The internal problem of the Adeptus Mechanicus had by chance become a problem for all the forces of the Eleventh Legion. The Magos demanded respect for the traditions and laws of Mars, referring to tomes where the rules were written in blood. The Knight pilots demanded improvements and the right to decide for themselves what their Machines needed. This conflict was not resolved and extremely dangerous arguments were already being used, such as the possibility of depriving the Knight House of Camelot of contacts with Mars.
The arguments continued, the Imperial Army officers remained mostly neutral, the Space Marine captains tried unsuccessfully to calm the parties and buy time until the arrival of the Primarch, who, as always, was absent from the bridge and was on the ship of another Legion. However, the more time passed, the higher the probability that any moment one of the sides would say a word or issue an ultimatum, which would be the starting point of the worst-case scenario.
Well, I and my new engineers have already modified the Knight under the cover of the noise. Moreover, I wasn't planning on converting my spearman into heavy artillery, just a couple of bolt guns and a smoke screen. It's just a modification that wasn't worth worrying about so much.
Although it was also worth understanding the position of the Magos. In the army, each unit performed its own task. My Knight had to crush strong enemies. Not small infantry, not cover positions with smoke for a breakthrough, but only go forward and strike with a spear. Other units dealt with the infantry. Everyone had to think only about their own task, giving up potential versatility for the sake of reliability and solidity.
Because as soon as more opportunities appeared, more tasks appeared. And it was hard enough for the pilots, to split their attention on so many details... no, pilots are not Astartes or Primarchs. If you load them like that, then their efficiency may drop. One task - one Knight. It was always like that, it worked and therefore the Magos did not understand why the pilots were trying to make changes.
"We're not really that conservative," said Kiral, perfectly understanding what I was thinking.
The Tech-Priest was busy with all three of his arms, taking apart one bolter after another to assemble the necessary parts for a new masterpiece. He and I stood at the foot of the repair bay, where the Knight was moved when it was particularly badly damaged. More often than not, the engineers simply dragged their equipment around the main hall, passing along all the Knights.
However, if Kiral and Larik took on a task, they always tried to find a more secluded place so that no one would see them and ask unnecessary questions.
"In the name of the Emperor, the herald of the Machine God, the great Omnissiah, all the higher powers, please don't break down and ask the spirit of the Machine to fix my toaster," Kiral muttered something to himself, grabbing a magnetic hook with a cable attached to the ceiling with his manipulator, in order to hook a bolter-cannon of his own making.
- No-o-o, Kiral, we can't figure this out without a bottle! - Larik's voice rang out, leaning out of the pilot's cabin. - Send a servitor to my cabin, ask him to take secret boxes number nine and number seven.
Kiral muttered something in binary, perhaps it was a curse, but one way or another one of the servitors hobbled towards the cabins.
"What kind of secret boxes are these? Xenos technology?" I asked, kind of jokingly, but kind of not.
- Amasek and snacks. That damn drunk never works sober, - Kiral continued to complain, carefully examining the part removed from the heavy bolter. - What a pathetic bolt handle. On the other hand, it takes much less steel, and Space Marines can use it just fine with their strength. But mere mortals use bolters too, and the bolt handle is almost universally adjusted to the same standard. Can you imagine, Mordred, how much shit you have to take to implement a new model of bolt handle when it has already taken root in all the forces of the Imperium?
- Yes, I can imagine.
— No, you have no idea. Just like how many problems this will cause. The parts are made by Mars so that they are interchangeable. If we start implementing a new handle now, there will be nothing to replace it with. Just like the number of replacements for old bolters will be eliminated. And this is despite the fact that we are only changing one handle, but imagine if it is a bolter model? Logisticians will clutch their heads, supply efficiency will drop by tens of percent, and all this for the sake of convenience of pulling the bolt? Ridiculous. That is why our magos does not like to change anything, just like Mars closely monitors every innovation that may not be so good, because the simplicity of this handle and the cheapness of its production justify any inconvenience.
"Kiral, shut up and get to work!" came a shout from the cockpit. "Mordred doesn't give a shit about your pens, he wants two bolt guns for the next battle, a smoke screen, and a minibar!"
- What?! - I thought I misheard.
- I say, two bolt guns and a smoke screen!
— And the minibar?!
— I'm installing it right now! There's enough space! The Machine Spirit has also approved everything!
"Did you ask him, asshole?!" Kiral exclaimed with displeasure, starting to melt down the bolt handle.
- Of course!
I decided to slowly retreat, after which I went to the upper deck dining room. By the way, there were so many people on this ship that the ship could actually be compared to a city. And if the landing force also landed on planets, then some crew members lived and were born on the ship. In turn, this built a special hierarchy in the manner of a city.
There were slums, there were elite quarters in the role of the upper deck, there were just ordinary compartments. So on the upper deck there was a place reserved for the lodge. Meetings were rare, as a rule, in the presence of the head or deputy of the lodge, although in fact their place could be occupied by both the primarch and the recognized and respected astartes. A couple of times, ordinary mortals were allowed to speak, but still under the strict control of the space marines. Ordinary people themselves could not organize a meeting of the lodge, but they had the right to come here and relax.
Also, the lodge was still a rather secret place, not exactly a state secret, because in fact everyone on the ship knew about its existence one way or another, and other legions too. However, they didn't let just anyone in, and that's why I was extremely surprised when, sitting down at my favorite table, I saw that Heraldry was already sitting there, having dragged along a bunch of scrolls, books, ink and, of course, an automatic pen.
However, I had no intention of changing the table. I sat at it every dinner, played here with Regicide, and although it was not mine personally, it was still the same.
"Cough-cough," I cleared my throat, sitting down opposite Herald.
"Oh, Mordred, do you come here too?" said a rather young girl, who had miraculously managed to take part in the Crusade as a chronicler, kindly.
- Who let you in here?
— Kairos.
— Did the head of the lodge let you in ?
"I don't really like your tone," Herald narrowed her eyes, putting down her writing utensils. "Do you want to say something?"
"You have a loose tongue and they call you the main gossip on the ship," I stated bluntly, not intending to look away or back down.
"You might as well tell me that I can't keep a secret," Herald grinned and burst into laughter.
- That's what I said. And you're a chronicler to boot! It's better for the Imperium not to know what goes on in places like these.
— It seems Kairos thinks differently.
This statement made my jaw clench. And yet I refused to believe that Kairos had deliberately called the Heraldry here so that it could gather all the information and send it to Terra. After all, rumors are rumors, but in all likelihood the Emperor was already on his way to us and Moiran had a very difficult conversation with the Father ahead of him. Therefore, the existence of the lodge would have to be hidden, as would any deviation from the Emperor's mandate. Or there would be trouble.
On the other hand, I quickly calmed down, because I realized one more thing. Everyone knew Herald's love of fantasy and embellishment. Few took her words seriously, so the fact of her presence did not pose much of a threat. But the lack of a threat was not a sufficient reason for an invitation. Which meant that Kairos and the lodge were pursuing some goal.
Perhaps Heraldry could give something to the lodge or a specific member, because random mortals were not invited here and everyone was useful, even the silent Adam, who gave only one piece of advice during his time here and still changed someone's fate, probably for the better. So the selection of candidates was not that strict. But still... to invite a chronicler...
"How long have you been compiling the chronicle?" Birdie suddenly appeared in reality, her rainbow plumage shining much brighter due to the warp transition.
"I'll go get something to eat," I said and left, leaving Birdie with Heraldry.
- Oh, how cute! - Herald exclaimed, enchanted, completely forgetting about all other matters. - And it can talk too! I've seen all sorts of warp anomalies before, as I was present at the training of psykers, but this is the first time I've seen something like this. What's your name?
— I was the first to ask the question.
"Indeed," agreed Herald, remembering her manners. "In fact, not so long ago, a little less than fifty years."
At about this moment, I almost dropped the ladle while pouring myself some soup. The entire dialogue was transmitted by Birdie directly to my brain, so I heard everything even when I was quite far away. However, after the statement about fifty years, I was surprised. And to this it was worth adding the fact that Herald did not immediately become a chronicler upon birth. So she could have been my grandmother or even my great-grandmother. And with all this, she looked extremely young, well, twenty-five at most. Well preserved, nothing to say, although it is more likely due to rejuvenation procedures.
- Wow, you've been in this world for so long. And you can tell a lot, because you accumulated experience and knowledge much faster, thanks to your profession, - after these words, Birdie's interest increased tenfold, which is why she jumped on Herald's shoulder. - My name is Nadezhda. Although I am not a chronicler, I like to learn everything. Will you tell me about yourself? Where are you from? How did you become a chronicler? What is your favorite dish? Was there one star in your home system? And what color are the trees on your planet?
"So many questions and they're all so funny," Herald smiled sadly, stroking the Birdie, who was already quite accustomed to people.
- Why?
— Usually I am asked about how much I earn, whether I have a husband, what successes I have achieved and how my career is going. I don't even remember anyone asking about my favorite dish, much less asking about such an insignificant detail as the color of the trees on the planet where I spent the least part of my life.
- Insignificant? I think the answers to these questions will allow me to learn much more about you than how much you earned.
"I see you're getting along well, that's great," I said, returning to the table and starting to devour the main course first, leaving the soup for later, because only I had power over my fate and only I decided in what order I would eat my dinner. "By the way, I would also like to hear this story. You already know everything about me after the interview."
- What is there to tell? Nothing particularly interesting, - Herald shrugged, slightly dejected. - We come from Vostroya, it's a world, segmentum Obscurus, much closer to us than Terra. An industrial world, technically independent, but in fact very closely connected to Mars. We are something like their resource base. They work here almost around the clock, toil like hell, the mortality rate in some workshops is higher than in some battles. Life is hard, but where is it easy, right?
— Yes, workers have always had and will have it hard, and their standard of living will depend solely on the maximum ratio of profit and efficiency. Perhaps technical progress can make their lives easier, but... in general, they will always receive little, feeding only on handouts from the powerful, who over time make this or that invention available to everyone, and they themselves begin to use something even better.
- Yeah, you understand that perfectly well, you're a nobleman yourself, - Herald said with a slight complaint in her voice, but quickly corrected herself: - Although not like everyone else, and your fate is not the most enviable either. Although Camelot is far from Vostroya in terms of exploitation of workers. It's total darkness there... by the way, there are no trees, the world is industrial. Acid rain is the norm. Mutations at the lower levels are the basis, and the average life expectancy of forty-five years is the basis of a strong economy. Although the population is still growing, increasing the capacity of the workshops. By the way, it is from Vostroya that the main supplies for our fleet now come.
- Wow, I didn't know that.
- Yes, all thanks to the fact that Moiran visited her not long ago and helped solve some problems.
- A-a-a, not so long ago, I suppose, at least half a century?
- Ha, right, - Herald smiled. - It's just that when you study history, such periods of time begin to be perceived as fleeting. A century or two, what is that for a chronicle? Just one page, and sometimes a paragraph or a word. Anyway, by the will of fate, I managed to catch the eye of the captain of the seventh company, after which Moiran somehow became interested in me and decided to take me on as a chronicler.
"You're not telling me something," I narrowed my eyes, feeling like they were trying to deceive me, but Heraldry had apparently never learned to lie in her entire life. "Spill the beans."
- Well-l-l... well... how can I say...
"God, you're acting like a virgin," I rolled my eyes, not understanding why such a grown woman, even if outwardly young, could be so embarrassed about something.
— You see, the primarch is a majestic figure, and I was young then... well, anyway... I wrote him a love confession on two scrolls.
I choked on my food out of surprise and started coughing, trying to fight the urge to laugh like a horse, because laughing with a piece of food in my throat could kill me. I probably had never been so close to death in my life in Mordred's body, but as befits a servant of the Emperor, I overcame it on my last breath, when my diaphragm contracted to the point of pain, releasing almost all the air, and was able to cough up the stuck food and then laughed like a horse.
- Ha-ha-ha! - I couldn't help but slap the table, after which I doubled over from the pain in my chest: my muscles were hurting like crazy after coughing. - So... what did he answer?
"I don't remember anymore," Herald answered, blushing and looking away. "And stop laughing, I've opened my soul to you!"
- You are three times older than me and still blushing over such an old incident, like a little girl. It is impossible not to laugh. But excuse me, I will not pick on you any more. Anything can happen, life is a complicated and incomprehensible thing. I have seen both grandmothers in whom life was in full swing and children who seemed to have centuries of hard life on them. Everything is determined not by age, but by life experience, which depends on events. A child who has lost his parents and seen the ruins of his own home will not look at the world as positively as a noblewoman raised in a golden cage, who was poked at every desire all her life.
- Did you just casually call me a child?
- No, I'm simply amazed by your... um... sensitivity?
— I can hit too.
"Don't be angry, take my dessert if you want," I offered conciliatorily and moved the plate with a piece of pie towards Heraldry.
"You think you can buy me with food?" Herald asked, squinting. "You're damn right."
And it seemed that nothing could disturb such a peaceful and calm picture. Life went on as usual, but the worst thing that could be done in the darkness of the distant future was to relax. After all, that was all the Archenemy was waiting for. And so the crew's headlines were replaced by screams and moans that filled all the decks.
"The Geller Fields," Herald whispered in horror and jumped up, after which an incredible cry of pain burst from her mouth, forcing the chronicler to grab his hair and fall to the floor, continuing to howl like a wounded animal.
I felt the air temperature instantly drop by twenty degrees, and the Bird that had flown away from Heraldry at the moment of its fall landed and looked at me with a look full of Chaos. Then a voice was heard that drowned out all other sounds:
— Revenge is a dish best served cold. When you take the spoils of the Dark Prince, be prepared for the Dark Prince to take everything from you, even your soul.
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