276.947.M30 – Eremus Gate
The ship is saved. The Orks have broken off their pursuit, at least for now. The void is quiet once more.
In the aftermath, there was no time to rest. I found myself walking the decks, fetching ammunition and supplies for my brothers. A menial task, perhaps — but the mortals who crew this ship are not accustomed to serving Astartes from so many Legions. The Fists keep their own in order, of course, but the rest of us? We endure. There should be serfs to see to such things, but there are not. So I bore the crates myself. Stone does not complain.
As I walked the corridors, I looked upon the mortals. Some were cold-faced and disciplined — as warriors should be. Others… their faces betrayed much. At first, I thought it fear, but I know better now. These were not the expressions of the cowed, but of the exultant. They had lived through terror and found joy in survival. They rejoiced in the victory as we do. For all their fragility, these mortals are not so different from us.
Brother Menalkos assigned me to guard the apothecarion. Some might think this a punishment, but it was no such thing. Four Astartes dead. Two more crippled, held in stasis. Gene-seed harvested, sealed, awaiting return to their Legions. Such things must not be left unguarded. Besides, Brother Malchior of our own Legion is the only fully trained Apothecary left aboard since the death of the Imperial Fist. To keep him safe is to keep all of us safe.
I stood watch as Malchior worked. He asked my counsel on the autopsies. Three Fists, butchered by frenzied Orks. Brother Erastes of the Third Legion — two hearts pierced by a single blade. Strange, but possible. The armpit is weakly armored, and a large Ork with enough strength could strike true. Malchior and I were agreed.
I also watched him graft a new arm to Brother Daecrus, hacked off in battle. No regrowth was possible; only a machine-limb could serve. He accepted it with grim resolve. Better steel than nothing.
I rested in shifts, half my mind in slumber, half awake. Thus I remained vigilant until I was relieved.
It was then that the strange servant found me. A mortal in a burgundy gown, marked not with the cog of Mars but a kraken-like sigil. I thought him Mechanicus at first, but no. He was of the Navigator’s household. He bore a summons from Iskandra Veyra, the apprentice.
She waited outside the Navigator’s sanctum, pale with unease. No one had heard from Nestor Althanius since our emergence from the warp. The doors were sealed, and her key could not open them alone. With my aid, they yielded.
Inside: silence. The Navigator, dead in his throne, no wound upon him. The sanctum staff, absent. We searched, and found them in their quarters. All slain, each shot cleanly through the skull with laspistols. One — an officer — bore the mark of his own hand, turned upon himself.
The Navigator’s charts of the passage — gone.
I asked Iskandra for leave, and then consumed what remained of the officer’s brain. The gift of the Omophagea is not precise, but it can grant glimpses. It did. Images, flashes of thought, enough to piece together a shape of the truth.
I saw the moment. Nestor Althanius gave the order. Kill them all. Leave nothing. Then kill yourself. And the officer obeyed without hesitation.
The how is clear. The why is not. The Navigator dead without mark. The charts missing. The sanctum defiled.
There is something here that we do not yet see. Something darker than Orks in the void.
Stone will endure. But I will not forget.
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