Herald of the Stars: Chapter Three Hundred and Thirteen

James freeman, Mikael Persson, Joel Carreras, CalamityFerret, and Madeline M, thank you so much for signing up to Herald of the Stars. This story would not exist without your help and I am most grateful that you're willing to help me.

A special shout out to abowden this week for asking the right question, one that really helped me nail down the end of this chapter. I feel much better about it now. Cheers!

-----------------

We arrive at Port Wander without further trouble. I assign Raphael to sorting out the mess with Commodore Emil Astoris, focusing my efforts on withdrawing my people from the Imperial Navy vessels.

I take the opportunity to trade my most disruptive crew and discontent civilians for the Imperial Navy’s best personnel, including an Astropathic Choir. The Navy was delighted to get seven thousand Tech-Priests and my actions helped soothe any ruffled tricorns from arresting a Commodore. 

I, on the other hand, stole all their promising junior officers, getting links to dozens of noble houses in the Calixis Sector and a far wider range of people to consult on specific issues. For example, rival syndicates, house feuds, and pirate holdouts. I want to know who I can call for support, who will only ever be a fair weather friend, and gain a better understanding of who will benefit, and who will not, when I trade my technologies and goods.

Yes, Raphael can tell me, but relying on one source of information would be dumb.

Most of the Stellar Fleet migrants were volunteers, though not all. There are always those who think their lives will be better if they’re somewhere else than they currently are. Before my latest injury, I would never have let them go for their own good. Now I see no reason not to make use of their foolishness.

I’ll need to appear before Commander Larius Sans in a few days so that I’m not some faceless terror in his mind, but until then, I have some free time, some emotions to re-establish, and a promise to keep.

I have Alpia, Brigid, Quanni, Annette, and baby George join me in my workshop’s vehicle bay. In the centre of the room is a large vehicle with multiple windows running along the top third and a sliding door on one side. The front is slightly rounded with a white symbol in the centre.

I gesture towards the red painted vehicle, “Tada!”

My family glance between me and the vehicle, radiating total confusion.

“No skulls or cogs?” says Quaani. “No hammers? What is that profane symbol?”

I laugh, though my amusement is a faint, distant thing.

Brigid says, “That is a shiny, flimsy looking disaster Aldrich yet you are clearly pleased with yourself. What are we looking at and why?”

“That, my ever patient wife, is a 1959, Type 2 Volkswagen Transporter. Most people called it a VW camper van. This is a recreation, upsized to fit Post-Human cyborgs and reinforced for the vacuum of space. I am showing you this recreation, and have booked time off for you all, because today I am taking you all camping.”

“How!?” says Alpia. “Where?”

“You are deliberately making more questions,” says Brigid. “I recognise the date, but nothing more.”

“Answers can wait until we reach our destination. For now, into the van,” I say.

“Is this foolishness going to help you deal with whatever mess you’ve been smacked over the head with?” says Brigid.

I say, “It’s the first of several ideas, yes.” My eyes flick towards Quaani, then Alpia. “It’s not just for me either.”

Even with my current mental state, I still know that morale is important, even if I have difficulty understanding it.

“Very well,” Brigid gives a sharp nod and strides towards the van, opens the side door, and enters the colourful interior.

Annette clutches George to her chest, “Is it safe?”

“Of course it’s safe. It has the full colony redundancy protocols baked into the redesign and is made from the same alloy the Stellar Fleet uses to build void ship hulls. The armour glass could take a lascannon strike and not even cloud up slightly. It even has a void shield strong enough to tank a meta torpedo and a secondary one that doubles up as an airlock. No weapons, but then, it really doesn’t need them when all but one occupant is a Navigator or Psyker and the last has been rebuilt with technologies last seen before the Long Night.”

Quaani tuts, “Fine. Have you packed a baby bag?”

“Of course. I pulled your favourite toys and books from storage too, little pop-up ones that make sounds. I’m sure George will like them.”

Quaani sighs and places his hand on Annette’s lower back then gently pushes her towards the vehicle. Once everyone is safely stowed, he moves around to the other side and gets in the front passenger seat.

I sit behind the wheel and, with a jangle of keys, rather than an activation rune, the promethium engine rumbles into action, slightly shaking the vehicle.

“You put a tank engine in a recreational vehicle,” says Quaani, sounding exasperated.

I put the van into first gear and drive out of the workshop, “It’s the only vehicle engine we manufacture on Torchbearer. Using it was more time efficient than fiddling with a custom design.”

We trundle through huge corridors, surrounded by pointed archways, gold trimmed buttresses, and small statues hidden among thick greenery. Torchbearer appears empty as every single person is staying well clear of Quaani lest his oppressive presence leave them foaming from the mouth against the deck.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if it's the only engine anyone remembers how to make in the whole Imperium,” says Quaani.

“Apart from me,” I say. “I always did like messing with my old van.”

We travel up a cargo lift, through three armoured bulkheads, then out through an airlock and onto the hull. Even out here, Torchbearer is still busy, though everyone is well clear of the airlock. 

Servitor teams roam the deck scanning for cracks. Tech-Adepts replace sensors grown fuzzy from radiation or rusted to nothing from the hostile energies of the Immaterium. Heralds patrol the deck in open topped vehicles, checking for anyone trying to sneak on board from Port Wander.

Above us, thirty kilometres away, the famous station hangs in the void. Port Wander is a rough oval, as if someone had stuck two Hive Cities together on opposite sides of a thick ring of multi-kilometre jetties. Over two hundred vessels are docked here, a third of which belong to Imperial Battlefleets. Save for a single Mechanicus light cruiser, every other vessel belongs to the Merchant Navy.

The Stellar Fleet are the only Rogue Traders here, which is unusual, as all accounts I have of this place state that half a dozen Rogue Traders are usually at Port Wander at any one time.

“An amazing structure, don’t you think? Over 500 million people live on that station, serving the ships that dare enter the Maw,” I say.

“Aldrich, Port Wander has more in common with a Space Hulk than a proper station. I can read the faded paint of multiple ship names all welded together from here. It was expanded as needed, not as planned. What could you possibly see in it?”

“That port could see off our whole fleet, yet to the Imperium it’s a backwards posting with no hope of advancement. We were the biggest fish in the Koronus Expanse. Even Rogue Trader Calligos followed our lead and we subsumed two Imperial Navy fleets with minimal hassle. 

“What I see in Port Wander is a reminder of the Imperium’s might, to not let us grow complacent. It is the tip of an Empire that has ruled an entire galaxy for ten thousand years, one that only survives because the Necrontyr leadership are more interested in their court rank than some upstart chimpanzees.

“That port reminds me that we are nothing and that there is nothing I won’t do to see us survive these troublesome stars.”

Quaani says, “Ah, that makes far more sense than admiring the engineering. Then again, getting such a mishmash of ships and structures to work at all is actually impressive.”

I smile, “Indeed it is.”

With a couple of button presses, the van detaches from Torchbearer’s hull and floats away. Maneuvering jets fire, keeping us level as several clunks echo through the interior, uncovering the hidden thrusters at the back. I connect with the cogitator and set our destination.

With a roar, the camper van rockets off into the void, gently pushing everyone into their seats.

Quanni folds his arms and stares out of the window for a minute, then turns back to me as I fiddle with the vox, twiddling the old fashioned knob in the hope of finding some half decent music.

“I contacted my old family, the Rey’a’Nor, to report George’s birth.”

I hum, “What did they say?”

“They sent an acknowledgement and a betrothal demand.”

“I see.” 

This does not bother me like it should do and Quaani picks up on my detachment. His face scrunches up in a frown and he stares at me, confused.

“They didn’t ask about my parents,” says Quaani. “They didn’t ask about what happened to the Distant Sun, or anything else that I put in the report.”

“Like you said, we’re in the Imperium now. You need to lower your expectations.” I lean back on my chair, giving up on the vox.

Quaani snorts, “Don’t you always preach that we should reach for more?”

“I do, don’t I. What were you hoping for?”

“I’m uncertain,” Quaani looks back at George and wiggles his long fingers at the babbling child. “I was thinking about what it was like for my parents to put me in that coffin and hoping for the better.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Give the Novator a good slap. I’ll settle for ignoring her. I think it would bother her more. My parents kept account of all their interactions with the Rey’a’Nor. They come across as rather prideful.”

“You did have a bit of a mouth on you when I woke you up.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Want me to play back my memory? The windscreen has a hololith built into it.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

I grin, “Sure, I’ll spare you further embarrassment."

We travel for two hours, chatting about inconsequential topics. Out of the darkness looms a comet, lit with subtle lighting, highlighting trees, grass, a pond, and an old English pub. The whole space is covered with multiple void shields, keeping the heat and air in.

“Oh, so that’s the where and how,” says Alpia, her voice flat.

“How much did you spend on this, Aldrich?” says Brigid.

“Nothing we won’t recoup. I have plans to turn the comet into a refueling station called SOL Waters, a disguise for an automated astropathic relay. There are already Iron Foundation members willing to take on the project.”

“Good,” A smirk flashes across Brigid’s face, then she shakes her head and gently smiles at me. “A hydrogen pun? Well if you’re still making bad jokes there’s hope for you yet.”

I set the camper van down next to a firepit, turn off the engine, and enjoy a moment of silence. With a small click, I open the door and step out onto real grass, something I haven’t enjoyed since moving off the Iron Crane. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of wildflowers, water, and damp earth.

Brigid exits the van and joins me, tucking her shoulders under my arm. I override my instinctive reaction to tense up at the sudden affection. This is an odd experience for me. I have memories of laughing, cuddling, and intimacy yet now I’m aware of it, the happiness that should accompany these memories is gone. Not even my implants can fill the void with false emotions to help my act, despite such a feature being on their list of capabilities. 

That, if nothing else, tells me just how terribly I have been injured. I had hoped that by recreating happy moments with my family I could create new emotions and memories; yet here I stand upon grass planted on a comet after driving one of my dream vehicles through space like some child’s wild dream and my glee feels like a faint breeze, rather than something that should have me doing a silly little dance and embarrassing Brigid and Alipa. 

It would appear that this attempt is a total waste of time. I should be researching, not messing about, yet now I am committed lest my dynasty collapses around me.

To think that I have, at last, achieved the state sought by every Magos, becoming what I played at being, only to turn that around and start pretending to be the person I used to be.

I clench my fist, gather my will and put aside my moaning. I should at least live by my own words and give this a try.

Brigid murmurs, “This is lovely. I know that you're prone to dramatic gestures, Husband, but this one is your grandest yet. Why go to all this trouble?”

“I want to try resolving my regrets; I always wanted to take my family camping. Not the false worlds of the Noosphere, but to sit on real ground, around a real fire, and stare up at the stars. I wish the boys were with us too and that we were on a real planet, but this might just be the closest we ever get to living like our early ancestors on Terra. I didn’t want George to grow up without touching grass at least once.” 

I shrug and continue, “There are many reasons. Most of all, I wanted us to all take a proper break. Not just us, but those who guard us day and night.” I point at the pub, “They’re in there right now, pretending that they can get drunk and feeling smug as they drink my most expensive alcohol.”

“I like seeing you take care of people,” Brigid smiles.

My thoughts freeze as I realize that Brigid has given me an idea to focus on to act like a real person. That in turn, makes my mind spiral as I look through my reactions and decisions over the past two decades.

This new state? This is nothing new. I was already on a race to the bottom, I just didn’t see it. All the Emperor did was push me off the cliff.

I still remember what it was like to feel happiness, the warm glow of affection in my chest, or the patience it granted me.

I will do anything to get that back and it starts with embodying who I want to be, not who I was becoming.

I will be the man who was placed in that sarcophagus, not the one who crawled out of it, half dead, confused, and lost among the stars.

I want to be me.