331.947.M30 – Eremus Gate
I had scarcely set foot upon the deck when duty found me again. The Thunderhawk’s ramp had barely kissed the landing bay when one of the Navigatrix’s new servants appeared, pale and trembling, babbling that I was requested immediately. Iskandra Veyra demanded (not in those words, of course) my presence—no delay, no excuses—for, as the servant gasped, “the safety of the ship depends upon it.”
I was in no shape for haste. My armor was shattered, ork blood still steaming upon the plates, a hole through my thigh, savage slashes across my chest. I told him to walk faster.
He led me on a pilgrimage through half the ship: from the landing decks forward to the prow, then back and up through the command levels. Why, I cannot guess; perhaps it is a Navigators’ notion of ritual, or perhaps Iskandra merely wished to be certain I would not ignore her summons.
When we reached the Navigator’s sanctum, she was waiting in the navigation chamber, standing by the astralabe. The thing glowed faintly in the chamber’s half-light, its armatures and lenses twitching like a wounded insect. She did not look up as I entered. “It’s not broken,” she said. “It’s you.”
I confess I thought the wound in my leg had made me mishear. But she turned and explained that the astralabe was somehow attuned—to me. Every calibration, every sweep of its sensorium, was thrown awry when I was near. Or, more precisely, when I was somewhat near, yet not near enough. I affected the ship’s navigation field as if I myself were a Navigator, bound to the astralabe.
I did not tell her why. The Navigator whose brain I devoured was long dead, his memories scattered through my flesh. That is a burden for the Keepers, not for her.
She half-jested that the simplest solution was to throw me out the airlock. Failing that, I would have to accompany her during future warp transits. We agreed to keep it quiet, under the pretense that she, being young and untested, required a personal Astartes bodyguard. I said nothing, though part of me wondered if the joke was not closer to the truth than either of us realized.
The Ashen Promise turned its guns upon the ork rok. Torpedoes, lance strikes, and macro shells tore it apart, scattering its fragments into the void. Of the surviving ork raiders, four were destroyed outright; the rest fled into the dark. For the first time since we entered this cursed system, the void was silent.
It was a great victory, and the mood aboard the ship rose. The Auxilia toasted themselves. Even the Wolves seemed content. Yet a shadow lingered among us. The Third Legion’s decks were silent now—every last Emperor’s Child dead but Calvien. Their deaths were said to be “accidents” during sparring, but we all know better. It is one thing to lose brothers in battle; another to know they were killed by their own hand. None of us knew what to say. The Wolves grumbled. The Alphas said nothing, which was worse. We, the Guard, endured.
In quieter hours, I petitioned the Mechanicus to train my servant Jocasta in the care of Astartes wargear. She is quick-minded, even if her soul is crooked, and Rhadamanthine agreed that a mortal who can service our armor may be of use. She will do well.
We received an astropathic reply from the Legion at last. My dispatches had reached them. The Keepers, in their wisdom, ordered that I be tested for psychic sensitivity—again. If any change were found, I was to be placed in stasis until further notice. Fortunately, my readings were unaltered: still as inert as stone. I remain myself, though the Navigator’s dreams sometimes whisper at the edge of mine, and I glimpse patterns where others see none.
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