7 Days Later....

“He cannot STILL be sulking?” Camilla demanded as she lounged in her command throne. The dozens of bridge stations were empty, save for where gilded servitors in the form of gleaming armored footmen. The words echoed around the cavernous space, utilizing the excellent acoustics designed to carry the captain’s words to the bridge crew during the chaos of a battle. Camilla’s words were tinged with nearly seven days without more than a few hours sleep. She had been on the bridge nearly every hour, not because she was a hard task master but because she was the only one with the right plugs to interface with the Navarre. Jocasta had performed on the fly modifications to her own implants that Camilla suspected would border on heretechial if any of her cults higher members ever learned of them in an attempt to help but even this only allowed her to access some system. They needed bridge officers immediately, so that was their first stop.

“I’m sure he is merely busy with his duties as Seneshal,” Jocasta replied soothingly. Camilla snorted and tossed her hair in disdain at that suggestion.

“As my Seneshal he should be on the bridge when….” Reality lurched violently as the Navarre burst back into real space, twenty seconds ahead of the chronometers. Jocasta let out a stream of binaric that Camilla was pretty sure was entirely curse words and leaped to her feet, immediately close hangering herself because she hadn’t properly disconnected her implats. Trailing sparks and more colorful curses she began running around the bridge furiously swinging a censor of lit incense and splashing sacred unquents in all directions.

“Lord Captain, we have exited the Immaterium,” the cultured voice of Chandra, her navigator informed her.

“I see that,” Camilla responded tartly as she touched the controls to begin withdrawing the great shields which protected the bridge from gazing into the horror of the warp. The vast sheets slid back slowly, the leading edge still trailing the liquor of the warp in long greenish gold tendrils from which Camilla averted her eyes. In the distance she could just make out the pale green dot that was her target, a bright star against an endless starfield.

“Why were we early?” she demanded. For a moment she didn’t think Chandra was going to answer her, the Navis Nobilitie were a close mouthed lot at the best of time.

“We are never early, nor are we late, we arrive precisely as the Emperor wills,” Chandra replied.

“Very helpful,” Camilla retorted as she cut the vox link.
“Cam… that is Captain,” Jocasta broke in as she stared over the shoulder of a warbling servitor. “We have two vessels bearing down on us, range….uhhh 1.5 million kilometerish. Camilla cocked an eyebrow at kilmoterish but stood from her throne and stepped down into the shimmering actuality sphere, placing her hands on the lectern. A three dimensional view of the space around them sprang into existence, locating the nearby planet and the approaching ships. They were a Sword class destroyer and what looked like a half rebuilt cobra class corvette. The destroyer was flying the name Provost, and the corvette Hound of Perdition.

“Unidentified vessel this is the Imperial Navy Vessel Provost,” a scratchy voice piped into her ears. “Heave to and prepare to be boarded!” Camilla felt her frustration surge up inside of her like bile. She adjusted the engines and the Navarre began to heel to port, moving out of their intercept triangle onto a reciprocal course with Provost.

“Jocasta dear, be so good as to drag my Seneshal up here so that he might announce me before I teach these peasants a lesson?”

"Open it."

The electric-pneumatic tools whirred loudly as the crewmen meticulously opened the crates one by one, the decades, if not centuries of dust particles and dead air stung the nostrils. The stench of idle rust permeated the confined space. Servitors were finishing the last of the excavation from the old quarter, placing the final container down next to the others. Alcander breathed through the cloth he had managed to find, eschewing the bulky re-breather he had been offered thrice by the voidsmen he'd requisitioned for the payload. Beside him stood Blegywryd, a guide and suspected psyker of some skill but ill-repute, having fallen out of favor from the de Trantio two generations ago from a "misunderstanding" with Lord Captain Mondego de Trantio. Alcander hadn't asked, he didn't really care.

The past four days, he had busied himself by delving into the bowels of the Navarre, getting accustomed to the sounds and ways of the ship. He had an inkling there might be some pockets of resistance still left, but his main goal was to merely grow used to the idea of being a seneschal to such a powerful lady of the Imperium, no matter how much he was currently pissed at her. Old habits took hold, and before he knew it, he found a few imperfections in the current maps, which led to passageways not seen in decades, and some locals who pointed him in the direction of Blegywyrd's hut in the habs where the Navarre's refuse found its home. Using his authority, he'd gnabbed a small force to follow him. With some quick detective work, and a will, they had uncovered a small vault.

A voidsman flinched back as the first ancient crate popped open a hair's breadth. The other patted the top of the crate, and on the count of three, both men hauled the opening back, accompanied by cracks of old steel hinges. The crate's top hit the ground like a small anvil, and Alcander gave out a sultry, appreciative whistle. It was quickly followed by a laugh of incredulity and disbelief.

Blegywyrd nodded in satisfaction as Alcander hopped down into the vault and took a closer look at the archeo-tech. It was a melta-drill, perfectly preserved. An ancient, almost forgotten tool, remarkably efficient. Its original design was pieced together from fragmented archeotech descriptions of an attempt to create a melta melee weapon. The result is a device capable of continuous, short-ranged, thermal melta energy emissions, permanently connected to a hefty, backpack-mounted energy source. It was excellent for fast, reasonably safe excavation into all but the hardest of materials. Almost invaluable, despite himself he swelled with pride at the discovering. He felt a hand clap his shoulder, and glance to see the captain of the local void militarus, Rankos Vos, beam at the discovery.

"The lady will be proud." Vos said.

"M' reasen fer livin'," Alcander remarked, not advertising the sardonicism in the comment. A the crates continued to open, they began to realize it was a small collection of the devices. Forty in all, with fresh power packs. Any rogue trader would see it as a moderate boon, and the smaller traders would be set for life. Just as Alcander was about to direct the servitors where to take them, he received static on his comm.

"Terra to detective grumpy bones, come in." Jocasta's familiar voice pipped in. He tried to respond, but it was clear she had redirected the signal to reach him through other channels, making it a one way street. "Your presence is being requested on the bridge by our leader. We've left the warp and made contact. See you in a few, hotshot."

He ran a hand along the melta-drill's archaic ceramite skin, appreciating the discovery for a moment longer before he rushed away, leaving it in Vos's capable hands.

"Navarre, break off at once or we will be forced to fire upon you," the communication servitor grated, relaying the transmission from the approaching destroyer, complete with an attempt to render a static crackle with a human voice box. Camilla stood with her arms spread to manipulate the holographic inlays of the actuality sphere. The Hound of Perdition was boosting hard to close the distance, coming in from above and to starboard.

"They are powering up their lances," Jocasta reported, running back and forth between consoles to furiously tap out commands.

"Light the void shields and inform Jagermeister Caldwell to prepare his wing to launch," Camilla responded, twisting slowly to roll the Navarre onto her side so she could present her port weapon batteries towards the onrushing destroyer. The ventral and dorsal lances would also bear which reserved the starboard batteries for the corvette. Despite the numerical advantage the Navarre was an older, larger, and more powerful vessel which went someway to evening the odds. Unfortunately the lack of bridge crew meant that her fighting efficiency was severely compromised.

"Terra to Camilla, you could try to talk to them!" Jocasta called.

"I can't talk to them unless I'm..."

"Ware and tek heed! Ye have the absolute pleazsher of addressin' Camilla Seraphina Lucretzia Fiamenta Belladona de Trantio Dechess of Cabreze, Hierophant of Colton's World, Cap'n General of Spinward League, Hereditry Colonel of the Coldface Dragoons, Laird of Breka, Cemmedure of the Illiadyen Argosy, by the Grece ef the Immertel Emperer, Cap'n and Rogue Trader! Ye'll shew proper respect." Alcander boomed the words out in an appropriately impressive tone. There was a noticable pause as the incoming ships digested that.

"You have impeded the passage of my vessel unlawfully. Break off now or you will be fired upon, I warn you that I am not in the best of humors right now," Camilla instructed. Her hands flew across the actuality sphere, furiously tapping out the orders of several bridge officers. Jocasta continued to sprint about, her robes flapping in a most undignified manner.

"Rogue Trader, Thyrum is a penal world under the jurisdiction of the Adeptus Arbities, I must insist that you..." The vox went to hash as Camilla touched her firing control. The entire Navarre from prow to engines lit up as her lances and macro cannons opened fire. The ship thrummed with the discharge and continued to rumble with the roll of fresh shells up the ammunition lifts. Pin pricks of light flared as both Imperial ships were struck almost simultaneously. In both cases their void shields collapsed as they overloaded and shorted.

"Fer Terra's sak mist we fire on our o'n people?" Alcander demanded.

"Sensors report, shields down but no serious damage," Jocasta reported breathlessly.

"Gentlemen, I consider honor to be satisfied, alter course and I shall not feel the need to destroy you. Any trouble I have with the Arbities is mine by right of my warrant of trade. Be advised that I can and will destroy you and that I do not bluff," Camilla declared.

"You bluff all the time," Jocasta declared from the side lines, but it wasn't picked up by the vox. A minute passed, then another. Camilla arched an eyebrow at Jocasta who was watching the sensor outputs.

"They are breaking off," Jocasta reported triumphantly. Amber runes on the control boards began to blink back green as active weapon locks faded.

"Captain Trantio, we are complying, but must protest this heavy handed behaviour, we will be..."

"Navarre out," Camilla said, closing the link and stepping back from the actuality sphere. She watched the sensor screen for a few seconds, making sure that the ships were indeed breaking off. She wondered if it might be possible to subvert some of their officers with the correct plugs. That would be so much easier than what she intended but there was no way either of the Imperial vessels would come anywhere near her after the punishment she had just unleashed upon them, and no captain on a backwater like this was willingly going to give up trained crewmen. Camilla resumed her seat in the control throne, rotating it so she looked down at Alcander.

“I suppose there is something to be said for a dramatic entrance, if not a timely one,” she observed archly. Alcander opened his mouth to respond but Camilla was already rotating her chair back to face the viewport.

“The good news is we are going to see some friends of yours…”

Thyrum was an icy hell. Massive ice caps reached from both poles to grip at vast forested taiga regions. Ice sheets covered the oceans most of the way to the equator and there was only a narrow band of open water. There were few settlements, only a handful of mines strung around the equatorial belt. According to the Navarre’s records, dreamstones were produced here under Imperial license. The labor was provided by prisoners from all over the sector. The guards didn’t put enormous effort into controlling their charges. They had a monopoly on heat, food, and the weapons needed to survive against the fearsome predators which inhabited the icy wastes. That didn’t stop prisoners from running and there were numerous semi-barbaric societies living in the wilds. Sometimes starvation drove them back to the mines, sometimes as raiders, sometimes as supplicants. Mostly they just died of weather, disease or wildlife.

Camilla dressed in a white and gold thermal body glove. A cuirass of gold etched silver ceramsteel was fitted over it, glittering with inlaid scrollwork. A pristine white fur cloak was slung over her shoulder, balancing her weapons belt.

“Are we ready?” Camilla asked as her team assembled on the shuttle deck.

It was a piss poor team, Alcander realized as he rammed the magazine into his bolt-pistol.

Jocasta, swathed in wool and thermal wear, along with a loud scarf, bounced from foot to foot as if they were about to step into a warm bar and not a frozen land of endless tundra. Hugging Camilla's skirts was a refurbished utility-combat servitor, though how it was going to traverse the terrain was beyond Alcander's abilities to fathom. Behind them, three voidsmen were checking their gear, each wearing winter coats that would not look too out of place on valhallan guardsmen, down to their (likely bartered) ushankas.

Alcander had on his usual, though covered by a greatcoat befitting his office, shanghaied though he might be. Alcander held up a hand to hold the shuttle up for a brief spell, as two of the ship's crewmen stepped from the corridor accompanied under the watchful eye of a high guard in the Trantio regalia. Between the two crewmen was a plasteel crate, heavy by the looks of how they moved it. Camilla quirked an eyebrow, and stomped forward.

"What's the meaning of this? If you're going t-"

"Et's a melta-drill." He said simply, without a hint boasting. While he took pride in his work, he knew everyone had their strengths. Mucking about in slums finding things he shouldn't just happened to be lucrative if you marketed yourself correctly. Though he admitted he did have a small amount of satisfaction from the look that twisted onto Camilla's face. He raised an eyebrow. "D'ya thenk I wis jest twiddlin' m' thumbs the pest week?"

Camilla regained her poise so quickly, most people without a background in acute observation might have missed it entirely. She tossed her hair back with a quick flourish of her head and stepped beside him, watching the cargo being loaded onto the shuttle. "Where did you find it?"

"Hab 14 Gamma," Alcander answered. After the announcement on the bridge, he'd needed to take a good shower and find some recaff. It had been an exhausting few days, and he hadn't gotten as dirty as that since his time in the Underhive of Chima Lomas. Much like then, the corridors had been thick with gangers and verm, but he'd gained a rapport with the guardsmen of the Navarre ever since the coup. A firing line and a well ordered march and the scoundrels scattered like rats. "There's aboot three dozen o' th' things. Frem what I ken tell, they've been there fer two centuries."

Alcander knew they would be invaluable on a world covered in thick ice sheets, especially for reconnaissance for resources. Oddly enough, they could also be impressive weapons in a pinch if they found anything too hulking for their small arms to handle.

"Well, I need you closer. You're a seneschal, not a probator, anymore." She said, somehow succeeding in towing the line between a gentle reminder and speaking to a particularly slow child. Alcander gave her a neutral look, but it miraculously spoke volumes of the muddied thoughts between them. "However...good work."

Her compliment was accentuated by the gleeful squeal of Jocasta from the sight of the casket. How she knew what it was, Alcander could not know. But engineers had their ways he supposed. She hurried over to the crate as it was being set down, her hands out and her eyes wide as if she could not even begin to guess how to open it without offending the archeo-tech.

Alcander inclined his head at Camilla's approval. He remember when he had first laid eyes on Camilla, he was certain he couldn't trust a beautiful woman. Then later, they had become somewhat acquainted and gained a certain modicum of respect, followed by days of various dashing rescues and firefights, and then the imprisoning promotion of becoming her second in command. He felt vindicated from his first impression, but at the same time, he knew she had done it out of necessity. Well, he was not going to appear cheery or even congenial until she apologized or asked, but in the meantime, he would do as he was bid.

"So, wet's on the docket when we lend, Capt'n." He asked her, before the shuttle thrummed to life, and the motley crew began boarding. Jocatsa began to babble about the Melta-Drill, and while Alcander was at first amused, by the end of the flight he was hoping one of the voidsmen could use their auto pistols to grant him the Emperor's Peace.

Conversation was briefly impossible as the shuttle got underway, falling from the launch bay of the Navarre like a diving falcon. Camilla braced herself with the familiarity of one who had spent years aboard ship, trying to tune out Jocasta’s continuing paean about the wonders of melta technology. Almost immediately the smooth descent became a vibrating rumble as they plunged into the atmosphere. The walls of the shuttle sweated condensate that abruptly blasted off in a minor rainstorm as the shuttle breached the atmosphere with a teeth rattling sonic boom.

Camilla waited several seconds for the turbulence to subside before turning her attention to Alcandar’s question. She supposed she couldn’t expect him to act as her Seneschal if didn’t keep him informed though she suspected he might have a harder time with this than another candidate might have.

“Well… I don’t want you to be mad, but you recall the Porphyrian mutiny?” she asked. Alcandars face darkened as she said it. He had, infact, been responsible for tracking down several of the mutineers who had jumped ship, it was one of his cases that had brought him to her attention.

“Some of the officers were executed of course, but the majority of them, as well as the ratings that survived the decimations, were sent here,” she made an airy gesture to indicate the world that the shuttle was bearing them down to.

Ye went to recruit a peck of merderin' creminals who terned on their oown ceptain?” Alcander asked dangerously. Camilla made another airy gesture. The reality was that she couldn’t wait years to train replacements for the bridge officers who had been killed. It wasn’t just a matter of training either, to put it crudely, she needed people with the right plugs. Proper augmentation was much harder to come by than training.

“I prefer to think of it as conducting job interviews with extreme prejudice,” she replied, having the decency to look a little guilty at the admission.

“I promise to give full weight to the opinions of my Seneschal on the matter,” she added in a mollifying tone.

"Weel, 'spose theer culd be werse crewmen." Alcander said dryly, but not dishonestly. Alcander recalled taking a break from his rounds in a seedy dive during his stint as an enforcer on Hive Laterus, where the ex-crewmen of a small time rogue trader had bragged he had gone into debt with the Black Bankers, a notorious loan agency, and had placed his captain's ship as collateral. He had fled to a different system and let them handle it amongst themselves. Alcander had a number of anecdotes of people whom he trusted even less than those of the Porphyrian account, which more spoke about the state of the Imperium than any intelligent choice on his or Camilla's part. However, they had to make do with what they could.

He inclined his head at Camilla noting she would take his advice. They had a frigid gulf between them for close to a week, but he was somewhat calming down from it, despite his misgivings of her betrayal. They got on so well before then, it was a shame. But he also had to remind himself on the simple fact, he had not done anything wrong except more than asked.

The shuttle began to vibrate (more violently, at least) as they broke through the atmosphere, and Jocasta merely decided to speak louder so others could hear her extol on and on about the inner workings of the archeotech. For once, Camilla and Alcander had a moment of camraderie as they shared a suffering look together before they both looked at Jocasta, who's eyes were on the ceiling as she recounted the fifty seventh integral component to a macro-hammer, which Alcander noted they did not even own. As they prattled on, his ears popped gently, and he cleared his sinuses a moment as the air pressure was redistributed by the shuttles life support. Thrusters were engaged, roaring even over Jocasta's lecture, and they slowed their descent over the course of the next few minutes until they were all shaken by a dull thud, and green lights began to flicker above them.

"Seneschal, shall move along?" Camilla asked, happy to notice Jocasta had gone silent and expectant. Alcander looked back at the crew, and then after hesitating a brief moment, nodded.

"Yes ma'am, lady." He said, and unfastened himself to open the hatch. Behind him, the voidsmen began unshackling the combat servitor, and it whirred to life, its arms raising just as Alcander pulled the latch, the reinforced plasteel dropping onto the snowy ground with a loud 'thunk.' Immediately, the cold rushed in, but the outside of the shuttle was still hot from the fall. It would give them a brief field of warmth before it would be snuffed out. "Alright lads, ye heerd the ledee! Moov oot!"

Camilla produced a small data-slate, no doubt with comms and directional capacity. He bloody hoped it was accurate.

+pending alcanderization+

Camilla had heard of biting cold, and of bitter cold. The cold of Thyrum was both those things, she could literally taste it in the back of her throat and it bored into her skin like thousands of tiny awls. She cranked up the heat exchange in her body glove, forcing hot air to jet from the neck to protect her face, the improvement wasn't much, but better than using a face enclosing helmet.

"Whee we landn in th' wylds?" Alcander asked. Camilla set off, boots crunching in the snow as she followed the coordinates in the auspex, heading up and over a small rise.

"None of the automatic landing beacons were responding and they weren't answering hails. I'd rather not figure out that their anti-aircraft defenses were the only thing these peasants could keep working," Camilla replied. It took them nearly fifteen minutes to reach the top of the rise, by which time Camilla was regretting her decision to be cautious. The wind whipped up in intermittent sheets of white, and she was forced to pull the hood of her fur cloak up over her head. Jocasta produced a set of goggles so large that it made her look like some kind of stinging insect. THe combat servitor merely plodded along, oily looking ice crystals forming at its nostrils and around its exhaust vents on its backpack. From the crest they could see a barren arctic wasteland, with tall dagger-like mountains erupting in the distant north. Periodically snow flashed by and obscured the view, but it was so windy that this never lasted more than a few moments. In the valley below was a great frozen lake, the snow scoured from its icy surface till it shone like glass. On its shore was a vast chunk of unwholesome looking ice. It was a fortress of sorts with three walls and a forth opening onto the lake, though long moles ran out even there. Rusted vox masts and other paraphernalia peeped up from behind the wall, and guard towers of timber and corrugated iron projected from the top of the wall, the muzzles of heavy weapons protruded from towers, though to a piece they pointed upwards at the kind of crazy angles that suggested they were unmanned.

"What in Terra's name is that?" Camilla asked. Imperial architecture varied a great deal from place to place, but for a penal colony this was unusual in the extreme.

"They formed the ice into walls, then shaped it, probably with flamers, the shimmer you are seeing is most likely prometheum residue or some other accelerant that..." Jocasta provided helpfully. Obviously her goggles provided some kind of magnification that let her take a closer look.

"What because razor wire was just too easy?" Alcander asked, producing his own set of magnoculars and buffing the lenses with his sleeve to clear them of ice and frost. He lifted them to his eyes and stared for a moment.

"Movement down there, and signs of recent habitation, probably cook fires too, be more obvious if this wind wasn't sweeping the smoke clear the second it gets above the ground."

"You think they have gone feral?" Camilla asked. It wasn't unknown in backward posts, left alone for God Emperor knew how long between visits with civilization.

"Might have been a good thing to ask... oh I don't know... the Imperial Navy picket?" Alcander put in, sarcasm all but dripping from his tone.

"No matter," Camilla replied calmly. She unslung a large lever action hunting rifle with elaborate engravings cut into the barrel both as decoration and to keep down the weight. She worked the lever, jacking two shells into place.

"Let's say hello."

As they reached the icy ramparts they found a gate house of sorts. A section of what once must have been a hemispherical habitation unit had been cut and used to create a gateway. Several large pieces of timber, perhaps local pines of some kind were in place so they could be used to block the entrance, though they were not deployed that way now. Camilla, having grown up in her fathers castle-like dwellings, entered carefully, eyes upturned in case there were murder holes or other surprises. There were none and she passed through into a courtyard around which completely normal ferrocrete hab and admin units had been set up. Lines ran between some of them and garments of some kind flapped on them in the gusty wind. A trio of men dressed in an odd combination of flak armored chest plates and large mono slot helmets like those welders used, sat around a fire. They jumped up when they saw Camilla's party and chainmail clinked around their legs and arms. One of them had what looked like a coif protruding from beneath his helmet. Two of them held long hafted spears of some kind, the other had a shotgun and what looked to be a chain blade over his back. They started to move to level their weapons but froze as the faced the combined firepower of Camilla's detachment.

"Who are you and what the frak are you..." the leader dropped as Camilla cracked him across the jaw with the butt of her rifle. The helmet flew off and he sprawled to the ground. He was a pudgy man, his lips thin and drawn back in a snarl of hate, a brushy red beard matted with grease and filth did not improve the look.

"Alcander, introduce me if you would," Camilla said in a quiet deadly tone.

“Put yer fething gen ep! Yer have the honor of speaking to Camilla Seraphina Lucretzia Fiamenta Belladona de Trantio Dechess of Cabreze, Cap'n General of Spinward League, Hereditry Colonel of the Coldface Dragoons, Laird of Breka, Cemmedure of the Illiadyen Argosy, by the Grece ef the Immertel Emperer, Cap'n and Rogue Trader! “ Alcander announced, hooking a thumb at Camilla without actually shifting his gun from the presumed guards.

“Oh and Hierophant of Colton's World,” Jocasta added with a ‘what are you going to do shrug. The men licked their lips uncertain as to how to proceed. As prison guards, having their authority questioned almost always led to a violent response, something that obviously wouldn’t work well for them in this case.
“Perhaps,” Camilla suggested with the weariness of aristocratic disdain, “you might convey us to whoever is in charge?”

There was a sudden booming crunch from deeper into the compound but none of the guards so much as flinched at it.

“Yes,” the man with the chainblade said after a moment, “You want Grannock.”

“Sure…” Camilla said skeptically but gestured for the men to lead on.

They past through a double line of flakboard barracks, all abandoned and in poor repair into a large invagination of the frozen bay. On the ice sheet stood a rather remarkable looking vessel. The banging they had heard clearly emanating from its many chimneys and effluent egress tubes. It was perhaps fifty meters in diameter and roughly circular, perhaps with a slight point at fore and aft. Its three tiered stories were lined with cranes and derricks and in several places industrial cutting rigs stood. Some were powerful hydraulic jaws, others were long chainsword like attachments at the end of rubberized pressure hoses. Fires glowed within and steam emitted from pipework all over the vessel in long plumes. Here and there, long dirty icicles of recondensed steam hung like the teeth of some insane predator. Nor were they the only thing. Bodies hung from improvised gibbets, naked and frostbitten. More than one were missing hands or limbs, apparently shattered when the wind drove their frozen forms against the rusted steel hull platting.

“What in Terra’s name is that?” Camilla demanded, simultaneously revolted and fascinated.

“It appears to be an urchin pattern ice fishing derrick manufactured on Sicra V sometime before 982.M38,” Jocasta provided without missing a breath.

“Extensively modified of course, It looks like they have retrofitted it with crawler tracks from a least a dozen Byrox heavy mining haulers. I wonder how they are adjusting for the axial flex, much less how they are handling synchronizing hydraulics over…”

Camilla held up her hand wishing, and not for the first time, that she had a mute button for the talkative tech adept.

“Ice fishing derrick. Got it,”

“Ats right,” the guard Camilla had clouted on the jaw replied, rubbing the bruise with a sullen look.

“We take ‘er out once a month and punch a hole in the ice, replenish our stocks,” he explained. Camilla could see men moving around on the super structure, all of them dressed in variations of what these guards were wearing, heavy masks and bits of flack armor supplemented by leather and chain mail. All carried weapons, though it looked like firearms were in somewhat short supply.

“I thought you were taking us to see your leader, Grannock was it?” Camilla asked as it became clear they were being led to an improvised boarding ramp rather than to one of the buildings.

“He always leads the hunts himself,” the guard replied, “he is already on board.” Camilla sighed, getting anything more out of the guards seemed like far more work than simply waiting a minute until she was ushered before someone with some actual authority.

“Very well, get moving then man, my time is valuable,” Camilla snapped. The guard produced what might have been a simpering smile or a sneer but led them aboard up the ramp and onto metal grilled walkways. The whole vessel stank of blood. An icy slick of it coated many of the walkways and there was more down in the bilges. Frozen it had a very metallic scent, lacking the rot that would have been present in normal environments.

“They are designed to render the carcasses of great whaleforms, cutting them into sections on the top decks which then fall to the lower decks to be broken up into increasingly finer increments. I wonder if they have the onboard cannery or if they…”

“Jocasta,” Camilla said with a sigh, “perhaps we may speak of this later?” she suggested. The tech priest pouted but fell silent. It was quite an image, some great whale, hoisted onto the upper decks, then sliced to pieces, its blood and flesh pouring down the sides of the derricks in torrents. Camilla had no doubt that even the blood was recovered to form nutrient gruel or whatever other horror the prisoners were forced to subsist on. After several interminable minutes of walking they entered a bridge area, marked out with smart yellow paint and armor crys panels that gave a breathtaking view over the frozen bay. A powerfully built man who appeared to be in his late forties stood there dressed in much the same fashion as the rest of the guards, save he had a long leather coat and a rusted iron gorget. Another man stood beside him, seemingly a dwarf at first view but closer inspection revealed him to be wizened and bent. He wore rags and the remnants of guild Astropathica ramient, the many plugs in his skull and spine were surrounded by discoloration caused by frostbite transmitted by the metal. Superation was being kept at bay by some kind of reeking ointment that smelled of animal tallow.

“Ah esteemed visitors!” the tall man boomed. His smile was probably meant to be welcoming but the effect was spoiled by the fact that his teeth were not human but rather implanted fangs, perhaps those of a shark or some other aquatic predator. How he managed to speak without ripping his lips and tongue to shred was a minor miracle.

“Are you bringing more g…prisoners, we had not heard that another batch was due for at least a month,” he said in his booming voice, his confusion evident.

“We are not, in fact I am here hunting for some specific prisoners,” Camilla replied.

“Ah of course you are welcome but by what authority?” he asked, sounding civil and genuinely interested.

“My warrant of trade gives me the right to commute sentences of prisoners to life terms aboard my vessel,” Camilla replied. Technically this was true, though the vaguely worded provision was intended to supply ratings, the lowly laboring class, rather than officers. In such a remote place however it was unlikely to be challenged.

“I see, we have dealt with several Rogue Traders before, what kind of prisoners are you interested in?” he asked. Camilla kept her face impassive but the clashing of his inhuman teeth and his gentle speech were an unpleasant combination. She would almost have preferred a snarl.

“The Porphyryn Mutineers,” Camilla supplied. Grannock nodded and looked down at the pathetic remnant of an astropath.

“Do we have records of them Berek?” he asked. The astropath reached into a pouch and began searching through several small pieces of ivory that Camilla realised must be human teeth. Each one of them had been marked in someway, perhaps with idetic encodes that helped the astropath remember.

“Two seasons ago some were taken by the Gray River, two human males and a female, they were…” Grannock cut off his advisor with a wave of his hand. Then leaned down to a brass speaking trumpet built into the bridge controls.

“Change course for Gray River!” he boomed into the device, and a moment later the deck shuddered as the vast derrick began to slowly crawl forward across the ice.

“You keep prisoners in secondary facilities then?” Camilla asked, confused. Grannock laughed.

“Facilities? Of course not, we let them run wild in the tundra, there would be no fun in it if they were stuck behind fences all the time!” Grannock chuckled.

“I see,” Camilla replied, though by the Emperor, she did no such thing.