Quaani soon departs and I turn to Thorfinn, “What was it you wanted to talk about?”
“There’s been enough excitent and ideas for one day. It can wait.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I want more ti to think about it anyway.”
“Alright. Well, if you’ll excuse , I may not need to sleep, but it is pleasant. I’m still going to bed. You’re welco to watch the hologram as long as you like, Thorfinn. Maybe it will help you think. You coming, Brigid?”
“Yes, I will join you.”
“Thanks, Aldrich. I’ll stare at the hollow flas a little longer then let myself out.”
I chuckle at his morose joke, then Brigid and I retire for the night. For once, I am the little spoon. I doubt I will risk another assault on a tomb myself, or try any more foolhardy plans for a while.
The following day, after a light breakfast with Brigid, I walk through Iron Crane, escorting Brigid to her office. I have two mandatory days off after the assault, but I don’t want to sit still right now.
There are over eight hundred thousand bodies aboard Iron Crane. Sure, five hundred thousand are Servitors and a hundred thousand mostly stick to the military quarters, but walking around Iron Crane always feels sowhat empty. The vessel is so stupidly large that, unless you're travelling during a change in the watch, it’s quite possible to walk for several minutes down a major route and not et a single person.
Neither of us are in a rush and we take the ti to admire the greenery planted along the walls behind armourglass and all the colourful fruits and vegetables growing beneath varying spectrums of light.
“Aldrich, do you rember when you got all smug about ‘single handedly’ boosting the growth rate of our population to two point one per woman?” Brigid presses both her hands to her lips to hold back her laughter.
“I’m not going to like what you say next, am I?”
“Indeed. It’s not actually that high, less than one percent per year. I was looking over our expenses and realised it is going to take us more than a year to recover the personnel losses we took from that one engagent. The lost wargear will take six weeks, the Wyrms and Vanguards, two years. None of this includes the losses we’re taking to siege the tomb. I know you’ve been putting it off so that people could have a proper childhood, and a more natural, stable developnt, but we’re going to have to start using the exo-wombs you traded with the Tau for.”
“It wasn’t just being all sentintal. That’s been in developnt for ten years now, going over it in excruciating detail and converting it to Imperial standards. It’s such an easy way for the Tau to screw us over, like by secretly implanting the tenets of their philosophy, or a subtle genetic flaw. Starting that program up is a massive security risk. Do your predictions place our numbers low enough that it would affect the operation of the fleet?”
“If you want to build and crew new ships and a Macro-Ferry? Our numbers will be critically low and that’s if we don’t take any more casualties.”
“Could we do it with birth incentives?”
“Having half the crew on maternity leave for ten years is equally untenable, no matter how many shinies you offer. We don’t have to rush growing them though, if you're concerned about the knowledge implantation process. You know, the bit we actually paid for. Have you found any problems in testing?”
“Not a single one. They traded tech, not parts or their own implantation libraries, and the Tau haven’t gone anywhere near the machines. It would take a significant security breach for the Tau to ruin the new crew. The knowledge even helped us improve our teaching engines and that hasn’t given us any trouble. Their MIU equivalents were not as good though. We didn’t get anything from that, other than making our own compatible with the Tau.”
“So what’s the hold up?”
“It competes for Servitor and Cyber Mastiff resources and there hasn’t been a need. We’d also need to set up mass harvesting of genetic material and all the administrative systems to support inexperienced individuals. If we don’t rush, six months to get the program started. Two years for each gestation to reach, physically, sixteen years old. Without a purpose built vessel, best we could do is five-hundred new crew a month once it’s all set up. I don’t think I’d want to hit those numbers for at least ten years though, just to get enough data and train up enough staff.”
“Well, the current birth rate is three hundred per month, approximately. How about we aim for one hundred exo-womb births a month and, if everything is looking good half way through our sublight trip, we can examine the issue again. We’d have more void ships by then with the extra space we need.”
“Alright. We should consult with the rest of Fleet Command, just in case we missed sothing, but I’ll see it done.”
“I like that you don’t try to go over people’s heads, Aldrich, even if you could.”
I smile, “I admit I am always tempted. It is so much faster, and I am confident in my decisions. Yet I know I am only Human, if barely, and my experiences colour my choices. Large, endless committees are worthless, but a handful of confidants? You help see what two eyes may have missed, or restore ideas I have dismissed.”
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Brigid stops outside an armoured door, wraps one arm around and grabs my uniform with her other, gently pulling down for a kiss.
“Thank you for accompanying to my office.” Brigid lets go and pats my chest, “Now go and take so ti off. Go ss about in a simulator or sothing. No work!”
“I won’t!”
“You thrashed about last night and cracked my rib. It’s already healed and you need to heal too. Don’t you dare neglect your health after going to so much trouble looking after everyone else's.”
“Ugh, that would be a classic fail. Fine, I will find sothing fun to do. I’m sorry I hurt you.”
Brigid scoffs, “Like I would care about a little ding. I only told you so you would do as I ask.”
I laugh, “Fair enough.” I smirk, “Enjoy your day at work.”
Brigid pokes my ribs. Hard. “Go. You prat.”
I wander the shops and gardens of the habitation district. Thinking of kids and the growing history of the Stellar Fleet, I idly plan a small museum, one that I hope to fill with dioramas of all our victories, maybe with the models assembled and painted by the friends and families of those who have suffered great loss.
Despite the doleful subject, I alternate between sniffs and sniggers as I walk about. The idea of painting Warhamr models, in Warhamr, amuses and frightens in a manner I struggle to process. Even with my many years, progress, and battles in this far future, that small voice still persists. A companion I am so familiar with that I have long since forgotten anything else. A companion that whispers: “I am going to die.”
Standing on a small stone bridge, I watch lazy silver fish and other small creatures lazily swish their tails in the gentle current. A priority ssage smashes through my filters. As I assimilate the contents I also watch multiple data lines, mostly orbital, showing the Necrons have made a move on the North Tomb.
They weren’t subtle about it, but they were so fast that our periter guards still had to fight as they retreated to our forward base as they hit us with teleporting troops and hypersonic strike craft. Four warhosts, one from each remaining undamaged tomb have begun their advance on the North Tomb.
Distant Sun began a bombardnt on one force, only for the Necrons to deploy planetary defence weapons from beneath their impenetrable shields from three of the six tombs. I’m surprised they hid ground to orbit weapons for so long, considering the damage we’ve done, but the Necrons timing is most inconvenient, which is probably why they did it.
Distant Sun hasn’t taken any damage to its armour yet, but the entire fleet is retreating behind the moon as they will wear us down and they could have more orbital weapons. We can’t disable their orbital weapons without a ground assault either.
Maeve has given the order to give up the forward base, but it is unlikely we will be able to wrestle air superiority back from the Necrons any ti soon. The Heralds will retreat to the Eldar base and be lifted out, hopefully, an endeavour that will take up to two months.
There isn’t much I can do from here, so I spend my whole ti off anxiously watching the data feeds, while feeding the occasional carp and creating 3D models of dead Heralds and Tech-Adepts for my museum dioramas, unsure if I am being needlessly dramatic.
Distant Sun begins a new style of bombardnt, orbiting the moon and firing as much as possible whenever Kinbriar V is in its sights. This is inaccurate, making it challenging to support the retreating Heralds and the growing pressure on the Eldar base.
One dubious spark even modifies so macro-shells and one of our macro-cannons so that we can shoot supplies in front of their convoy. It is of mixed success, working well for stubber and bolter ammunition, water, air, food, and basic dical supplies, but nothing complex or electronic can survive the rapid acceleration and deceleration of the modified shell and cannon.
Still, it does save us D-POTs, as the Necrons always target them whenever they try to support the column. The Necrons don’t seem willing to spend the resources to wipe out the Heralds, remaining content to ensure their retreat is as miserable as possible. None of us can divine the reasoning behind the Necrons behaviour, making Fleet command feel like we’ve missed sothing important.
Five days into this new phase of our struggle, Odhran ssages .
The Space Marines are awake.
I arrive at Odhran’s quarters and I am greeted to an odd sight. The dical beds have been moved from the centre of the room. A large chalk circle has been drawn on the floor and two of the marines are engaging in a variation of sumo wrestling.
In dical gowns with their bare arses on display.
The other three marines watch them. Two are cheering while Odhran is refereeing the match and the competing marines attempt to push each other out of the chalk circle. Odhran’s mastiff sits by the circle, its chanical tail wagging like crazy.
“Officer present!” says Odhran.
The four new marines line up and salute, Imperium style, with their hands crossed over their chests like wings.
Odhran eyes them, “At ease.”
The marines relax, holding their hands behind their backs.
“Sergeant Odhran, how are the patients?”
“Magos, all marines retain their skills and mories, though they are heavily degraded, yet swiftly recover with use and ditation. Your machines tell they are healthy. They do, however, have an unusual amount of energy and cannot stay still for long.” Odhran pauses, then without so much as a twitch, he declares, “It won’t last.”
“Do what you think best Odhran, though I ask that you consider the ongoing complications of your own revival when assigning tasks and recreational ti to your revived squad. Please update every day on the status of each marine and yourself and contact directly and imdiately if you spot any strange behaviours or thought patterns. This is new ground for us all and I hope that all of you can enjoy your new lives with the skill, discipline, and faith of your first.”
“Yes, Magos.” He glances at the marines, “Your nas and gratitude, marines, starting from your right.”
“I am Killian, Magos. I thank you for my life.”
“Darrah. Your efforts will be rembered.”
“Nuada, Magos. I will pray to the Emperor of your great deed.”
“I am Eoghan. Thank you, Magos. Being dead is terribly dull.”
All five marines are similar. Shaved heads, square jaws, thick muscles, and identical heights. They really do look like brothers, even if they weren’t born as them. Their distinguishing features, such as their scars, are gone, and while I can tell them apart, their similarities are uncanny.
“You are welco, Odhran, Killian, Darrah, Nuada, and Eoghan,” I say. “It was a great trial and privilege to channel the Emperor’s blessings. You honour the Emperor and the Barghest chapter with your return. Together we will guard Humanity in His na.”
User Comments
0 comments from readers