The next station we pass is also littered with the chewed remains of Servitors, leaving me with more questions. Why are there Ur-Ghuls, a Drukhari tracking species, on this vessel? Where are all the Plague Zombies? Most importantly, why does eating people’s souls make me feel hungry, rather than a sobbing wreck!? I know I’ve become fairly ambivalent about death over the past century, yet this is a whole new level of horror and it’s one I’ve never even thought to question before.

I’ve always put the souls of those I consume under the category of, ‘It was me or them and they totally deserved it.’ Cultists, Xenos, Demons, all I’ve ever seen is power waiting to be taken and never thought further on the issue. Now I wonder if there might be something more to it. I believe in the rights of man to labour for rewards, to follow their dreams, and raise the next generation with love and care. I believe in the superiority of Mankind and our unquenchable thirst for truth, explosions, and a proper cup of tea.

People are power and population is king. So sayeth Hive Sim. They’re apparently food too... like corpse starch. I’d forgotten about that. If anything, these new impulses make me a native, little better than Underhive scum. I’ve always believed myself to be better than that. A superior Human from a more enlightened age.

Time and time again I have been reminded that it is only by the fortune of my discoveries and the labour of my mechadendrites that lets me pretend otherwise, yet still this delusion of mine persists. I cling to it like a barnacle on a rusting anchor in a futile attempt to hold on to the scraps of my ego that I hold so dear.

This rusting anchor however, is the foundation of my beliefs: that there is a better tomorrow if only we put in the effort to reforge the decaying scraps of our civilization into something new. To let it go, to give its pitted, flaking frame up to the infinite depths of the Warp is to abandon my ideals and everything I have worked towards since I woke up.

I have no faith in the Emperor or the Machine God, let alone the Ruinous Powers. Myself, however? I shake off my ennui and set aside this clawing need to feast on the ephemeral egos of my allies and enemies; I will not have my faith in myself be so easily shaken.

I snort, how prideful I have become! I just categorised all who live in the depths of Imperial hive cities as worthless degenerates, even as they struggle to survive one more day with that intrepid human spirit I admire so much. The hypocrisy is thick enough to forge into ingots.

As the train pulls into the final station on our journey through The Barbers Blades, I wonder if it will be hubris or hypocrisy that eventually kills me. The station reminds me of the London underground and is rather narrow. Dusty benches line each wall. A faded sign hangs above a unisex bathroom next to a vending machine full of water pouches. A small first aid station is fixed to the wall, next to an emergency arms locker. Unfortunately, the guns and medicine have already been looted.

The penitents stagger onto the platform and I vault the back carriage once the cyber mastiff disembarks and join them.

I point to the left, “If you are too injured move over there. If you’re not, grab the bodies off the train and put them by the entrance, under that red cross. Once you’re done, stand to the right and check each other for injuries. It’s easy to miss something when your adrenaline is up.” I point to two penitents who never got close to an Ur-Ghul, “You two, I want one of each of you at the entrance to the tunnels.”

There’s a couple of half-hearted salutes and most of them mumble, “Yes, Lord.”

These people are far from a bastion of morale and discipline, but that was more enthusiasm that I expected from them so I don’t bother to cajole them into giving me snappier replies.

The locomotive departs with a final ‘toot toot’ and chuffs into the darkness.

I beckon the cyber mastiff over and grab a medikit hanging from its side. “Sit on the benches and I will treat you, starting with some injections.”

The five penitents, including Clovis, slump onto the low, plasteel benches. I walk down the line, standing in front of each patient for a brief moment. My medical mechadendrite flashes out and slips into a small port on the metal collars of their undersuits, injecting each penitent with a cocktail of painkillers, antibiotics, and near harmless atomics so I can get precise scans of their internals.

One penitent has significant internal bleeding that will kill him in thirty minutes, so he gets an immediate dose of medichines, the others are far less at risk. I spool up my Warp and Weft module in low power mode to remotely power the nanites I injected, and direct the injured man to lie on the bench as best he can.

“Don’t look” I say, “You’ll either faint or throw up in your helmet.”

“Am I going to die, Holy Father?” says the man. He looks almost fifty, but my scans say he’s between thirty-one and thirty-three years old.

“No. I wouldn’t waste time and resources on you if you were.”

He gives me a beatific smile as if suddenly everything in his life makes sense and closes his eyes. “I am ready, Lord.”

I scowl, “These supplies are actually worth more thrones than you are. My time even more so. I expect you to perform at your best once I am done fixing you up. Do not surrender your life so easily again.”

The penitent looks terribly confused, “Yes, Lord. I obey.”

“Good. If you start thrashing, I will have to inject you with a relaxant and that might make you bleed out faster than I can operate. This won’t hurt, but it will be incredibly uncomfortable. You will still feel the sharp blades cutting you and some unpleasant tugs as I reassemble four of your ribs, then stitch you back up. Nausea and dizziness are to be expected. I’m not putting you to sleep because you actually passing out is a bad sign and that’s another reason why I don’t want you to watch. You must endure this discomfort for approximately five minutes, then I will be done. Any questions?”

“No, Lord.”

“Do you want someone to hold your hand and talk to you? I recommend that you do. It will give you something else to focus on.”

“Yes, Lord. Thank you for your consideration.”

“Good. Now stay still and keep your eyes closed. Miss Riccahl!”

Alis trots over, her hands and arms covered in blood. Her new lascarbine is slung across her chest.

“Do you have a strong stomach? Did you hear my conversation with this man?”

“Yes, Lord. I do and I did. No one dares to chat right now. I can help.”

“Good, hold his hand and talk to him about something bland that you won’t falter on. Your favourite place to eat, or your daily routine. No raunchy tales of hot nights with Balphus Yorn. I don’t want his heart pumping too fast. It’s okay if you need to close your eyes too, just keep talking.”

Unlawfully taken from NovelBin, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

A ghost of a smile passes across Alis’s face then firms into a grim line, “Yes, Lord. I understand.”

“Excellent, then I shall begin.”

I have been horribly spoiled by my nanites, biomancy, and mighty delegation powers. It has been many years since I had to do an operation in such a traditional fashion, though it is not one that a surgeon from the third millennium would recognise. Despite the lack of practice, my mechanical memories and skills are not so easily lost. My mechadendrites are quick to slice away the penitent’s clothing and undersuit and spray his chest with an orange antiseptic liquid that further numbs his nerves.

“Celestine’s tits that’s cold,” says the penitent.

“The atmosphere is five degrees centigrade, of course the spray and air are cold. Now be silent and keep your breath steady as best you can. I’ve ordered your suit to increase your oxygen so you won’t have to breathe too much.”

To my surprise I don’t get a smart arsed comment back. I place a small, plasteel kidney dish on the floor and start cutting. The penitent’s breath hitches and Alis starts talking to him.

My mechadendrites are quick to follow my hands, spraying the edges of my cuts with medichines to stem the bleeding. One mechadendrite picks out the bits of broken rib from his lung and places them in the tin. My hands stitch up the worst of the cuts to his lungs and more medichines, painkillers and antibiotics are sprayed on his lung to halt the bleeding and slowly repair the delicate structures within. Another two mechadendrites reassemble the broken ribs and glue them back into place without trouble, even though the penitent starts breathing faster. He does not wriggle or groan though. I am rather impressed by his resilience.

The glue contains long release antibiotics that should minimise his chances of infection inside his bones. An infection there would be particularly troublesome to clear out and is a real risk for bones that are exposed to the air as the healed bone can trap the infection in place. I could have left the medichines to do all the work, rather than carve him up like a whale, but I am not waiting in this gloomy station for a couple of days before he can walk, let alone fight.

Finally, with a mix of stitches, glue, and medichines, I ensure all his thoracic muscles are where they’re supposed to be, then reattach his skin. Despite the intricate nature of the operation, my hands and mechadendrites move with absurd speed and precision, completing everything in just over four minutes.

I unroll a large patch of silver cloth and place it against the damaged skin. The cloth automatically sticks to the damaged area. It’s a flexible battery and cogitator that will power and direct the medichines, keep the area numb, and stop the wound from reopening. They were developed after the mess we had with the Eldar and our first aid kits being fairly useless for people without the ports in their neck for a Vitae Supplement.

Once the medichine bandage is in place I stitch his undersuit back up. With such precise cuts, the self repair mechanisms kick in and complete the seal in under a second. I plug a pouch of carefully formulated liquid into the reservoir in his suit..

“There, I’m all done. Drink everything in the pouch. Slowly. It will taste metallic. Do not move for the next two hours. After that, you’ll be free to walk about. In six you will be healed and can hand me back the silver bandage.”

“Thank you, Lord,” rasps the penitent. “I expected to be crippled for life, short though it would have been.”

“You’re welcome. If you start feeling feverish, tell me immediately. While your undersuit should alert me, it may not. How are you holding up Miss Riccahl?”

“I think I’m lucky my hand isn’t broken after all that squeezing. I’d hate to have you fix it.”

I chuckle, “Take a short break, I’m going to assign tasks to the idle.”

I order ten penitents, including the tech-thrall, back up the tunnel to gather more weapons from the station we skipped over and look for a gauntlet, or exoskeleton, that I can modify to let Clovis fire his bolt pistol without breaking his wrist again. My next three operations are much simpler and I do not have to cut them open to set their bones. They still get fancy bandages though as they can power the medichines I injected them with. Clovis’ operation is the most complex and takes a full ten minutes as his wrist, elbow, and forearm are an absolute mess.

Once I am done, I pat Alis on the shoulder, “Thank you for your assistance, Miss Riccahl.”

“Yes, Lord. Please ask someone else next time. I could do without the honour.”

“Feeling a bit nauseous?”

“Terribly so.”

“I do have something for that, if you’d like,” I say.

“Does it involve me getting speared with those massive needles of yours.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Is it always like this? In the Heralds?”

“Were you hoping to join?”

“Yes. I still am,” says Alis. “It’s a lot to take in though. You healed that man in minutes, not weeks. Back on the station he’d have been given the Emperor’s Mercy.”

“Why? The hospitals there are quite capable. They may lack accredited personnel, but have a lot of medicae Servitors and a good stock of adequate cybernetics.”

“No one here has the cash and the hospitals don’t operate on credit. There’s always a gang representative ready to sign you into servitude. That’s a long death though. Most free labourers like us prefer a bullet. The ration tickets your friends can get for your corpse will feed them for a week.”

“That is disappointing, though expected.”

Alis huffs.

“Why did you volunteer, Miss Riccahl?”

“I wanted my death to mean something.” Alis face twists into a brittle, bitter smile.

“Not your life?”

“Lord, you live in a tower of solid auramite cards. There is no life to be had here. It’s obvious that you hope to change that, but few expect to live long enough to see it, or even believe it will happen. It’s been tried before, many times. This system is cursed by the dead hulls we scavenge from.”

“It has been more deadly than I expected.”

“Still wondering about where all the Zombies are? It’s not like they can open doors.”

I say, “I wouldn’t bet on it. The zombies mobbing the quarantined vessels have to be getting in somehow.”

Alis shrugs, “Every hull has its secrets and prizes and that’s before you start cutting them apart. I haven’t seen the monsters that attacked us before, but murderbots, escaped xenos pets, cursed artefacts, these are known to me. Death and gold walk in hand.”

“On that, we agree.”

The scavenger team returns, weighed down by weapons and mechanical parts.

I say, “I have work to do. Go and rest.”

“Yes Lord,” says Alis.

After the penitents have presented their prizes, I spend a few minutes to clear my soul of debris. With the distractions purged and my soul a little closer to perfection, I am able to perform maintenance on the looted weaponry and instruct the penitents on how to use them without constantly looking at the men and women like they’re meat.

One woman brought back a four thousand year old plasma rifle from Ryza with three spare flasks. She gets a severe lecture on the multiple ways the weapon can both end and save her life and I have her drill changing the plasma flasks while reciting the operations manual until we are ready to leave. Whether or not that is enough for her not to kill herself and everyone around her immediately is in the servo arms of the Machine-God now.

The wielders of the grenade launcher, flamer, and heavy stubber receive tutoring as well. Even with my implants in low power mode, I can still give constant instructions to two people at once over vox while performing my own tasks.

I construct a partial exo-skelton for Clovis, large enough to cover his whole right arm and shoulder, that will let his malnourished and frail, low-grav bones survive firing the Godwyn-De’az Pattern bolt pistol he found. The bolt pistol is missing its Sarissa, a vicious curved blade attached beneath the barrel, though I think that hardly matters. Even with an exo-skeleton, Clovis is not strong enough to use the gun in melee like the Sororitas do.

While I hate to waste time, or place weapons into the hands of people who can barely make use of them, the penitents recover well and we venture once more into the darkness.