My three boys, in their new navy uniforms, and Alpia, in her Psy-Errant uniform, greet the guests as they stride into Ardent Bane’s banquet hall. The hall has been repaired and redecorated slightly since it got shot up by Eldar clowns.

  The themed sectors, Scintilla, Terra, Cretacia, Port Maw, and Vostroya remain. The tapestries have been removed as they were unnecessarily raunchy and the holographic art displays have had their contents updated, replacing everything with Mechanicus and Stellar Fleet themes.

  Flowers, fruits, and live fish bob about in great tanks, taken from our many gardens, filling the vast hall with flashes of colour. Above us, on the reversed gravity ceiling, a large band and a quartet of male singers cycle through void ship shanties, dirges to the Machine-God, and work songs.

  The large square feasting tables have been set aside and replaced with smaller, more intimate round tables. Set throughout the halls are displays of the Stellar Fleet’s products. Rather than the dull displays of an expo, arms and armour are worn and held by Servitors who go through set motions firing low powered shots at holographic enemies. Other displays have mechanical goods with glass cutaways so that one can see them running, or gawk at their cogitators.

  Brigid fusses over my clothing: a black frock coat with dark red trim, a black, silver embroidered waistcoat, grey trousers, and navy shirt while we wait, hidden by a pillar.

  I pull Brigid into my arms to still her busy hands and bring an end to her fussing.

  “I look great, Brigid, and it’s all thanks to you. The clothing you made for this evening is perfect. The kids look all grown up in their tailored uniforms and your dark red and black Antoinette style dress has just the right amount of flair. You look neither like a bell or a comedic balloon.” I lean down and whisper in her ear, “I absolutely love your proportions.”

  That, at last, gets a snort out of Brigid, “Don’t make me laugh, Aldrich, I’ll ruin my make-up.”

  “It’s water resistant and needs a specially formulated cleaner to remove.”

  “Oh, let me be dramatic for a moment, you pedantic curmudgeon. I’m having fun playing the useless damsel. I expect you to rescue me from the droning of ill-mannered guests.”

  I grin, “I can manage that.”

  “Good. This is our first cross-faction event that we’ve held and I want us to show off as much as possible. I’m tired of everyone questioning us. Hiding our teeth has its merits, but we need all these twerps to see what they can have, and what they’ll be facing, be they cooperative or belligerent.”

  “That’s the plan!”

  “They’d better all turn up,” mutter’s Brigid.

  “All the chartist captains and their senior officers are already here, we’re just waiting on the major players now, like Lyre, Calligos, and Chaplain Riordan from the Barghests. Thalk is already here chatting with the Lathe’s delegation by our cut out of the Class one D-POT. Ephrine is getting her implants buffed out and resealed by one of her sisters and a Servitor in a side room as it almost leaked oil onto her robes.”

  “Urgh, I really don’t like the Bolter Bitches. Every time they look at you they’re racked with indecision, trying to choose between jumping you with a boltgun or a bottle of sacred oil.”

  “It’s no different to the Iron Foundation.”

  “Ròsìn is a dear friend and for all her years, is more like a young Cyber Mastiff than a social climber. Fierce, loyal, and entirely too free with her mechadendrites when probing other people’s true flesh, but quite harmless. The Iron Foundation, that Ròsìn pretends that she doesn’t lead with Alpia, just want to follow in your footsteps, bringing knowledge and enlightenment to all. I am proud that you are an inspiration to so many people and have not wavered in your commitment to do good and lead by example.”

  I smile and kiss Brigid’s cheek, “Thank you, Love, that is wonderful to hear.”

  Brigid pats my chest and continues, “The Adepta Sororitas are an order of virgin battle nuns who, the moment you are forced to call upon the Emperor, are going to insist on guarding you at all times. I trust you Aldrich, but if I was going to be followed about by a bunch of oiled up Custodes, clad in shiny muscle armour, who answer my every whim, you’d at least be irked, right?”

  I laugh, “I would!”

  “Well, that’s how I feel about it. I can’t even insist you send them away because they are a powerful political and military force for us to call upon. One that will protect you to their last breath. You can’t buy loyalty like that.”

  “I’ll see if I can get them to guard you and Alpia as well, and rotate often,” I say. “You and Alpia can befriend a few of them. I’m sure that will help you find common ground and take the sting out of their presence.”

  “Hm, yes. Do that,” says Brigid.

  “Has the integration of our administration within our new vessels and space station calmed down yet?” I say. “You’ve looked a bit less frazzled the last couple of weeks.”

  “Not really, I have now expanded my administration sufficiently though, so it is getting easier. Slowly. Loncenta and Maeve have a good handle on security at least. We already replaced the lost penal regiment and we’re starting to correct the poor health and education of the menials on Torchbearer and Ardent Bane. It will be many years before they can go through conscription and enhancement, but the voidsmen on those two vessels are finally being properly integrated.”

  “To be expected,” I say. “It’s good that you are prioritising.”

  Brigid leans against me and murmurs, “The Receiving Yards are going through some upheaval as we replace their assorted currencies and act as money changers between the visiting crews. This is building a reserve of foreign currencies for our journey. It’s mostly Navy Scrip, Administratum Promissory Notes, and Throne Gelts.

  “Fixing up the station’s menials and mutants has proven equally problematic. The main issue is that people hide from us. No one wants to better themselves because they think it is some trick, or a noble's plot, that will cost them what little freedom they have.”

  “Throne that’s depressing,” I say.

  “It is,” Brigid sighs. “We aren’t pushing too hard and are focusing on our vessels and their crew while Owen slowly works on the station population with community programs and services, gradually altering their expectations and sense of self-worth. This place is a real shit-hole Aldrich and I’m glad that I get to come with you. I don’t think I could care for them like Eire and Owen do. Numbers yes. People no. I just don’t have the patience for the illogical, fearful choices of the downtrodden.”

  “I think you’re not giving yourself enough credit, Love,” I say. “Money makes the world go round and you’re the one spinning the globe. Without your steady hand, we’d all fall down.”

  Brigid squeezes my hand, “That’s sweet of you. It looks like everyone’s here. Are you ready?”

  “I am,” I hold my arm out to Brigid and she rests her hand on my elbow. “Together?”

  “Always.”

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  We step out onto a small stage. The music stops, the lights dim, and a spotlight falls on Brigid and I.

  “Welcome, guests, to Ardent Bane. I am Magos Aldrich Issengrund.”

  “I am Chief Purser Brigid Issengrund. We have a couple of events for you tonight as well as good food and fine music. My husband is going to start the evening with a small technical display. I have been told he intends to give you all a good scare, but I am confident we are all of sufficient courage to fend off his antics.”

  The crowd smiles and there are a few laughs.

  I say, “With that endorsement ringing in my ears, I am pleased to present the efforts of Talliel-Iota-5, the Enginseer Prime on Inquisitor Hamiz’s flagship, Petitor Veritas. His research into Luminen Technology, that he graciously shared with me, has made it possible to spice up the banquet hall’s holograms and give them a little more substance.

  “I am pleased with this minor merging of a well known Mechanicus display technology and the speciality of our guests from the Lathes, but that isn’t what tonight is about.”

  Brigid says, “Quite right. Tonight we hold this celebration in support of the Barghest Chapter and the Order of the Valorous Heart who, even as we speak, are purging the Zombie Plague festering with the Receiving Yards. We hope that by the end of my husband’s technological demonstration everyone here will have a thorough understanding of what these outstanding warriors are doing to keep us all safe from the predators of the Immaterium and their mortal slaves.”

  “However,” I say, “Mighty as they are, these warriors cannot stand alone. It is up to us to support them without hesitation or expectations of glory and I have gifts for you all to help you perform the duties the Imperium expects of its most competent captains and leaders. Before we get to that though, let the show begin!”

  Our spotlight dims and emergency red lighting comes on. Brigid and I step off the stage. The heavy thud of power armour comes from precisely placed speakers. Carbon dioxide mist swirls across the stage and a tactical squad of five holographic Space Marines fades into view, followed by eight Adepta Sororitas and two Cyber Mastiffs. The hologram is highly realistic and solid enough that the mist swirls around their feet rather than through them.

  The scenery builds up around the warriors: a long, rusted corridor filled with tangled wires, missing panels, and broken Servitor frames, carelessly stripped for rotting cybernetics. Each of the dogs carry a large package.

  As they walk, staying in position on the stage the scenery moves around them, giving a fair impression of them walking forward. One of the Astartes arrives at the door. Stale damp air is blown across the audience making them shiver and grimace.

  I say over the vox caster, “This is a recorded action of a joint operation by the Astartes and Sororitas that took place yesterday, slightly modified to fit the banquet hall. The packages carried by the Cyber Mastiffs are atomic weapons designed to release a micro gamma-ray burst that will irradiate the hulls and corridors of these old vessels with sufficient intensity to ensure no reanimated organic tissue or hellish spores can survive.

  “Ironically, the infected individuals will necrotise further, turning non-functional and their infection rendered inert. The radiation won’t stick around, so for now these warriors are only placing the bombs and they will all be detonated simultaneously once they’ve been placed in each vessel. After detonation, the Receiving Yards will be open to salvage once again.”

  The Astartes opens the door. Beyond is a shanty town, built around the once mighty fusion reactors of the genetorium. It’s absolutely filled with Plague Zombies, and corrupted Servitors. The zombies shuffle about the town, stumbling in and out of buildings and climbing twisted ladders with jerky, broken motions.

  As one, all the zombies turn towards the intruders, their eyes red and yellow eyes glowing with hungry malice. The Sororitas kneel and start laying down purifying flames and precise bolter fire while the marines fire over them. One marine steps to the side and advances to the left flank of the sisters, a heavy bolter held firmly in both hands.

  A long burst sweeps across the incoming horde, detonating the front ranks and cutting everything behind them in half. The enemies continue regardless of the carnage, running through bolter and flame to get to grips with the warriors, their numbers swelling in the background as more and more Zombies pour from the ramshackle structures and pop out of the stripped walls.

  The Astartes open a gap in their lines and the Sororitas start retreating one by one, tapping the shoulders of the Astartes as they pass. Each time a Sororitas passes an Astartes, the Astartes’ boltgun glow for a brief moment with a golden radiance. The blessed bolts slam into the reanimated dead, golden light rippling outwards on contact. As the light passes through the Zombies, they collapse into dust, each bolt clearing a six metre sphere of infected corpses. It’s not enough though. There are still far more Zombies than there are bolts.

  There are several gasps in the audience at this remarkable show of faith and coordination and many guests make the sign of the Aquila. The holographic Sororitas run past the guests, dodging around them and leaping over the tables. As they move past the guests, they reach out and tap the guests too. I time a series of blessings, filling the guests with unshakable confidence and focused calm each time a Sororitas taps them. The murmurs cut off and a quiet awe fills the hall.

  My altered holograms mean my guests actually feel a light touch as the Sororitas holograms ‘bless’ them. Once the Soroitas reach the door of the hall, they turn around and form a line. The Astartes peel off and stick to the walls as they retreat from the horde with the Cyber Mastiffs. The final Astartes triggers the door to the shanty town. It closes a quarter of the way before Zombies hurl themselves into the mechanisms, gunking them up. It shouldn’t be possible with the weight and design of the door, but they manage it anyway.

  Supporting the Astartes retreat, the Sororitas pick off the Zombies who mostly swarm around the guests without touching them. The occasional Zombie attempts to bite a guest only to be slain by the chainswords of the passing marines, or the covering fire from the Sororitas. The guests do not flinch, their courage bolstered by the miracles of the Emperor and the knowledge that this is just a show.

  The door to the hall opens and the Sororitas and Astartes withdraw successfully. Once they are gone, the hall lightens and the overwhelming horde batters at the door as it fades away.

  The hall is silent save for the quiet russell of jackets and dresses. The light of the Emperor fades and the guests sag almost imperceptibly.

  I step back onto the stage, “I hope you all enjoyed the might of the Astartes and the miracles of the Sororitas. I’m sure some of you are wondering why the warriors of the Emperor retreated from its worst foes, but I will remind you that their objective was not to purge the Great Enemy but to find a secure location to hide the bombs. In this task they were successful and returned triumphant with only minor injuries from the frenetic combat. Their protective armours remained unbreached and they returned to the battlefield after only six hours of rest.

  “These warriors will be repeating this task for the next five to seven months, as will many other joint teams, not only placing bombs, but carefully draining liquids and jettisoning Warp cores so that the bombs can be triggered without causing secondary explosions and sending radioactive scrap hurtling through the void.”

  “As you renew your faith in the Emperor, I want you to think about how you can provide for his finest warriors and faithful shields. To aid you I am gifting each vessel a single micro-factory. These are limited Standard Template Constructors. Do not confuse these with Standard Template Constructs. So long as you feed your micro-factory with the right resources and data, such as the micro gamma-ray burst STC I’ll be including, they can build anything.

  “They’re slower than traditional manufacturing and assembly and consume significantly more power; these micro-factories demand more space to reach production quotas. In an environment such as a void ship or station, where space and power are fairly limited, I find myself without the room to ramp up the production required to produce the bombs and ammo the warriors of the Emperor require for their campaign.”

  While my evaluation is truthful, the rest of my statement is a lie; I could easily supply the Sororitas and Astartes but I don’t want to spend resources and labour if I don’t have to when I have so many other projects. I also want to pull everyone together into a common cause by giving them a reason to invest in the conflict.

  Right now, the Plague Zombies are someone else's problem, my problem, so everyone is bitching and gumming up my administration with petty complaints. With the micro-factory in play it makes the campaign the problem of all these idle chartist captains. Not only will they thank me for the ‘honour’ but they’ll have a riot on their hands from their Tech-Priests if they don’t do absolutely everything they can to secure the micro-factory.

  One could argue I’m giving away too much, but I don’t think so as I intend to sell the STC for the micro-factories to the Lathes in a few months. I’m also deliberately not providing the maintenance STC for the micro-factory, let alone the manufacturing or engineering one. They’re moderately self repairing, so as long as they don’t do anything stupid with them, they won’t need the STC and the Mechanicus delegation shouldn’t feel too slighted.

  I continue, “So long as you keep the peace, meet your quota of bombs and other supplies, and do not run away, the micro-factory will be yours to keep. If you attempt to leave before the campaign ends your vessels will be seized. If this proves impossible, your vessel will be destroyed by SR-651’s two hundred odd macro-batteries. Attempting to disassemble the micro-factory out of curiosity will result in a large hole in your ship. Do not tamper with them until you leave the system. After you leave, the anti-tamper mechanisms will be disabled. This is the only warning you will receive.

  “We will now move on to the next portion of the evening, food, mingling, and music. In two hours we will take a break for another announcement after which the official part of the evening will be over, though you are free to remain and enjoy our hospitality until the end of the next watch in nine hours.”

  I step down from the stage and the hall immediately bursts into loud conversation.

  Warhammer 40k Lexicanum, , and . I've also enjoyed opinion pieces such as: , The via Gamespot, and . While not strictly 40k, they are good for inspiration and IRL explanations.