"How do we kill it?" Tavos's voice was a low growl, his gaze snapping up to Zal'xyr.
The Librarian's brow furrowed, frustration etched into his features. "I am unsure," he admitted. "I cannot locate it within the Immaterium. No echoes of its victims, no lingering taint to mark its path. This demon—whatever abyss of the Warp it crawled from—is exceptionally skilled at masking its presence."
Arvak shifted slightly, his black ceramite armor whispering against itself. "The timescale concerns me," he said, his voice an iron rasp from within the depths of his skull-faced helm. "A week aboard our vessel should have given it ample time to collect oaths. If it alone determines the terms, as seems to be the case, then it wields a power I have never before encountered. By now, it should have begun its slaughter—hundreds dead, their souls fueling its ascension. And yet, it waits. Why?"
Elissa, standing beside Doc, swallowed against the tightness in her throat. She felt the weight of the moment pressing down on her—just being in this room, among these giants of war, felt like standing before an oncoming storm. Yet she pushed forward, voice steady despite the lump in her throat.
"Two possibilities come to mind," she said. "Either it's hoarding its victims for a specific moment, or it can only enforce a single oath at a time. Worst case? It's biding its time, waiting for the right moment to trigger a mass death event across the entire ship."
Tavos was silent for several long seconds, his gaze fixed on the frozen image of Garran's final, wretched moment. When he finally spoke, his tone was firm. "Our priority is to locate and purge this demon. What are our options?"
Doc was the first to respond. "Lockdowns for non-essential personnel. The fewer opportunities it has to blend in, the better. If the crew stays close to one another, abnormal behavior will be easier to notice."
Arvak inclined his helm slightly. "We should increase the number of purity seals throughout the ship, especially in vital sections. Any measure that makes its presence more detectable is worth implementing. Additionally, I suggest sending the priests in groups to refresh the wards."
"I will join the Navigator." Zal'xyr offered, the faint glow of psionic energy curling around his gauntleted fingers. "Between us, we may be able to trace its movements through the ship, if only in fleeting glimpses."
Elissa folded her arms across her chest, exhaling sharply. "You should also issue a ship-wide advisory regarding oath-giving, declarative language in general. Any traditions or rituals involving sworn words should be suspended until we know more. I understand that some rituals are sacred, but if the demon can twist them into bindings, it will use them against you."
A heavy silence followed her words.
Then, to her surprise, Arvak nodded. "As much as it pains me to say it, Lady Brandt is correct. If this demon were to corrupt one of our Battle-Brothers through a solemn vow, the consequences would be catastrophic. We must guard not only our souls but our tongues as well—at least for the foreseeable future."
Tavos's gaze swept over those assembled, his expression unreadable. Then he gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"Do it."
-
The Navigator's Sanctum was never a place of comfort for Zal'xyr. His armored boots struck the floor with a weight that defied his attempts at subtlety, each step an unintentional disturbance in a chamber where silence was paramount. This was the domain of Anvara Sa'qir, the one responsible for guiding the Hammer of Nocturne through the treacherous currents of the Warp.
The space itself was suffused with an ever-present static hum, the sheer proximity to the Immaterium grating against his psyche like an itch just below the threshold of pain. It was not outright corruption—yet it was a place where the boundary between realities thinned dangerously, a membrane stretched taut over unfathomable depths.
Anvara sat within a life-support chair, her rail-thin frame clad in a high-collared voidsuit of deep blue and silver, its embellishments of old Terran gold marking her esteemed lineage. Over this, she wore ceremonial robes woven with ancient warding sigils, heirlooms of a bloodline intimately entwined with the mysteries of the Warp. Her copper-toned skin was laced with glowing white veins, a testament to the power she wielded. Silver threaded her black hair, evidence of a lifetime spent staring into the abyss.
Above her, an elaborate orrery projected emerald lights, forming a living map of the galaxy. As the hexagrammic veil slid back over her third eye, her milky, unseeing gaze turned toward Zal'xyr. With measured grace, she stood, revealing a form that defied mortal proportions—nearly two feet taller than an ordinary human, her limbs elongated beyond the point of elegance, too slender for conventional strength.
Yet Zal'xyr knew better than to mistake her for fragile.
Through the lens of his psychic sight, Anvara was something far beyond human. She was stitched into the very fabric of the Warp, her presence interwoven with its tides as though she were less a person and more a living conduit. To most, she might appear cold, distant—but Zal'xyr could see the truth. Her soul flickered at the edges, ephemeral echoes of the Immaterium clinging to her like ghostly afterimages. She existed simultaneously in two realms, treading the precipice between sanity and oblivion.
Her mind was an impenetrable fortress—honed through rigorous discipline, etched with scars of experience. Unlike the raw, volatile power of a psyker or the insidious whispers that haunted a sorcerer, hers was a consciousness tempered by decades of unrelenting exposure to the infinite. She had looked into the abyss and returned. Mostly.
Yet there was something else.
Even veiled, her third eye radiated a presence that was not mere concealment—it was containment. Suppressed by wards and dampeners, but never truly hidden from one such as he. It was a wound in reality shaped like an eye, not a window to her soul, but a portal to something far deeper. Something that should never be seen.
Zal'xyr had spent his life waging war against the horrors of the Warp, had burned madness from the minds of the afflicted with both thought and blade. And yet, standing before Anvara Sa'qir, he felt the barest whisper of unease.
She was no enemy.
She was no threat.
But she understood the Warp in ways even he did not.
And that, to a Librarian of the Salamanders, made her far more dangerous than most would ever comprehend.
"M'lord," she murmured, her voice laced with an unnatural resonance, as though reality itself resisted the act of carrying her words. "I have prepared a suitable circle for this purpose."
One of Zal'xyr's brows lifted, but before he could speak, she continued her unhurried path toward the center of the chamber, stepping beneath the great orrery. "And no, I did not use foresight to anticipate your questions." A faint smile played at her terracotta lips. "I live adjacent to the bridge. Astartes voices have a tendency to carry."
He snorted, shaking his head as he approached the inscribed circle. Observing the layered runes—the outer warding ring, the precise sigils of the inner focus—he gave a slight nod. "Impressive work."
"Not mine," she admitted. "The Choir assisted with the warding. Their experience far surpasses mine in such matters."
"Indeed." Taking a knee, Zal'xyr extended his awareness, allowing a pulse of psychic energy to roll outward. The wards flared in response, their potency reinforced by his touch. "Then let us dispense with pleasantries. Can you aid me in this search?"
Anvara inclined her head. "I have already scoured the tides for disturbances, but the Warp remains eerily still—no ripples betray the demon's passage. Yet, with our combined efforts, I believe we may yet uncover its trail."
She hesitated, a flicker of unease darkening her expression. "But I must caution you. Linking minds with a Navigator is not like linking with a fellow psyker. Have you ever attempted such a connection before?"
"No," Zal'xyr admitted. "But I have led many such circles among my brethren. I will exercise due care."
Anvara exhaled slowly, nodding. "Very well. Let us begin."
Zal'xyr stepped closer, raising his gauntleted hand. Psychic energy coiled around his fingers like faint tongues of flame as he reached out—not physically, but mentally.
Touch the mind, but do not break it.
His old master's words echoed in his thoughts as his consciousness extended toward hers. A moment of resistance met him, instinctual and reflexive, before Anvara surrendered to the link.
The connection formed—a thread of fire lancing between them.
Zal'xyr perceived it first: the staggering sensation of infinite depth, as though his mind had been cast into an abyss without a bottom. The Warp surged before him, a realm of chaos and hunger, a living ocean without form or mercy. Yet amid the maelstrom, there was structure—currents of force, eddies of thought curling in unseen tides.
Anvara was his anchor. She did not fear the Warp as others did. She understood it, acknowledged its horrors, and navigated its whims with the precision of one who had walked this razor's edge too many times to falter now.
There.
Her voice did not emerge from her lips but from everywhere at once, reverberating through their bond. A pulse of intent guided his focus toward a fracture in the immaterial tides—a disturbance where the Warp did not flow, but festered.
A demon's touch.
It lurked, concealed amid the flux, a predator cloaked in deep waters. But together, their minds locked onto its tainted trail.
Hold fast, Zal'xyr warned, reinforcing the link.
And together, they plunged deeper into the abyss.
With focused intent, clarity emerged. The demon itself remained concealed, veiled from direct perception, but the environment within the ship crystallized in sharp relief. The lower galley took shape—a cavernous chamber bathed in dim, amber light, where the souls of the crew flickered like distant golden stars adrift in the shifting currents of the Warp.
Yet something was amiss. Many of those luminescent presences wavered, each suffused with a faint, unnatural blue—an ephemeral frost clinging to their edges. The very air of the galley shimmered with residual traces of that same spectral hue. These were not lingering manifestations of an active presence but rather the echoes of something that had already moved on. A disturbance, not a dwelling.
A corruption, Zal'xyr projected, his thoughts carrying the weight of psionic resonance through their shared link. The entity has marked many, yet it remains elusive. What do you perceive, Lady Sa'qir?
There was a pause—a measured stillness—before a ripple of concentrated awareness emanated from the Navigator.
Residual disturbances remain, Anvara replied, her mental voice honed with analytical precision. But they are dissipating as we speak. The entity is absent… yet it was here mere moments ago. A pause, then a thread of unease wove into her thoughts. It unsettles me that we perceive only its passage and not its form. I suspect we will not behold it fully until it executes another binding. Likely within forty-eight hours.
Then I propose we maintain a three-day vigil to ensure its detection, Zal'xyr responded. Are you prepared for such an endeavor?
Without question, my lord. It would hardly be the first time I have forgone sleep to safeguard this vessel. There was a quiet steel beneath her words, a subtle challenge left unspoken.
A flicker of amusement crossed Zal'xyr's mind. Reassuring to hear, my lady. And while we maintain our watch, perhaps we might engage in discourse. A mind-link provides a singular opportunity for intellectual debate, after all.
Indeed, my lord, Anvara answered, a glint of dry humor lacing her thoughts. I did not anticipate an Astartes of your station to be so forward as to inquire about a lady's reflections upon her first mind-link. One might have expected you to at least offer dinner first.
-
Elissa held the pendant up to the light, watching as the glowing silver runes etched into its surface refracted in odd, shifting patterns. The metal felt heavier than it should have, a subtle weight that settled against her palm.
'And you're sure this is going to work?'
'Nope,' Sasha's voice came through, edged with bemusement. 'Not until it's tested. But it's the best compilation of hexagrammatic wards we could make with the information available.'
Elissa sighed, tucking the pendant beneath her shirt. The cool metal pressed against her skin, a faint pulse thrumming against her sternum like a heartbeat. It felt... active.
'Not exactly a comforting answer.'
'Sorry, darlin', but we don't have the data to say for sure. Yet. I've already put in orders for more—enough for all our people. If this works, it'll be a damn sight better than relying on luck and a shotgun when the Warp gets rowdy.'
Elissa exhaled sharply, adjusting the strap on her holster as she made her way down to the firing range. 'And how are you supplying their power? I thought these things needed faith or a psyker to charge them?'
Sasha's reply came quick, layered with the calculated certainty of an AI who had spent far too long picking apart the Imperium's supposedly 'holy' mysteries.
'Not that I can tell. From what I've read and from the simulations I ran, it seems to be a self-sustaining system. The runes themselves aren't inherently powered by faith—faith is just the Imperium's excuse for why they work when the actual mechanics are beyond them.'
Elissa frowned, slowing her pace. 'Alright, explain it to me like I never went to school.'
'We'll fix that, but can do sugar,' Sasha said, a trace of amusement in her tone as she settled into what Elissa pictured as a teacher at the board talking to the class. 'Hexagrammatic wards function by creating a disruptive interference pattern in the Warp. Think of the Warp like an ocean, yeah? And demons are the big, nasty things swimming in it. These runes? They generate a distortion field, something that makes the local space incompatible with their existence—like trying to swim through boiling tar.'
Elissa mulled that over. 'So… it's not so much that it repels them like a shield, but that it makes the area around it uninhabitable for them?'
'Exactly! Which is why you find them etched into armor, weapons, and—most importantly—structures. Ever notice how old Imperial cathedrals and fortresses seem to resist Warp incursions better than other buildings? It's not because of 'faith'—it's because the walls are plastered in hexagrammatic inscriptions.'
Elissa glanced down at the pendant, suddenly viewing it in a new light. 'So then, what's the problem with the Imperium's method?'
'They don't understand the why behind it,' Sasha answered, her tone turning sharp. 'The reason they think faith powers these is because most people who believe also project a certain psychic resonance. Psykers, priests, even just regular folks with enough conviction—their will reinforces the effect, making it stronger. But the runes themselves? They work regardless. They're a mathematical construct—an algorithm applied through engraving rather than code.'
A slow grin spread across Elissa's face. 'And you're saying you figured out how to make them work without needing a priest or a psyker?'
Sasha chuckled. 'Didn't 'figure it out'—just reconstructed what your species already knew twenty four thousand years ago. I've optimized the patterning, corrected errors from centuries of misinterpretation, and standardized the engraving process so it doesn't require some Ecclesiarchy zealot waving incense over it to function.'
Elissa let out a low whistle. 'You're really putting the 'heretek' in 'heretical tech,' huh?'
'You say that like it's a bad thing,' Sasha quipped. 'Besides, I'd rather be a heretek than a corpse. Now, go put some rounds downrange and tell me if your new anti-daemon necklace messes with your aim.'
Elissa smirked as she stepped into the range, rolling her shoulders before tapping the grip of her pistol. She shot a pointed glance toward the range officer and nodded toward the firing lane.
The woman barely looked up from her cogitator, giving a curt nod before returning to her work.
Elissa took her stance, fingers hovering just above the pistol's grip. A faint hum coursed through her as the blue lines of her neural link flickered to life, feeding data straight into her vision—distance calculations, gravitational distortions, bullet drop, an ammo counter. She barely registered the latter; she knew how to count to eight.
A targeting reticle appeared in her peripheral, pulsing green for a fraction of a second.
Then she moved.
With the fluidity of experience, she drew—not raising or extending her arm, but snapping off a shot the instant the barrel cleared the holster.
'Upper left, aortic arch. Kill,' Sasha noted, her voice crisp in Elissa's mind. 'Randomizing target and draw timing.'
Elissa reholstered, watching as the target flickered in and out of existence. Sasha never let it stay still for more than a second.
'On my mark,' the AI murmured. 'Ready…'
A deliberate pause stretched between them—six seconds of waiting, anticipation coiling tight. Then, in the last half-second, the target solidified.
'Fire!'
Elissa's pistol cleared the holster again, the shot cracking through the range.
'Missed by three inches,' Sasha reported. 'Not bad for a hip shot at thirty yards. Ready for some more?'
'Damn right.'
For the next hour, the rhythm remained the same—draw, fire, adjust, repeat. By the end, Elissa's wrist ached, the sharp scent of gunpowder clung to her clothes, and a smirk curled her lips.
'Eighty-four percent accuracy,' Sasha noted. 'Damn good shootin', Tex.'
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
'Tex?' Elissa arched a brow as she flexed her sore wrist, making a mental note to find some ice—or at least a chilled paste-pack.
'Long story. Tell ya later.'
She let it slide, heading toward the hab block. 'Tara and Kala are first on the list for the next wards, right?'
'Top five,' Sasha confirmed. 'You, Doc, Milo, the girls.'
'Doc? I thought she already had them.'
'She does, but only in her armor. I want her to have something more discreet.'
Elissa nodded. 'Shouldn't we do the same for the Angels?'
'Plan to,' Sasha replied. 'But our people come first. The Marines already have protection, same as Doc. And if the priests get curious about the rune structure…'
'Ah. Fair point.'
As Elissa reached a service ladder, she grabbed the rungs and swung herself down, boots landing with a solid thud on the deck below.
'By the way,' she said, climbing down the next level, 'you ran those sims past your other self—the one with Koron, right?'
'Yup. They're in the middle of building up a new copy to take over the Forge-Tender's systems, and Koron could use the distractions.'
Elissa frowned. 'Why? He getting lonely playing hero?'
The pause didn't go unnoticed.
'Sasha, what's wrong?'
The AI hesitated, then sighed—an affectation, but one that carried weight.
'It's a bit of a story,' she admitted. 'But suffice to say, Koron's not… in the best mental space right now.'
Elissa slowed her pace. 'What happened?'
Sasha relayed the events of the Forge-Tender's bridge, Elissa rubbing the bridge of her nose as she leaned against the bulkhead. 'Emperor damned fool. And let me guess, he's blaming himself?'
'Pretty much.'
'Idiot. Link us will you? I'll put a boot to his ass.'
'Sugar, I don't think that attitude is gonna help things.'
'Why not? Hes stuck in his own head right? So, a boot to the ass will jump him out of the mental spiral.'
Silence met her statement for a longer moment than Elissa had felt before.
'Alright sugar. Just, be careful, please.'
-
Koron's voice was clipped, distant, his tone clear over the encrypted line. "There's nothing to talk about."
Elissa didn't hesitate as she closed the door behind her, the storage closet empty of anything valuable. "Like hell there isn't."
The faint hum of the comm link filled the silence, the only sound between them.
Koron exhaled, his tone flat. "We took the ship. The priests are dead. That's it."
Elissa scoffed. "That's it? You sound like a damn cogitator."
His voice tightened. "What do you want me to say, Elissa? That I regret it? That I should have been faster? Smarter? That maybe if I had done something different, they wouldn't be dead?"
She didn't back down. "If that's what you're thinking, then yeah. Say it."
Perhaps it was from her Sasha, or the clarity of the comm-link between them, but Elissa swore she could hear the faintest hum of his cybernetics running.
Elissa didn't let it slip by. "You're running it again, aren't you? The fight. Over and over. Trying to find the moment where you 'failed.'"
He didn't respond immediately. When he did, his voice was colder. "I know the moment."
Elissa exhaled sharply. "You're acting like this is some kind of calculation. Like if you just run the numbers long enough, you'll find the right answer."
Koron's tone was sharp. "That's how it should be. That's how it was. We used to have the ability to prevent unnecessary death. We used to value life."
Elissa scoffed. "And what, you think you're the only one who gives a damn? You think you're the only one who's lost people?"
His voice was tight. "That's not what I—"
Elissa cut him off. "Then what are you saying, Koron? That because your time was different, this one is just—what? Some kind of mistake?"
He exhaled sharply. "It is a mistake, Elissa. All of it."
Elissa's voice was quieter now, but no less intense. "And yet, here we are."
Koron's voice dropped, but the tension in it remained. "You don't understand."
Elissa didn't flinch. "Then make me understand."
A pause. Then Koron spoke, slower this time, measured, but edged with something raw. "I come from a world where life mattered. Where progress meant something. Where we didn't throw people into meat grinders and call it 'duty.'"
She listened quietly, giving him the room to vent.
Koron continued, his voice tightening. "And now I stand in a world where a man's life is worth less than the weapon he carries. Where knowledge is hoarded, not shared. Where people kneel to a man and call it salvation."
His breath was unsteady. "Tell me, Elissa—how am I supposed to reconcile that?"
She didn't answer right away. When she did, her voice was careful. "You don't."
Koron snapped up, hands thrown up as he slapped a metal hand into the bulkhead, the metal denting under the impact. "Holy shit El. That's comforting, thank you."
Elissa shook her head, a useless gesture for a vox. "It's not supposed to be. But that's the truth, isn't it? You're holding onto something that doesn't exist anymore. You're trying to make this world fit yours."
Sasha finally spoke, her voice smooth but deliberate within his systems. "Sugar, what exactly do you think's gonna happen here? That you'll wake up tomorrow and find the Imperium fixed?"
Koron let out a sharp breath. "Of course not."
The Sasha in Elissa's side spoke, quieter but precise. "Then what? You spend the rest of your days mourning a world that's already dead?"
Koron didn't answer.
Sasha hummed, considering. "Seems to me, you got two choices. You can keep wishin' for something that's gone—or you can take what's in front of you and make something better."
Elissa picked up the thread, her voice firm. "We're here, Koron. Now. We're still breathing. You want to change things? Then stop looking backward and start building forward."
His voice was quiet but edged. "And how do you suggest I do that, Elissa? Enlighten me. How do you build forward in a world built on stagnation, on fear? On bodies stacked so high they blot out the sun?"
She didn't hesitate. "One piece at a time. One fight at a time. Same way we've always done it."
Koron's laugh was sharp, bitter. "That's not good enough."
Elissa's voice hardened. "Then make it good enough."
Koron's voice dropped, quieter but still tense. "You don't get it, Elissa. This isn't just about the priests, or this ship. It's about everything. Everything we lost. The dream of what we could have been—what we should have been."
Elissa exhaled, slow and steady. "I get it, Koron. I do. You think I don't dream about a better life? But that's not the world we got dealt."
Koron exhaled sharply. "And that doesn't bother you?"
Elissa's voice was quiet, but steel girded her words. "Of course it does. Every damn day. But I don't have the luxury of breaking down over it. I have people who need me here, not in some perfect past that never came to be."
His voice tightened. "So you just accept it?"
Elissa's voice was sharp. "No. I fight for what's left."
Koron exhaled slowly. There was something different in his tone now—less anger, more weight. "You still believe there's something worth saving."
Elissa didn't miss a beat. "Damn right I do. My children, the people who chose me to be their leader? I'm not letting them down. And you? You're one of my people."
Koron let out a slow breath, the faintest smile curling at his lips. "Oh, I finally get the Dusthaven badge?"
Elissa's voice softened slightly, but it was still unyielding. "Only if you stop being a mopey bastard."
His head thunked against the bulkhead behind him, staring at the ceiling of the command center as the noosphereic core behind him processed the new AI fragment. "Tall order."
"True, but you are the one who said it."
"Said what?"
"That the living come before the dead."
"…Low blow."
"They tend to be the most effective."
"Not gonna promise anything." A pause. A breath. Something in his voice softened. "But... yeah. Thanks."
"Anytime."
Elissa didn't mean to smile, but it was already there—small, barely noticeable, but real. A flicker of warmth curled in her chest, spreading up the back of her neck before she could tamp it down. It wasn't just relief that he was listening.
Not worth thinking about. Not right now.
Instead, she leaned into something easier—teasing, pushing, keeping the moment from getting too heavy.
"On another note?" Her voice turned sharp with mock exasperation. "You're an idiot."
Koron huffed a short, amused breath. "Oh? For what?"
"Playing the 'sacrificial hero' shit," she shot back without hesitation. Then, dropping her voice into an overly dramatic, brooding tone, she mimicked, "They are in danger if I am near, so I shall make the whole fucking universe chase me and they will be safe."
She clicked her tongue. "Real solid plan, by the way. Worked out for you."
Koron sighed. "…In my defense, I was unaware of several important data points when I made that call."
Elissa arched a brow, smirking even though he couldn't see it. "Oh yeah? Like what?"
"Namely that somebody split the galaxy in two."
"I suppose that's fair. So whats your plan then?" She asked as she idly picked up a discarded bucket, more rust holes than actual material by now.
"Build up the forge infrastructure from barely functional to hopefully functional and turn this bucket of bolts into something that will help keep all of you alive. I'm thinking a quiet transfer of all of you over here as 'servitor replacements', nobody will care if a bunch of menials are used like that." The bitterness in his words could have corroded adamantine.
"Actually, I would say we're good over here for the time being. Aside from, ya know, the demon."
"….I'm sorry the what."
-
The hum of the Forge-Tender's lower decks was omnipresent, a distant thrum of reactors and idle machinery. Koron stood at the command overlook, staring down at the two-mile stretch of storage bays and refineries. Below, thousands of servitors stood motionless, awaiting instructions, their lifeless augmetics flickering in the dim forge-light.
"Roughly twenty-six million tons of material," he muttered absently, his mind cycling through calculations to distract himself. Metal stockpiles, refinery efficiency, available power output—it all coalesced into an ever-evolving blueprint in his mind.
One that now included the knowledge that the ancient reports and rumors of monsters in the warp, had been real.
And not just real, but likely the cause for the death of his entire crew.
And now it was aboard the Hammer.
There was no time for outbursts, no time for the burning hate that had flared in his chest. Elissa and her people needed him, but for now, he could only prepare what he could.
Left with nowhere to go, he packed it all down, rolled into a tight ball of wrath that now waited on a hair trigger.
Sasha's voice came through his neural link, sharp as she was distracted with the other background systems. "Not counting the servitors we're scrapping once we get actual useful drones up and running."
Koron nodded absently, gaze shifting to the small fabricator attached to his arm. Its dozen tiny arms worked in perfect synchronization, assembling the first nanite with molecular precision. The tiny construct gleamed under the dim light, a harbinger of things to come.
"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Sasha asked.
Koron exhaled, a slow, measured breath. "Yeah. Infrastructure comes first. Without it, everything else is just a waste of time."
He turned, gesturing to the sprawling industrial complex before them. "We get the nanites working on structural repairs, laying the groundwork. Meanwhile, we demon-proof everything—firewalls, circuits, reactors. If anything tries to worm its way in, it gets burned out at the root."
"Preachin' to the choir, sugar." Sasha's replied, layering the warding concepts that she and her other half had been layering around the ships. "Servitors elsewhere are putting the wards down, and we got way more than the Hammer. Whats next?"
Koron began pacing, his mind accelerating. "Servitors go first. They're inefficient, slow, and borderline useless. We replace them with fully automated fabrication and repair drones—fast, specialized, and, hopefully with the wards, impossible to corrupt."
He gestured to the Forge-Tender's cavernous shipyard. "Once we're stable, we start construction on the ship. Small, compact, fully self-sufficient. We bury it inside the shipyard, inside a shell of a smaller escort vessel, something that will hide her. I'm thinking just a cruiser class, just above the bare minimum for mounting the fun guns."
Sasha hummed approvingly. "We'll have to ensure the power systems are only tested outside of sensor ranges. Without proper stealth systems, anybody paying attention will notice a flux reactor activate."
Koron's expression darkened slightly. "Everything we build is a risk. If the wrong people notice..."
"I know. We just gotta be smart darlin."
They both fell silent for a moment, watching the Forge-Tender's idle facilities. Then, Koron exhaled and pulled up the revised timetable on his HUD.
"As for the nanites, standard protocols. We can't risk full replication cycles. Even under a controlled framework, the moment we give these nanites unchecked autonomy, we step onto a knife's edge."
Sasha hummed, half in agreement, half in thought. "We could still maximize efficiency—let them self-replicate only in the initial growth phase, under my direct oversight."
"Then lock them down once they reach operational numbers." Koron nodded. "Permanent shift to repair, maintenance, and efficiency tasks. No further self-replication."
Sasha let the idea cycle through her processes, running simulations in microseconds. "We'll need a redundancy tree. Fail-safes."
"Already working on it." Koron tapped a sequence into his HUD, pulling up a schematic overlay of the Forge-Tender. "Three layers of containment: one soft, two hard."
"Hit me."
Koron's voice was clinical. "Soft lock: all nanites are firewalled from external overrides—even yours. Once they transition to repair mode, they physically cannot return to replication protocols without a complete wipe and reboot."
"Mmm, decent." Sasha's voice sharpened. "And the hard locks?"
Koron swiped through his HUD, bringing up a more intricate set of parameters. "First hard lock: timed deactivation for any nanite not assigned a task in 48 hours. If it's idle too long, it self-recycles into raw material."
Sasha let out an approving hum. "Prevents excess buildup. No risk of ghost swarms lingering in the vents."
Koron nodded. "Second hard lock: localized containment zones for each production sector. If a batch of nanites malfunctions—corruption, deviation, or external influence—they get cut off from the main grid and purged."
Sasha considered it. "And you're certain we can build that into the Forge's subroutines?"
Koron's nodded, the data-scrolling reflection making him look even more machine than man. "We can, especially once your copy is up and running in the ships systems."
A pause stretched between them. Then Sasha spoke, her tone shifting.
"We also need to talk about demon corruption."
Koron's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. "I assume you've already started encoding protective measures into your core systems?"
"Of course, sugar." Sasha's voice held a bite of dry amusement. "I'm not about to let some warp-spawned horror turn me into a damn possessed murder machine."
Koron huffed. "Good. Because we don't fully understand how they affect AI yet."
Sasha sobered. "Exactly. Which is why every single nanite, drone, and system upgrade gets rune-warded along with the ship. Full spectrum protection. No half-measures."
Koron exhaled, feeling the weight of the work ahead. "Between that and the nanite redundancies, we should be okay. But until it gets tested-"
Sasha chuckled. "Good thing we don't really sleep, eh?"
With a flicker of thought, a timetable scrolled up the hololith before them.
Phase One: Infrastructure & Security (1-3 Months)
- Nanites deployed for hull and system repairs
- Demon-warding encoded into all digital and mechanical systems (ongoing).
- Cogitator core upgraded
- Servitors scrapped,
- Energy output increased fivefold.
"By the three-month mark," Sasha noted, "we'll have this ship running like it was fresh outta Earths shipyards."
Koron nodded, adjusting the timeline. "That's when we move into shipbuilding."
Phase Two: Ship & Automated Workforce (4-7 Months)
- Ship construction begins (4 months), complete by month 6.
- Fabrication drones mass-produce construction materials from salvaged wreckage.
- Hidden shipyard fully operational.
- Advanced power grid ensures full independence from the Imperium.
Koron's lips pressed into a thin line. "By month seven, we'll have a self-sufficient and functional forge."
Sasha gave a satisfied chuckle. "And then, sugar? Then we start really building."
Phase Three: The Future (7+ Months)
- Mass production of modern (ancient?) materials and technology.
- Fleet expansion with fully automated warships.
- Hidden bases established to further long-term goals.
Koron turned to the fabricator, watching as the first nanite completed assembly. The tiny construct shimmered like liquid metal as he tipped it over into the material storage, ready to begin reshaping the Indomitable into something that had not been seen active in the galaxy for nearly twenty five thousand years.
Koron looked back out over the endless lines of waiting servitors, already envisioning the future.
One step at a time.
One fight at a time.
And maybe, just maybe, they'd build something better.