis the nature of temptation. I already spoke of the two generic ways. The third is an entity specific ritual. One is easier to guess than the others. How would you go about bringing low a demon who demands personal combat?”

“I would beat them in a duel. Is that enough?”

“No.”

“Decapitate them, toss their skull in the pile at the base of their throne, then sit on their own throne, resting my feet upon their corpse.”

A heavy presence presses down upon us and I feel the Emperor’s light flare within my chest, burning me from within.

“Khorne welcomes all Aspiring Champions. Say my name and I will send a guide.”

I feel a child’s hand slap the back of my head and my skull slams into the marble steps of the altar, shattering them.

Groaning, I push myself upright and rub my forehead.

Quaani stares at me, trembling.

I say, “Right. See no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil. Their eyes are upon us, even in this sacred place. Fuck that stings.”

“You don’t even have pain receptors in your head, Aldrich,” his voice a dry whisper.

“I know.”

“We shall never speak of the Liber Heresius again,” says Quaani.

“I agree.”

With my head ringing I can no longer tell the difference between tears or laughter in my mind, or if my echoing emotions are my own.

The gods do so love to remind mortals of their presence for there is no peace among the stars, only their will, and their haunting tunes to which we dance and sing.