I end my meditation and panic for a brief moment; there are four large snakes hissing in my face. I get up, replace my nutrient packs, then lie back down. There is a lot I need to do and consider and I’m still waiting on a workshop to be delivered.

I am utterly done with the constant grind of crisis and revelations. Now that my soul is fixed and the stupid snakes can’t damage me further I turn off my sight, hearing, and touch, then let my mind drift in the darkness for hours.

It isn’t until a priority alert pushes through my systems that I realise I’ve been lying there doing nothing for two days. I turn my missing senses back on, sit up, and start swearing: the Emperor damned snakes have disassembled everything in the room, including the sleeping pod, and scattered the parts everywhere. They also ate all of the spare nutrient packs that were supposed to last me for the whole quarantine.

I send a brief note to Brigid that I am awake and looking forward to seeing her. Brigid’s reply is almost instantaneous and we exchange messages back and forth as I exit my cramped room and into the newly attached workshop. As I message my wife it trickles into my brain that I have recently been in shock and without E-SIM available there was no one about to talk me through it.

I consider messaging Brigid about my breakdown. However, I do not want to burden her further. There will be time for mental health once I am out of quarantine and can get a proper hug. A small voice yells in my mind that I am being foolish and should follow my own policies on psychological health, yet I cannot bring myself to do so.

The workshop is rather sparse with a single workbench and three different fabricators. One mixes chemicals, another prints structures from metals and plastics, and the third is for building electronics. All three are rectangular boxes two metres tall and one metre wide. Specialised tools for item assembly and testing hang along the wall above the workbench.

I immediately set to fabricating basic Servitor implants to control the slithering parasites growing out of my back. While the fabricators work, I return to my room and rebuild the sleeping pod. The snakes return to being somewhat helpful, hovering parts in front of my face and screwing panels together with their telekinesis. They’re not as precise or fast as a proper mechadendrite though.

Every few minutes, I stop working on the pod, return to the workshop, and remove a part from a fabricator, then dump it in a small anti-static box. I don’t think I’ve ever had to manually remove a part before and not had it ejected by a servo arm. These fabricators are really basic, with millimetre accuracy for structural components and three nanometres on the electronics. I will have to do a lot of filing and scraping to get everything to partially fit inside a snake skull without killing the blighters again.

Two hours later, the sleeping pod is restored and everything but the Servitor electronics are complete. I sit on the floor next to the fold down table and grip the snakes in my hands so that they can’t cause any further trouble, then sink into another meditation.

First, I check on Alis, who is lying on the beach, running sand through her hands and bored out of her mind, but otherwise OK. Next I channel the Warp into my batteries one at a time until they are fully charged, taking extra care not to mess it up.

With my power restored I am able to use my nantites to fully repair my body and rebuild the destroyed batteries. I attempt to turn the sliders up to full on my mental modules and my power starts draining much faster than usual for the mental modules.

I check the system draws and see that E-SIM is pulling power from my batteries to power a small portion of his cogitators and boost the local modules in my brain. Usually the small excess from the Warp Tap is used to maintain the portal between E-SIM and I and empower my side of the implants with arcanotech miracles. E-SIM’s massive power is not supposed to impact my implant’s power draw, and this is the first time it’s shown up on my monitoring programs.

That external battery would have been really handy right now. Were I to try and channel all the E-SIM needs for standard operations, my body would turn to dust. Maybe I should go back to fighting zombies?

In the end, I get thirty minutes of fully enhanced cognitive abilities before my batteries are depleted again. I turn my mental modules back to low power and continue to meditate and recharge the batteries a second time.

Although short, those thirty minutes are enough time for me to design some prototypes for proper snake Servitor cybernetics and I get the distinct impression I’ll be regrowing the fat buggers multiple times before I am satisfied with the conversion. I’d love E-SIM to assist me, but he is too dumb to talk to right now and I can only make data requests like he’s a basic search engine.

My enhanced cognition also gives me plenty of time to mull over my options and think about my actions on The Barber’s Blades. It takes me more cogitator cycles than I care to admit that while retreating was a good idea, I definitely panicked.

I can’t afford to sit still in quarantine. I need to rearm and resupply, then go back out in my full kit, with my actual body guards, and kill zombies. Not walk around ancient hulks thinking I am Boris Grishenko. I’m not invincible; to the right threat, I am almost as vulnerable as an unaugmented Human. I did not expect to be bested so easily.

I also can’t afford to pass up on all those harvestable souls, the chance to practise my skills outside a simulation, or have some other threat pass under my nose because I was too scared to leave my little box floating in the void. I also need to practise my soulphage abilities. Yes, I know I keep telling myself this, but apparently I’m having trouble making it sink in, even when the consequences of failure are awful.

I would never forgive myself if I hurt my friends and family. I feel bad enough about eating Alis and the penitents and they’re near nameless acquaintances.

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I also can’t believe I’m thinking through all of this again after I just promised myself to be less careless after Dying Light. I let myself be pushed around by public opinion on the necessity of penance after a single careless remark I made after a huge mental shock: Alipa being turned into a Saint. I am no lion. I do care about the opinion of the sheep. There are rather a lot of them and they shield me from my enemies and complete vast amounts of labour.

Therefore, one could argue that my reputation is my life, or perhaps my spare lives; it is worth taking controlled risks to maintain my reputation. I didn’t have to be quite so dumb about it though. I could have had more back up off camera. I didn’t because I don’t like to cheat or deceive others and was overconfident in my own capabilities, even when injured.

I’ve made such a big issue about keeping my word that I fear being called a liar. The stability of my fleet depends on it. However, I made no promises to wade into battle unaided to anyone. Neither does anyone control the pict footage but me.

Instead I sent all our family’s bodyguards to Alipa. That was necessary too but I have a lot of troops. Whole regiments of penal soldiers and thousands of elite Warforged. I don’t like to waste Human resources, but what’s the point in having all those people I’ve paid and laboured over if I do not use them when I need them?

To err is to be Human and I got a whole heaping of corpse starch with the latest stunt of mine. Every abandoned station and vessel I have ever explored has been incredibly dangerous. I know that they are dangerous. People tell me that they are dangerous, yet I persist in taunting fate, thinking: ‘How dangerous could they be’.

I am absolutely furious with myself. What’s more, I know that relentlessly beating oneself up about one’s errors is a sign of poor mental health, yet my errors just keep cycling through my mind. The fear, shame, and anger remains fresh in my mind, emotions and memories I am entirely incapable of forgetting.

Next time, I promise myself, I will nuke it from orbit. I will not succumb to loot lust or feline death syndrome. I will purge it with fire or pay someone else to fight the big bad for me. I tut and dismiss the dream. As if it were that simple. I must harvest souls, and right now, that means doing it up close.

Curse that chaotic Birdbrain!

The electronics printer sends me an alert and I head back to the workshop and assemble the first of four Servitor control implants, complete with skill and knowledge chips. My work soothes me and I am grateful to partially set aside my angst for a short while.

The psybernetics will have to wait until I am back on Torchbearer. They are rather dangerous to work on, on par with vortex weaponry, and extra precautions are required. I do not want to accidentally kill myself, or open a demon portal in the middle of my current flagship. I can still work on installing multitools though, as well as experimenting on improved musculature and armour for the snakes.

I need to discover how many cybernetics I can install before the mutation plays up and expels the implants through regeneration and many other scenarios. I expect there is a limit because if there wasn’t, they wouldn’t have turned from mechadendrites into snakes in the first place.

While I am working, I receive a vox from Fial and I answer immediately.

An image of his face appears in my mind’s eye. His red hair has been cut short and he looks healthy. A small frown plays across his brow and his lips are pressed together tightly. The image is rather fuzzy.

“Fial. I am delighted you decided to call your Dad. How have you been?”

“OK. I guess?”

“Do you want to tell me what’s on your mind, or will you indulge me with tales of your officer training first?”

“That obvious, huh? Do you know what happened?”

“Not a clue. I haven’t been spying on you. Should I have? Do you need bodyguards in the officer school of a Vice-Admiral of all places? Do I need to take any immediate actions?”

“No, no. I don’t think so. Maybe? I don’t want that level of oversight anyway. You said we’re here to make connections and that would make me look bad. Vice-Admiral Styrvold is on the case and would not take kindly to any interference.”

“Alright, I’ll stop fretting and let you talk.”

Fial huffs and his mouth quirks up in a small smile. “It’s good to talk to you, Dad.”

I grin.

“Let me give you some context,” says Fial. “Officer training is a mix between boot camp and a theatre club. Physical training (PT) doesn’t focus on marching or other basics. It’s assumed we can already do that and Emperor forbid that one ends up with remedial classes. PT focuses on shooting, sword skills, and leading voidsmen in boarding and repelling actions.”

I nod along as Fial talks.

Fial continues, “That’s where the theatre club bit comes in. Our actual learning is done through hypno-induction and other skill implants. We don’t have to memorise much. What we do is practise the skills we’re given in active scenarios. It’s live action role play. If we hadn’t played all those games as kids, Dareaca, Luan, and I would really struggle with it. It’s difficult to take seriously as a lot of the people involved are terrible actors.

“The scenarios are rather intricate, with working props and more experienced crew filling in their roles depending on the objective of the training. The scenarios can be anything from how to properly secure cargo, hearing whispers of mutiny, or having to fill in for a role we are never expected to take, but sudden casualties require it.

“After the exercise, we are told to read through the historical accounts the scenario was constructed from and work on joint reports with two other peers on what did and did not work, both for the actual events and what we did in theatre group. Then we have to present our work to class and everyone gets a chance to quiz our actions and critique our report. After that, the teaching officer steps in and gives us the official answer.”

I say, “That sounds rather thorough. Is there a running theme through all of the scenarios?”

“Yes,” says Fial. “Obey your superior immediately, do not question orders, pray to the Emperor, do not doubt your own actions, and be on the lookout for suspicious behaviour and subtle sabotage. Having someone pretend to be a traitor, or pursue their own interests is pretty common in the training scenarios. Getting to play the traitor is rather fun. The biggest difference between the Imperial and Stellar Fleets is that the Imperial Navy focuses more on the conviction with which you issue your orders, rather than their contents.”

“Seriously?” I say, unable to keep the incredulity from my voice.

“It’s not as dumb as it sounds,” says Fial. “While contents is obviously important, the training really emphasises how vital it is for officers to be confident, take no shit from the lower ranks, and at all times present themselves with the expectation that whatever they say will happen, will happen, and one will not enjoy the alternative regardless of if you’re the officer, voidsman, or rating.”

I hum, “That’s not what I expected, though it does fit my understanding of the Imperium’s values. How do you think that compares to us?”