Herald of the Stars: Chapter Three Hundred and Six

It was lovely to see such a positive response to chapter 305. Thank you, everyone, for your kind words and extra hearts!

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I see Enlightened Self-Interest to my right, looming over all four towers and their humungous guns. Above us all, the enemy fleet flounders. The escorting vessels are down to 70 void ships. The Ark of Omen, Evenus’ Dance Macabre, has been struck 768 times in the last eight hours, each shot stripping up to 500m3 from the vessel. 

That sounds like a lot, until you realise that E-SIM has, at best, stripped away 0.053% of the Ark of Omen’s total mass. No matter how many of its guns E-SIM blows up, or how much armour he destroys, Evenus’ Dance Macabre can slowly rotate, bringing more weapons online and, by the time it completes a full rotation, restore enough of its firepower to remain a threat.

E-SIM is equally undamaged and neither side can really hurt the other. Whoever runs out of resources first will lose. In a conventional fight, that would be E-SIM as Enlightened Self-Interest is far smaller than Evenus’ Dance Macabre and has less mass to sling at the Chaos fleet. 

So far, E-SIM has only fired his secondary turrets at the Ark of Omen. He can’t use the prow mounted main guns, of which he has three batteries, as his vessel is docked with the research grade STC.

The Star Child appears at the base of the PD gun and puts his hand upon it, much like he did in the data representation that Alpia and I are trapped within. Golden chains manifest around E-SIM, the same chains that I once glimpsed many years ago, revealing significant damage where they’ve punched their hooks into Enlightened Self-Interest’s hull, where before there was seemingly no damage at all. 

I grimace at the crumpled hull and recall that E-SIM mentioned he came here for repairs. I suspect he was hoping that he could purge these chains, even if he had difficulty acknowledging they existed.

My mind continues to spin as the PD gun lights up with golden flames. I am uncertain how E-SIM firing his main guns would change the fleet engagement’s outcome, and a brief query to E-SIM tells me that he would drain his power reserves too quickly if he used them. While his main guns could cripple the Ark of Omen, that would leave him vulnerable to the Ark’s escorting vessels as well as the steadily closing cloud of Daemons. Far better to take out the other vessels then flee if he has to, as then he will be the fastest ship.

After all the revelations I’ve had today, I am confident that Tzeentch would not mess with the STC and that fleeing is actually an option, whereas before it was a far riskier proposition. The cloud of Daemons is still a problem though. 

Even if Enlightened Self-Interest escapes the Ark of Omen, the Daemons would eventually catch up and harass him until he ran out of power, or suffered failures from corruption. Sure, it would take years, but it’s going to take me decades to fix the damn Warp Tap, so running is just a slow execution, hence E-SIMs request to use the STCs guns.

The familiar process of analysis calms me a little but the Star Child does not wait for me to get my feelings in order. He continues to draw significant energy through the golden chains to the point that they begin to flake and degrade. The hull of Enlightened Self-Interest burns and its shields crumble as the power flowing through the chains increases.

The cloud of Daemons have already begun to flee, as has the enemy fleet, but it is far too late.

An image of the Emperor upon his Golden Throne appears behind the Star Child, so massive as to out-size the 300km tall Ark of Omen. More golden chains appear, this time wrapped around the wrists and ankles of the Star Child like puppet strings. The chains lead back to four rings attached to the Emperor’s right hand.

Behind the Throne is a hollow brass cog, hanging in the sky like a moon and equally as large. A faceless, mechanical humanoid with silver wings lounges in the hollow, seemingly uninterested in the event taking place. Along the manifestation’s spine are uncountable cables, plugged into the hollow cog, or draping over the side like its wings. One cable leads to the Golden Throne, pulsing with a soft, silver light.

The Machine-God, for I can think of no other whom this might be, is attended to by a myriad of crystalline drones that constantly fold in upon themselves, changing form continuously. Some are humanoid lizards, many are humans, and several are species I have never seen before. I even spot a Tau. 

Most of the drones are constantly working upon the cog, their shifting hands fiddling with unidentifiable mechanisms. A bare dozen flit about the Golden Thone, tweaking the C’Tan shard lodged in the Emperor’s eye, or prodding at the sparking, mechanical heart the Emperor holds in his hands.

The Machine-God plucks a feather from his wings and tosses it towards the Planetary Defence fortress. A silver shield, shaped from tiny scales, appears over my troops. 

I make the Sign of the Cog and bow in the direction of the Machine-God.

My organic heart races as the Warp turns bright red. Directly opposite the Emperor, right at the edge of the STCs broken core, a throne of skulls blinks into existence. Upon it sits a mighty Blood Thirster, draped in bone accessories. His chest is bare and his limbs are armoured in bronze. Petruges, a type of armoured leather skirt, and a loin cloth covers his groin and a thick belt decorates his stomach. Six horns adorn his head and a large, double headed axe rests across his knees.

Korne sits alone, unchallenged; His tusked grin reveals white, shark-like teeth.

The Warp turns from red to putrid green. A garden of rot unfolds from a single point of puss yellow light and a huge, Great Unclean One appears, held aloft upon a palanquin of fused, bloated bodies that rest on the shoulder of four Greater Daemons of Nurgle, their bellies jiggling with every step. Thousands of Nurglings caper about underfoot, bashing tambourines, blowing trumpets, and singing a discordant song.

Nurgle is naked, though his body is so fat it does not matter. I am grateful that true taint will not be searing my retinas today. Nurgle’s skin is rough, like bark, and covered in boils that constantly pop and reform, causing puss to ooze across his pebbled hide. He has four horns and a big smile. Nurgle sips a caustic brew from a cauldron shaped mug labelled: ‘#1 Grandfather’.

I feel utterly insulted and he gives me a big, jolly smile. 

An Aeldari woman, Isha, sits upon Nurgle’s lap like a pet. Nurgle constantly pats her golden hair. His touch turns clumps of her hair white, then it falls from her scalp, only to regrow a moment later. He constantly whispers his sweet affections in her ear.

Isha’s face remains impassive and her posture perfect, even has her skin blisters and heals with every tender caress. Her white, flower embroidered toga is stained with the fluids weeping from Nurgle’s pustules and sores.

Nurgle sets up his foetid court on the far left of the STC’s core, partially obscured by a cloud of insects.

Next on the uninvited guest list is Slaanesh. She appears in a flurry of cherry blossoms, made from the screaming faces of those who dare insult her beauty; their faces recite their crimes and sentence constantly like a choir of suffering. She is topless and wears a pink sarong with purple underwear that ‘hides’ a substantial bulge. Her skin is a light pink and utterly smooth, free of pores, hairs, or blemishes of any kind. This creates an uncanny valley effect that makes my own artificial skin feel like it is crawling with disgust.

Slaansesh’s face is stunning, to the point where her beauty dazes me for a moment. Then she smiles and the illusion is broken. I have never seen such cruelty etched upon a face and I hope I will never see the like again.

Slaanesh clicks her fingers and hundreds of lashed and beaten Aeldari appear. They crawl over each other, creating a mountain of rutting flesh that Slaanesh rests her perfect ass upon. She examines their performance with a critical eye, then frowns, plucking a damned soul from her fleshy beanbag. Slaanesh squeezes the body over a golden cup. The soul bursts in a spray of gore then shimmers, transforming into a thick, translucent white fluid that drips between the cracks of her fist and into the cup.

Slaanesh licks her fingers, leans back, then sips the contents of her goblet. She hums a single, clear note of pure joy. The sound cuts through the echoing thunder of macro-cannons and makes me clench my jaw so tight that my adamantium alloy teeth bend out of shape, even though that shouldn’t be physically possible.

Tzeentch is the last to arrive, his body forming from the cloud of Daemons swarming around Evenus’ Dance Macabre, killing them all. The two headed bird man crackles with Warp lightning, his dark blue feathers puffed out in a display of aggression. A staff topped with a crescent moon carved from bone and faced with pale coloured crystals is gripped in his clawed hand. He takes up position between the PD gun and the Ark of Omen.

Anger gathers around him in a literal cloud of sorcerous tomes that flap about like birds, glowing letters falling from their pages like rain, forming spell formulas that read like insults. Even though I’ve never seen most of the languages, their meaning still drills into my skull.

None of the Chaos gods say anything. They stare at the Star Child, seemingly content to wait for the ridiculous showdown I’ve stumbled upon to reach its conclusion.

I turn back to the Star Child and this time, I look at him in the same manner he commanded me to examine the ocean of data surrounding the representation of the PD gun.

Like the STC, the Star Child is the distillation of a concept, Human Kindness. Kindness is a tricky idea to nail down as it touches on many parts of Human society and is a species survival trait. 

When others gift resources to us, we are compelled to return them to the giver in a greater quantity than that which we received. It fills us with a sense of satisfaction and self-worth that is difficult to achieve through other means. 

This culture of giving and receiving distributed vital resources in our earliest societies letting communities survive together when otherwise they would not. We help each other not because we can, but because we must.

Beyond hunter gatherer societies, Human Kindness takes on new aspects. When numbers become too great, Kindness is the element that knits a community together. From church fetes to city youth groups, we gather together, exchange knowledge, baked goods, and attract mates. This forms a cultural identity that helps us unite against outside threats and better understand who we need to talk to for each challenge life presents us.

Kindness requires empathy, to place ourselves in the metaphorical shoes of another Human to better understand them. It helps us resolve conflict before it occurs, preventing injuries or poor cooperation that may lead to destruction.

Last, and perhaps most relevant to the conflict unfolding before me, Human Kindness requires Sacrifice, a concept closely linked to survival. The idea that by giving something up, we can gain something new.

A sinking feeling grows in my gut.

My eyes catch the chains connecting the Star Child to The Emperor and I get my best glimpse of Him yet. The Emperor embodies Survival. He is more instinct than directed consciousness, a biological machine that trades resources, a self-destructive immune system that attacks itself, constantly cutting out rot at great cost, but healing too slowly for those sacrifices to lead to progress.

After all, Human Progress lies broken beneath my feet. 

My eyes fill with tears that pour down my cheeks, leaving streaks of mineral oil upon my face.

Alpia appears next to me in a panic, then grabs my hand. She looks up at the gods surrounding us, then gapes like a fish, unable to form a coherent thought.

I do not dare to examine the other gods too closely and instead turn my gaze to the PD gun.

I see destruction in all its myriad forms, a psy-lance of unfathomable power.

The Star Child looks at me one last time, a sorrowful smile upon his face, “I do hope you’ve learned your lesson, Aldrich.”