“You sure know how to flatter a man, Cybersmith Paorach,” says Calligos.

Ròsìn raises a finely crafted eyebrow and Calligos clears his throat.

“What I meant to say is that I am in a position to offer you a Freeblade contract.”

“Whatever would I do with that? Trader Calligos, I am to remain in this system and oversee the construction of Charon. I have little need for ground troops and the weapons used by most Knights are far too powerful to be firing inside a space station.”

“That’s not important if you’re clearing zombie infested vessels. You can also use them for hull patrols and establishing forward positions in enemy hangars, or defending shipyards.”

Ròsìn shakes her head, “I would love to look over the Knights you have, but I do not need them. I can achieve all those things more efficiently with other machines, no matter how fearsome they might be. You will have to find some other way to exert influence in SR-651. You won’t sneak it in through me.”

“That was not my intention,” says Calligos, his tone tinged with annoyance. “The two Questoris-Pattern Knights and their supporting forces have suffered some degradation that I do not have the expertise available to repair. Really, you’d be doing me a favour by taking them off my hands.”

“That’s a lie, Trader Calligos, at least in part. There’s no way you don’t have the contacts. If you really are struggling, Logis Vakul will most certainly take them off your hands, though I’m sure there’s some history there as to why you haven’t already.

“Aldrich might have a use for your Freeblades, but considering how he usually does things, he’ll purchase the STC then build his own Knights, or construct an Ordinatus out of a boring machine or macro-crawler that has so much firepower it can obliterate whole companies of war walkers. We’d like them. I am sure we could find a use for them, but not for a price we won’t see coming. Not when we have no shortage of security and a dearth of fear.”

“You’re a difficult woman to please, Cybersmith Paorach.”

“You’ll need to aim a little higher than two Knights if you want to reach my strike zone, Trader Calligos. I am well shielded. I expect an Ark Mechanicus, at the very least.”

Calligos lets out a great booming laugh, “A princess in a adamantine tower? No matter what you make your hair of, no one is going to be able to climb it with your standards set so high. Nay, I prefer my legs intact and hips unshattered and shall leave you to your duties, for you are surely married to them with bands of brass and gold.”

“Trader Calligos, you should not have scorned lady luck so harshly. She clearly stole your fortune in the divorce.”

“I do hope not. Perhaps a prayer or two would not go amiss though, for surely everything else has done so since I arrived at this cursed system. Good evening to you, Cybersmith Paorach.”

“Farewell, Trader Calligos.”

I sigh a little as Ròsìn comes over. While I am grateful for the gesture, I’d much rather she stays away from Logis Vakul. She’s sufferable, not insufferable. At least I’ll be on hand to clear up any potential dramatic accusations of heresy before the mechadendrites start flying.

Calligos leaves in search of food, then talks to Lonceta and Maeve about the demonstration of our prototype Mark III infantry equipment that they’re setting up on stage for a demonstration at the end of the party.

Meanwhile, I tune in on Brigid and Lyre, whose conversation is rather confrontational.

Lyre approaches Brigid on her way over to the boys with all the social grace of a man marching to battle. He’s wearing his Commodore uniform, though I am unsure whom he thinks he’s fooling at this point.

I see the slight slump in Brigid’s shoulders as she realises she isn’t going to escape from whatever agenda the prickly Inquisitor is pushing this evening. She grabs a drink and some canapes from passing servers and turns around.

Brigid says, “Good evening, Inquisitor Hamiz. Why does an old bloodhound such as yourself seek me with such a grim face.”

“Yes, yes, hello to you too, Chief Purser Issengrund. Before you ask, I’m not here to requisition your resources. I can see that they’re being put to use well enough. I actually wanted to talk to you about something a bit more personal.”

“In the middle of a banquet hall?”

“Please, no one would dare listen in and if they are, I do not care for their opinions and nor should you.”

I piggyback off Brigid’s sensor returns with a discrete vox message, “I know you don’t need rescuing, but if you still want to play the damsel, just say the word and I’ll be right over. The safe word is a teeth rattling slap to Lyre’s face.”

A small smile ghosts across Brigid’s face, “Have at it then, Inquisitor. Though I suspect I should start with ‘Not even for all the thrones in the galaxy’ and escalate from there.”

“No need to be so hasty. I was hoping you would relax your stance on concubines for Aldrich. There’s an awful lot of healthy Ortellius members running about recently and likely many more to come.”

Brigid nibbles her canape slowly and stares Lyre in the eyes, “Unless you have an adaptive STC in your coat pockets so that I can commission an adequate replacement husband, the answer is no. What’s your actual request, Inquisitor. Not whatever ridiculous idea and bribe that you’ve cooked up to soften me for your actual request.”

Lyre stands straight, cupping his hands behind his back. He speaks his lines with the passion one would think should be reserved for dire portents.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“Purser Issengrund, your husband is a new line of Navigators, one, rumour would have it, that was created by the Emperor himself. I just want to get ahead of the trouble coming your way and get a solution in place before Imperial shipping is crippled by pointless drama for your husband’s favour.”

“I’m listening.”

“I require one of your stasis boxes full of sperm samples. One for each navigator house.”

Brigid cackles, “Oh, that’s quite a handy job you're assigning me, Inquisitor. The answer is still no. The truth is you don’t care about the samples, you just want control of my husband and his children. Neither he, nor I, will stand for that. Aldrich would insist on raising all those children nearby and that is quite impractical. For all his talents at multitasking, even he cannot raise half a million kids at once with the love and care they need.”

Well, I could control that many Servitors, so I could do it. Having so many clones of my face running around would cause all sorts of trouble though!

“You might see this as meaningless sentimentality,” Brigid continues, “but when you navigate through the Warp, one needs a stable psyche. You need an anchor for your ego. A reason to shut out the whispers of the Ruinous Powers, to focus on the screams of the Astronomicon for weeks on end, and not give into despair and temptation, dooming your whole ship with a short glimpse at the domains of false gods.

“For some it is pride, faith, fear, or discipline that keeps one from breaking. Both Aldrich and I believe that love is far more effective. Isn’t that romantic? Every ship in the Imperial Navy forging through the storms of hell for love. Family. Spouses. Friends. Humanity. The Emperor. It matters not where their love is directed, only that they prevail. Your petty thoughts would leave those bonds unformed and the Imperium far more vulnerable than if you’d never meddled.”

“Preposterous!” says Lyre. “There is nothing wrong with adoption and there is no one who can invest more than the state in the wellbeing of its future leaders. The Imperium is held together by the loyalty of orphaned children nurtured by the Scholar Progenium.

“Their students’ fierce and resilient minds are the backbone of our armies, administration, and medical care. The only love they will ever need is that of the Imperium.

“My education in those hallowed halls was without peer. Mutants are a distasteful necessity and respond well to a firm hand. A large batch of well trained Navigators of good stock would provide the Imperium with a level of stability that hasn’t been seen since the Crusade Era.”

“I didn’t think I would get you to admit love makes the galaxy go round, Inquisitor, no matter how twisted yours might be,” Brigid shakes her head. “If you still wish to embark on this short-circuited scheme of yours, you can get all the samples you need from all the poor navigators Aldrich is healing and in a far more practical timescale.

“You don’t need our permission for that, you can ask House Ortellius and House Lafiel yourself. Depending on how the treatment goes, they come out as second or third cousins to Aldrich. That’s more than enough to get the genetic stability and purity that navigator houses chase with such clinical passion.”

“That’s not good enough,” says Lyre. “The houses will feel slighted and not use such genetics in their most important lines, the ones that actually control and continue their houses.”

“Inquisitor, this is a terrible idea. The Biologis will warn you that artificial births of Navigators have abysmal success rates. Not only that, but you would be handing Aldrich a strong and legitimate claim to every Navigator house in the galaxy. Aren’t you desperately seeking for a way to limit his influence by having the Pater Nova reign him in? You would be handing Alrich the position on an auramite platter and placing him at the heart of Terra. That would destroy everything good that we have built out here. Aldrich will not agree and neither will I.”

“I’m afraid I must insist, Purser Issengrund. Your daughter’s sanctioned psyker status might look legitimate, but her birth dates do not match the length of your travels. She simply has not lived long enough to have visited Terra or a Schola Psykana in a segmentum capital. I’d be quite happy to misplace that report, but I need you to help me. There are plenty of ways to prevent Aldrich from having legitimate claims on Navigator children and the Imperium will fail within the next few millennia without his genetic stock.”

“A baseless exaggeration,” says Brigid. “The decline of Astartes geneseed is far more pressing. Still, I do not appreciate your insinuation and I shall take great pleasure proving otherwise.”

Brigid voxes, “Get over here immediately, Alpia. The Inquisitor is trying to break up our family with concubines and free samples.”

“Wow! Not cool, Mum. I’ll be right over,” voxes Alpia

in our family chat group.

I see all three boys start sniggering, but they excuse themselves from their current conversation partners and slip through the crowd and surround Alpia, stopping anyone from engaging her in conversation.

Lyre says, “That is troubling, if your claims about the Astartes are true. How would you even know that? The chapters do not share their knowledge.”

“Historical trends, future knowledge, even common sense. No one can repeatedly make flawless copies from generations of copies. Take your pick Inquisitor. Any Magos Biologis can confirm it. Until the surviving Primarch’s stop running from their failures, like unloved, poorly supported children, the Astartes will continue to degrade.”

“Oh, and what would you know of where the Primarchs went and why?”

Brigid shrugs, “We found a cache of Crusade Era Space Marine wargear. They kept meticulous records of Primarch sightings and their deeds. The Barghests bought the gear. We don’t actually know why several of them disappeared, only that they did. Buried history, perhaps, but nothing classified.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“You can judge all you like, Inquisitor. It won’t change anything.”

Alpia, Fial, Dareaca, and Luan join Brigid.

“What’s up, Mum?” says Alipa.

“Inquisitor Lyre requires you to prove your psychic purity.”

“What, is he trying his hand at matchmaking?” says Alpia. “That’s disgusting.”

Brigid sighs, “You could say that, but you know that’s not what I meant. Just get this over with.”

Alpia says, “So, let me get this clear. Inquisitor Hamiz presumes to order me to call upon our God. Not because there is some great evil to be purged but because he does not believe in our honesty?”

“It’s my job, young lady,” says Lyre.

“I find your lack of faith disturbing, Inquisitor,” says Alpia.

Lyre says, “I do not care. Prove you are bound or I will throw you on the Blackship.”

Alpia sighs, “Yeah, whatever. Be careful what you wish for Inquisitor.”

“Go ahead Sweet Pea,” says Brigid. “Aldrich is watching and we’re all standing with you.”

“Just so you know, Inquisitor, some poor sod will be getting their soul burned to a crisp to show you this, so don’t ask again,” says Alpia.

With my third eye, I see Alpia lightly tug her bond with the Emperor with a request for a small mote of energy to train with. The connection blazes to life, giving her far more than she requests and her whole body is covered with golden flames.

Lyre stumbles back into a table. Brigid and the boys back away from the heat and the carpet begins to smoulder.

“Dad! Help!” shouts Alpia.