Herald of the Stars: Chapter Two Hundred and Eighty-Two

“I didn’t just imagine that conversation did I?” I mutter. I receive a pattern of vox clicks on my link with my bodyguards timed just right to almost sound like deadpan laughter.

“Hilarious. I am going to stand here for five minutes gathering my wits should any of you care to sweep the surrounding area and set up.”

A message appears in the corner of my vision, “Word has already gone ahead and this church is guarded by our own people, Magos.”

“Of course it has. I must really be out of sorts if I am muttering to myself and telling you how to do your jobs. Well, I am the man on the Throne Mechanicum, telling people what to do when they don’t need it is one of my amusing privileges.” 

Unsurprisingly, my little comment falls completely flat.

I continue undeterred, “While I am gladdened by your trust in the other regiments and the sanctity of the church, we just faced an insidious enemy. Can all of you be sure that no one here is possessed or blames me for the destruction of their homes and the deaths of their loved ones? I know everyone’s vitals tend to spike when I pass, making your job harder, but do keep an eye out. Especially the Penitents and the locals.”

“Acknowledged Magos.”

I walk around the barricades and through the checkpoints. No one holds me up. A few Sororitas make the Sign of the Aquila when I pass. I reach the main doors, great steel contraptions that would look more at home on a bank. The door is bent and clawed, its surface marred by Warpfire. Above the door, formed within the ferrocrete lie the words:

Church of Saint Sanguinius the Martyr.

Sanguinius isn’t an Imperial Saint. He does look like one though with his wings and he did take a blow for the Emperor, so I can’t fault the builders for their interpretation of a dark, chaotic time.

A large statue stands either side of the door of an armoured and winged man. A sword is clasped in both of his hands and points straight down, the tip resting on the floor. The sword alone is as tall as I and my bodyguards are, putting the whole statue at seven metres high. They are untouched by the fighting, though the ferrocrete around them is riddled with bullets and lasfire.

Others may rush in and out through the side door, but I am important so I have to wait, giving the chance for others to indulge in pomp and ceremony, lest they fear they have insulted me and thus I might spurn them. The irony that lesser men do not queue is amusing as it is annoying. 

I find the experience meditative, my mind automatically snapping back to a state of observation and minimal thought, letting the world flow around me as if I were, for a moment, standing in the queue for the check out at the supermarket with Sasha, Gemma and Jamie, my long dead wife and kids from my first marriage. A small smile graces my face at the memory, even after all these years in the strange future I have found myself in.

Reminiscing about queuing? Even after all these years I am so British. My lips quirk into a small smile.

With the scream of crying cogs, the great doors of the church grind open, pulling me from my reverie.

I am greeted by Canoness Ephrine Stern and six Sisters Repentia, barefoot and dressed in rags. The Repentias’ bodies are littered with glue sealed wounds, both great and small, yet still they stand when they should be dead. Each sister holds an Eviscerator chainsword in two hands. Their two metre blades are held upright in front of their faces in a salute. The crude powerfield and inbuilt flamer in the handle make these weapons particularly fearsome. They are quite capable of tearing through power armour, vehicles, and mechs.

“Good day, Ephrine.” I offer my hand and she shakes it.

“Emperor’s blessings upon you Magos Issengrund. Why do you visit us?”

I gesture to the Repentia standing either side of Ephrine, “I have come to tend to the wounds of the faithful.”

A small tear appears in Ephrine’s eye, though it does not fall. “You remembered my wish.”

“Not just remembered. Will you escort me?”

“With pleasure!”

I send out my nanites in a near imperceptible cloud and into the bodies of the Repentia, letting the clever medichines, constructors, and many other types run through their programs, numbing the pain of these fanatical young women and dulling their sense of touch so that they do not feel their wounds healing.

We step inside the Church of Saint Sanguinius the Martyr. My bodyguards make room for all seven Sororitas within their cordon and two squads split up into fireteams of three to undertake their investigations. 

The interior of the church is split between a field hospital, barracks, armoury, and civilian shelter. 

The church is spartan, the stone roof held aloft with fused and carved chunks of asteroid, rough and glittering with metal ores. A single altar rests at the ‘east’ end, oriented towards the system’s star, Furibundus. Behind the altar are windows looking out into the void. Furibundus’ angry red light bathes the altar in an eerie, blood-like glow.

A three foot bronze cast Sanguinius, hovers above the altar, bobbing up and down ever so slightly.

No male over twelve is present within the church. There is no doubt a story behind that, but I do not question it.

Ephrine guides me to the field hospital tucked into the ‘north’ or left transept. The separation between the area is little more than walls of thin plasteel and flakweave, held in place by poorly welded frames, or hanging from lengths of wire and rope. Two Sororitas in power armour stand guard at the entrance while a team of Penitents sit at upturned crates, stacked high with parchment. 

The Penitents only have one data slate between the eight of them and seem more at home with a quill in hand than the rugged cogitators of the Stellar Fleet. The oldest among the Penitents holds the dataslate as he slowly dictates the content of each document into the dataslate, rather than just scan the document.

The Penitent freezes when I walk past and the dataslate starts spouting instructions on how to actually use the damn thing in an efficient manner. All eight Penitents immediately fall to their knees, praising the Omnissiah, as if the instructions I slipped into the Machine-Spirit were some kind of miracle. I hold back a sigh and don’t respond to their actions, content to let them have their moment.

Thank fuck I made sure you can talk to all the tech in the Stellar Fleet otherwise these ignorant clerks would knaw their thumbs off looking for the activation rune.

There is no privacy within the field hospital, it’s one big open space filled with cots. A small handful of individuals are resting in proper medical beds, borrowed from the Heralds’ supplies. The beds are filled with sensors, subtle life support, and a holoprojector, constantly displaying their condition. Most of the hospital beds are mattresses hauled from the surrounding buildings, propped up on the ever useful Mechanicus crates. A few individuals lie on blankets on the dirty floor.

“Magos, how would you like to proceed?” says Ephrine.

“Who’s to say I haven’t already begun?” I point at the Sister Repentia on my left. I doubt the girl is even fifteen yet, though she has the hidden injuries of a veteran and more obvious ones besides. Her older injuries, I suspect, were gained during training.

As everyone turns to look at her the bloody scars on her body fade. Her near naked rags tighten and reform into a proper tunic and surcoat, turning from grey and brown to pristine white. New cloth wraps around her feet and up her calves as if from thin air. A fleur de lis forms in black and gold stitching over her heart. Prayers are stitched around her sleeves in red. On her back I place the symbol of the Order of the Valorous Heart: an iron cross with a red heart in the centre, a ghost of a Human skull lurking within.

I hold back a laugh as I realise I just made a magical girl, or power rangers transformation sequence by accident. 

Above the symbol lies the name of her order and below the symbol the stitching declares her status: Repentia it reads, in jagged, high gothic script. The surcoat thickens as I skim small quantities of metals and ceramite from the nearest crates and turn the surcoat and foot wraps into flak weave. 

The sisters might call the surcoat armour, but I wouldn’t class it as such, even if it could hold back a stubber round at point blank or a sharp blade. As the clothes are a gift from me though, the young girl, as well as the other Repentia, who start pointing at each other and exclaiming as all their clothes shift too, won't be able to refuse their new uniform. 

The girl now has a chance of living long enough to redeem herself in her own eyes, just as Ephrine asked me to do, back at the party I held on Ardent Bane. Nor will I have to deal with the stupidity that will follow if I let half naked young girls run about the battlefield and through the corridors Imperial void ships, or the degenerate throngs of the lower deck crews. 

Thank the Emperor Alpia is yet to discover the rebellious thrill of clubbing! I will have to thank Brigid later for teaching my little girl how to dress, especially as she is four metres tall now. Short rags like this young Repentia was wearing would have been a disaster!

I don’t think the Sisters Repentia will notice the clothing is protective until they get in a scrap though. Nor did these women, empowered and blessed as they are, seem much inhibited by their injuries.

“Magos,” says Ephrine. “That was remarkable spell work and at a distance too. Not even a touch of frost. Still, I must protest the new uniform. You’ve gone and made it look appealing. That is the exact opposite of the effect I want!”

“Oh! I made sure it itches when they sweat. So if you want your Repentia to hate wearing it, or feel like they are being punished, just make them run. You can’t beat proper cardio for discipline. They are also heavy and hard to clean; you can make the Repentia clean their uniform by hand. They’re a fairly universal fit; by the time all your sisters have tried on these new glad rags, admired themselves for a few minutes, and experienced their discomfort, they will be far less interested. 

“Also, that was arcanotech, not a spell, though they are somewhat similar. I do not want to draw upon the Warp in a hospital unless there is an emergency. I think everyone in this hospital has had enough of crawling frost and a growing sense of doom for a lifetime.”

Ephrine clears her throat, “It appears I spoke too soon. You are even more than the man I hoped you would be. Seeing what the miracles of technology can do so that our order does not get tricked again is exactly what I wanted.”

I wave off her compliment, “We had an agreement. Show me the most critical patients and we will start from there.” 

I have already scanned and diagnosed everyone as well as cross examined my scans with the files in the noosphere, but this is not my space, even if I am nominally in charge. My interactions with Ephrine and the Sororitas will go far smoother if I let Ephrine feel useful and in control of the safe space she has carved for herself with the blood and tears of her sisters. Hopefully she will have forgotten my small deception by the time she has implants of her own.

We move through the hospital and wherever I walk, the injured heal, their clothes mend, and every object turns clean and shiny. I speak a brief prayer with each person I heal and bless them, though I do not call on the Emperor for a light show. Behind me form rows of people kneeling by their beds, healed and hale, reciting the prayers they are most familiar with.

Ephrine looks increasingly shell shocked, which is saying something for a Sororitas, and the Repentia stand a little straighter, their faces twitching as they try to hold their stern expressions.

Rather than leave everyone staring in silence, unsure what to say. I strike up a conversation as I move between patients, asking each Repentia their name, where they have come from, and what drew them to the Order of the Valorous Heart. I do not ask why they have joined the Repentia, as that would be a terrible social fumble, though I am curious.

After three hours, I have cleared out the field hospital and Ephrine invites me to the command tent for some recaf and nutrient wafers. I accept the invitation, decline the food, and accept the drink.

I ignore the bubbling worry as my depleted Warp batteries declare I am down to emergency power and have barely six minutes remaining at full performance should I be attacked. I will have to spend time meditating when I return to Emil’s cruiser to recharge them.

Ephrine sits opposite me. A single Warforged stands behind me and four armoured sisters guard the door. A half dozen sisters sit in front of cogitator systems, directing patrols or performing administrative duties. The Repentia have been dismissed.

Content to sip at my rather metallic hot drink from a dinky, battered metal cup, I let Ephrine gather her thoughts. Eventually she puts down her cup and looks me in the eyes.

“Thank you, Magos Issengrund.”

There’s an awful lot of thank yous going on today. It is rather pleasant. 

“You have fought for me and protected the people of Footfall,” I say. “So long as you continue to help others, I will be there to help you.”

Ephrine beams. I spot the other sisters eyeing us, their work slowing to a crawl. Only the woman on the coms remains focused as she speaks quietly into the vox.

“I know you have done much to help us,” says Ephrine. “I do, however, have a small request.”

“You can ask.”