Gav and Bob: Sanguinala Redux

This is the 7th fan story in the Gav and Bob series. Links to previous stories can be found at the end of this entry. The original Gav and Bob stories can be found here, and the sequels by Neal Litherland are linked below:

Gav and Bob: The Emperor's Hand

Gav and Bob: Faith and Martyrs

Gav and Bob: The Laughter of a Thirsting God

Reading the previous entries, or listening to the audio versions available on A Vox in The Void, will be important to put this installment into context.

Screams filled the tunnel, mingling with the discharge of autoguns, and the blistering bark of las rifles. A great and terrible shadow tore through the warriors, a flashing fang of steel in one hand, and a snarling, growling chain ax in the other. Those who stood before him felt no fear, hissing their defiance until the end. They died braver than most traitors, but they died all the same.

As Grenlis plunged his knife into the eye of one of the purple-skinned, ridge-headed abominations, something slammed into him hard enough to send him sprawling. He tucked his shoulder beneath him, snarling as alarms sounded in his helmet, the display showing him the damaged sections of armor, and telling him the bone shelf of his ribs had been fractured… something the Space Wolf already knew. He rolled his his feet, facing a creature who stood eye-to-eye with him, even though its head was hunched down between huge shoulders. Two arms held the primitive power maul it had struck him with… the other two were outstretched toward him as the thing sought to come to grips.

Grenlis didn’t waste words on the thing. He charged, and ducked at the last second, his ax cutting a swathe behind him, catching one of the xenos creature’s hands as it reached for him. Biter growled, and some of the ax’s teeth cracked against the thing’s carapace, but it lost several of its clawed fingers in the bargain. Rather than retreat from the source of its hurt, though, the thing whirled, its hammer rushing through the air as Grenlis leaned back from it. Before he could attack again, though, the thing brought its claws to bear. The astartes parried with his knife, and then with his vambrace, tucking his chin as the genestealer went for the eye lenses of his helmet.

As fierce as the Space Wolf was, and as fast as he was, he could make no inroads against this creature. His bolt pistol had been fired empty hours ago, and he had neither grenades nor mining charges to fling at the thing. His knife had grown dull from the skulls he’d rammed it through, and even his faithful chain ax was slowing down as it lost more teeth. Still he fought, determined that this xenos monster would not have the satisfaction of being his doom.

Grenlis saw an opening, and didn’t realize until it was too late that he’d been caught in a feint.

The creature threw aside its maul, gripping Grenlis’s forearms in its claws. Before he could reverse his momentum the thing’s third arm shot forward, claws ripping into the weak spot beneath Grenlis’s arm. His helmet display screeched a warning, and then white hot pain erupted along his side as the thing stabbed past his protections and into his flesh. His armor shrieked, buckling along its seams, and Grenlis howled as he struggled to break free.

As the creature drew back its arm to strike again, there was a blast of bright light, and the thing shrieked in agony. Its hands spasmodically shot open, dropping Grenlis. The astartes gritted his teeth, bent his knees, and then shot back to his feet, driving his dagger up through the thing’s jaw and into its brain pan. It jerked a few more times, and then slumped, its dead weight dragging Grenlis’s blade out of his half-numbed fingers.

A creature stood on the other side of the cavern. It had the rough form of a man, but was too tall, too poised, and too perfect. Even before Grenlis’s eyes flicked over the runes on its armor, his nose raked in the scent of the being. His helmet’s sophisticated air exchange system couldn’t hide the stink of the creature. His lips drew back over his teeth, and he shifted, facing the eldar. Grenlis raised his chain ax, but the eldar lowered his staff, and held one empty hand up in a halting gesture.

“Hold, Grenlis of the Vlka Fenryka,” the eldar said in smooth, unaccented High Gothic. “I come to aid you, not to harm you.”

“And how does a pointy-eared witch come to know my name?” Grenlis growled. He could feel his body trying to repair the damage to his side, his blood clotting and his skin rapidly scarring over. He kept that arm down, half-crouching as he regarded the eldar. Despite the threat, there was a note of amusement in his voice. Out of the mutiny and into the sea, as his brother sergeant had once said.

“It was given to me by an ogryn named Gav Smythe,” the eldar said. “Along with something he entrusted to my care, and bade me bring to you.”

Grenlis blinked, and shook his head slowly. He’d been prepared for jibes and misdirections, or for more of the eldar’s devilry… but the sound of Gav’s name in the Space Wolf’s ears had the ring of truth. He lowered his weapon cautiously, sliding his finger off the activation rune. Not by much, but enough to show he was listening.

“And what business do you have with Gav Smythe?” Grenlis asked. His voice was quieter now, the amusement gone from it. Wounded or not, outmatched or not, there was a note of danger in the space marine’s tone.

“His fate is entangled with a powerful servant of She Who Thirsts,” the eldar said. “Thrice, now, he had sent it screaming back to the sea of souls, frustrating the plans of its master. It will return for him again, and as a show of good faith, I offered him a gift. And this is what he asked of me.”

The eldar reached behind him with his free hand, and Grenlis tensed. When the eldar drew his hand forth from beneath his cape, though, he held an envelope in one hand. It was bent somewhat at the corners, but Grenlis could read his name on it clear as day, written in a blocky, childish scrawl. The eldar held it out to him, and the astartes found himself crossing the hard-packed dirt of the tunnel, taking the envelope almost in a daze. He opened it, his armored fingers showing dexterity impossible for one without the black carapace, sliding the card out into his hand. He read it, then raised his eyes to the eldar.

“A Sanguinala card?” he asked, confusion warring with awe in his voice. “This is what he asked you to bring me?”

“A thoughtless insult, isn’t it? A humiliation, even.” The eldar shook his head slowly, looking up at the astartes. “But such seemingly small pebbles are what may begin avalanches. For if Gav Smythe had not asked me to find you, and I had not been here, then perhaps this creature would have been the death of you. And if not that one, then others of its brood who still search these tunnels for you.”

“And what will you do?” Grenlis asked. He was close now. Perhaps close enough that he could end the witch before he could react. But the Space Wolf stayed his hand. Those born of Fenris understood honor and debts, and this would be a poor way to repay his… even if no others would ever learn what had transpired here. “Will we face these monsters together, you and I? Slay the infestation ourselves?”

“I think not,” the eldar said, a note of wry amusement in his voice. “However, I can lead you to where the other astartes are. At that point we will part ways. Yours is merely the first of these I must deliver to fulfill my promise.”

“You know my name, eldar,” Grenlis said after a long moment, folding the card before stowing it in one of the empty ammunition pouches on his belt. He never took his eyes off the xeno before him. “I would know yours.”

The eldar reached up with his empty hand, and removed his helmet. The face beneath was one of breathtaking symmetry and perfect lines, unblemished by a single scar. That perfection seemed little more than a mask, though, as his dark, ageless eyes stared up at the space marine. Grenlis felt in that moment as if the xeno could see through his helmet, and into his eyes. Perhaps even into his soul.

“I am Ilandresh Va’thil,” he said, his words ringing like poetry in the space marine’s ears. “I am a Farseer of Craftworld Ulthwe.”

Grenlis felt his mouth slowly drop open in surprise. He stared at the eldar for a long, silent moment. Then laughter, deep, rolling, and unbidden, rushed out of him. It started as a chuckle, but soon grew to a torrent that rang from the walls of the cavern. He laughed until his recently-scarred side threatened to split, and he could taste blood on the back of his tongue. Grenlis turned away from the eldar, shaking his head as he retrieved his knife, wrenching it out of the dead genestealer’s skull with a wet, sucking sound.

“Lead on, if it please you,” Grenlis said, waving a hand at the eldar. “As long as you keep your witchery to yourself, your back is safe from me.”

“I know,” Ilandresh Va’thil said, sliding his helmet back over his head. It seemed to flow over his face, becoming one with his armor without anything so graceless as a click and a connector hiss. He led the way down a side tunnel, one that tilted up. As Grenlis followed, he could hear the sounds of distant battle echoing along the shafts… shouts, las discharge, and bolter fire.

“Gav the Daemonslayer, is it?” Grenlis said, letting out a breathless chuckle as he reversed his grip on his knife. “Gav, friend of the eldar? Now I’ve seen everything.”

***

Major Stolt stood in front of the holographic table, his hands clasped in the small of his back as he stared at the battle projections. A thick-bodied man in battered armor, with his sleeves rolled up to show his scarred, muscular forearms, his dark hair was shot through with gray, and his eyes were as hard and sharp as a Kriegsman’s bayonet. He looked over every gun emplacement, every deployment, and every piece of data displayed on the map in front of him, searching for anything he’d missed before now. Unfortunately, the grim picture painted in bright, clean projection lines didn’t change.

Militarum units from across the Imperium had been summoned to this backwater battlefield, and thanks to his experience fighting daemons (experience which had earned him a promotion), his unit had been called up. Heretic cults had risen on this world, claiming the manufacturing facilities, and denying much-needed resources to the Imperium, while giving those same resources to their foes. The guard had been thrown into the grinder against the heretics and the twisted warp-born things they summoned, the dirt of this world churned to a sloppy mud that swallowed corpses by the thousands every, single day. Stolt had been placed at a crux point in the trench line and told to hold that point with his veteran regiments, reinforced by abhuman auxiliaries. They’d done what they’d been ordered to, no matter what had come at them across no man’s land. But now they were running low on everything; ammunition, food, and most importantly, their morale.

Stolt reached up behind his ear, and took out the lho-stick he’d been saving there. It was his last one. He plugged it between his lips, fished his dented old lighter out of his pocket, and flicked the spark wheel. If his estimation was right, they had another day before the line broke. Two days at the most, unless something changed.

“This war isn’t as hopeless as you seem to think,” a voice from the shadows said. “Victory is right in front of you. You simply lack the ability to see it.”

Stolt’s bolt pistol was in his hand as he whirled toward the speaker. His knuckle was white around the trigger, and he could feel the weapon poised on the edge of firing. He also knew that he had two rounds left in the thing, and he couldn’t afford to use them unless he was absolutely sure of his target. He saw someone standing in the shadows, but in the dimness of the bunker he couldn’t make them out.

“I dismissed all personnel,” Stolt said, removing his smoke with his free hand as he narrowed his eyes. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?”

“I am a messenger on behalf of the inquisition,” the voice said, a twist of dry amusement just under the surface. A hand emerged into the light, holding an over-sized envelope. “But I also have information you need.”

Stolt’s hand was steady as a rock as he pointed his weapon at the interloper. He took another puff off his coffin nail, and frowned. Then he pointed at the command table. “Lay it there.”

The shadowy figure stepped further into the room. He was tall, and rangy, the bulk of him covered in a thick cloak. He moved without sound, and with a smooth grace Stolt found off-putting. He laid the envelope down as Stolt indicated, but took one step closer. Stolt took a step back, but the mysterious messenger paid no mind to either the major, or his weapon. Instead, his gloved fingers danced over the keys, shifting the view of the trench line the projector was displaying. The display now showed the far end of Stolt’s part of the trench, which was furthest from the enemy’s forward position. The figure raised a hand, and pointed a slender finger at designation E-73; a place that had been spewing daemons for weeks.

“Here,” he said, an undeniable smile in his voice. “Muster your men, and direct them at this position in one hour’s time. Send the Gyrinx-shaped ones first, and then the ogryns. Reinforce them with the ratlings, and then flood the breech with the rest of your men, leaving a garrison here to hold the line.”

“And why,” Stolt said, his upper lip curling like a threatened street mongrel. “Should I do that?”

The figure turned, and looked down at Stolt. The major had stood against heretic cults who’d bayed for his blood, driven on by a madness he could not hope to understand. He had stared into the eyes of daemons, and heard the sound of their silent whispers clawing at the corners of his consciousness as they tried to pry open his mind. He had witnessed firsthand the power of a traitor astartes as it had torn through men like they were tissue paper, leaving a wake of broken bodies behind him. Stolt was as hardened as any commander who had survived the front lines, and seen the horrors birthed in the darkest parts of this cruel, uncaring galaxy.

Staring into what lurked beneath that hood put ice water in Stolt’s veins, and sent something deep in the buried reaches of his mind scrabbling at his skull as it tried to tunnel its way out.

The being had no face… or at least no face that Stolt could see. A long, bone white mask lurked beneath the hood, the mouth turned down in an exaggerated frown. The eyes were empty, black holes, and despite the fact that Stolt could see nothing behind them, he could feel the weight of the thing’s gaze as it regarded him the way a man might regard a small, harmless rodent. The edges of the hood sat across a pair of perfectly curved horns that slid up from the mask’s brow.

“You should do it because it will be the best chance you have of ending this conflict with a single, hammer blow,” the masked figure said. And though the mask wore a frown, a smile bled into the voice behind it. “Because once I have killed the sentries, and given you your opportunity, there will be no one to stop you. And if you wait more than an hour, they will have time to complete their next ritual… if that happens, there will be nothing you, or anyone else on your side of the battlefield, will be able to do to stop them.”

The cloaked figure pressed one more button on the console, and a timer flickered into life on the map projection. Numbers began counting down, the one hour mark flicking to 59 minutes, the seconds ticking down relentlessly. Stolt flicked his eyes to the counter, and back to the figure… but it was gone. Stolt spun, his bolt pistol looking for a target, but he was alone in the command bunker once more. All he could hear was a vague whisper of laughter, and a swirl of color he was certain was an afterimage, or a product of his sleep-deprived brain.

Stolt flicked the safety back on his weapon before sliding it back into his holster. He took one more drag off the burning stub of his smoke, and then picked up the envelope. It was bulky, worn around the edges, and stained in some places. There was no wax seal, just a simple strip of glue, and his name written in blocky letters. Stolt ran his finger under the fold, tearing it, and slid out what was inside.

He’d been expecting some sort of official communication from an inquisitor. A set of marching orders that had to be hand-delivered by a member of the retinue. Even something as simple as the name and declaration of the inquisitor in-question, informing Stolt of the new scope of his responsibilities. But what he found was something even more important. It was perhaps the only thing that could have allayed the mistrust in his heart, and curled the corners of his lips up into a smile. It was an expression that looked unfamiliar on the grizzled officer’s face, but that didn’t seem to bother him.

“Gav you sonuvabitch,” Stolt said, the phrase compacted into a single word as he laughed, and opened the garish, red Sanguinala card to read the brief well-wishes inside of it. He was still chuckling as he swept his eyes over the map one last time. He nodded, and then picked up the handset of his vox unit. “Jasper, Brutus, and Markley, this is Stolt. Turn out the troops. I want them upright, dressed, and armed in 15 minutes. Rendezvous with me at the bunker, and I’ll brief you when you get here.”

Stolt waited for a long moment, listening for the grunts and grumbles confirming that his subordinate officers had heard him, and were complying. His eyes fell on the card, and he laughed again, tossing his smoke onto the floor and grinding it out under his boot.

“Happy Sanguinala, Gav,” he said, picking up his helmet and strapping it on. He made a note to send the ogryn a thank you card, and a medal, if he made it through the night.

***

The sun was going down over the ocean, the last rays of deep, bloody red painting the waters before they were swallowed by the waves. The last echoes had died from the firing range, and the clash of blades was just a memory of the day gone past. As darkness fell, the night lumens flickered into life along the compound of Sanctorum Verdis. The choir was practicing their evening hymns, and shadows were cast along the walls as the sisters all found ways to spend what little time they were given for themselves.

Faith had wanted to be alone. The ogryn was sitting on the hard dirt of the practice yard, her head resting on the low wall that ran in a wide oval around it while she stared up at the sky and watched the stars come out. One by one they winked into existence in the black canvas above, only a few of them hidden by scudding clouds. Faith reached into the bowl in her lap, and plucked something out of it. She tossed it into her mouth, and crunched down on the deep-fried potato skin. It was oily, salty, and it tasted like an emotion Faith didn’t have words for. She ate another one, but found it hard to swallow.

“I couldn’t save any for you, Gav,” she said, finding there was a sniffle in her voice. “But I’ll ask Sister Elora to make some fresh when you come visit.”

Faith took a deep breath, letting it fill her chest and belly with air. She held it for a moment, and then let it out. It was something she’d been taught when she was first allowed to pick up a sword as a way to calm herself. She didn’t know why she’d need that, because usually if you have a sword in your hand you don’t want to be calm, but Trianna had told her to do it time and time again until Faith remembered it. She was glad she had, because when she breathed properly the feeling squeezing her heart was a little less tight. The pain in her belly also receded to the point where she didn’t notice it much anymore.

She’d been coming out here every night for the past month or so, and just staring up at the sky. Sometimes she’d talk to the stars, telling them what had happened that day. She talked about how Sister Ranna had her tattoo now, and about how hard she was training. She talked about how a man in a big coat with a mean look on his face, who had the same necklace with a skull and a big letter I behind it, had come to talk to Trianna a few months after Gav had left. Faith didn’t understand what he said, he was talking like Trianna did when she said the prayers before dinner, but the man had stomped off afterward. Trianna had doubled the night guard after that, and insisted that Faith stay nearby. Nothing had happened, though, and eventually things went back to normal.

“I miss you,” Faith said to the sky. “I hope you miss me, too.”

“You may be seeing Gav sooner than you expect to, Faith,” a voice said.

Faith leaped to her feet, adrenaline coursing through her veins. She reached for her sword on reflex, but the blade wasn’t there; she’d locked it back in the armory when she’d finished training with it. She whirled, her eyes wide, nostrils flaring as she looked for who had spoken. Between one breath and another, she saw a cloaked figure with a staff in one hand, and his other arm tucked up close to his side. Weapon was the word that entered Faith’s head, her mind barking it in the voice of the canoness confessor who had honed her fighting instincts to a sharp edge.

Faith hurled the heavy steel mixing bowl she’d been eating out of at the figure. The metal had barely left her fingers, though, when he moved, his hand shooting out to catch the bowl like they were playing some kind of game. Something fluttered out from under his cloak, but Faith wasn’t thinking about that. She rushed forward, her lips pulled back in a snarl and her arm cocked back. The punch she threw hit nothing but air, though, and she stumbled.

“Please,” the figure said, but Faith was already whirling toward him, growling like an angered attack dog.

She lashed out with one, heavy boot. She didn’t connect, but before she could bring her foot back down she felt the staff shoved up against the underside of her calf, and the figure pushed. Faith’s balance, already off from the intensity of her attack, skewed. She tried to right herself, or to strike out at the figure again, but before she could the ground rushed up to meet her. She landed on her back, hard enough to drive the wind out of her lungs, and leave her gasping.

“Please,” the figure repeated, his voice a little tighter now. “I bring you a gift. From Gav.”

Faith blinked, staring up at the stars. They were out of focus, and she was beginning to wonder if she’d hit her head on a rock. She had to be hearing things. She’d never seen whoever this was before, and she’d never heard his voice, either. But here he was, talking like he knew her. Like he knew Gav. A breeze blew across Faith’s face, and her vision snapped into clear focus. The man in the cloak was standing just out of her reach, and holding something out to her. It was wide, and thin, the edges crumpled, and the paper dirty from where it had fallen on the ground. Faith blinked, and frowned at it.

“What’s that?” Faith demanded, her voice slurring slightly.

“Gav called it a Sanguinala card,” the cloaked figure said.

“You’re a bit late,” Faith said. She sat up slowly, pressing one hand to her head. She could feel a goose egg forming on the back of her skull. She pressed her fingers harder against her head, but nothing shifted beneath her grip. When she pulled her hand away, she saw there wasn’t even any blood. She reached out, and took the envelope, frowning at it.

“The inquisitor who was here earlier was causing problems for me,” the man said. “He doesn’t want me to finish this task. I had to wait for his measures to falter before I could safely come to give this to you.”

Faith nodded, as if she understood what all of that meant. She dug her finger under the flap, and opened up the envelope. She was careful, pulling the card out and looking at it. It was red, with pretty decorations on it. She touched her tongue to her lips, and as she ran her fingers over the embossed shapes, she felt tears in her eyes, and in her nose. She opened the card. A pair of tears spilled over her lashes, running down her face. She sniffled.

“Would you like me to... leave you?” the man in the cloak asked. Faith turned, and looked at him. He was tall enough that Faith had to look up at him from where she was sitting. That made him taller than any of the sisters… out of their armor, at least. Faith wiped her nose on her forearm, and held the card up in one hand.

“Could you… read it to me?” Faith asked. She seemed embarrassed and hopeful all at once. “I could ask Trianna, but it’s late, and she’s probably asleep, and she’ll want to know where I got it…”

Tears were running freely down Faith’s cheeks now, dripping off her chin. The cloaked figure simply nodded, and took the card. Faith shifted to face him, her hands resting on her knees. In less than a minute she’d gone from a rampaging giant, to a child eager to be read a story.

“Dear Faith,” the figure said, reading in a calm, clear voice. “I hope you’re doing well. I’m not allowed to tell you about the things I’m doing with Traela, but I’m still alive, and still fighting. I think about you a lot. I hope I can see you again soon, and that you didn’t forget me. I don’t know when you’re getting this, but it’s probably late. I’m sorry about that. Love, Gav.”

The cloaked figure offered Faith the card back. She took it carefully, and then offered her other hand to him. The figure hesitated, and then reached out and pressed his palm against Faith’s. There was a spark on the air, and for just a moment she saw his perfect cheekbones, strong chin, and wide, dark eyes. He gasped, and even though Faith couldn’t see his eyes anymore, she knew he was staring into her face.

“You’re pregnant,” the Farseer said. Faith snorted a laugh, and wiped her cheeks with her palms.

“Of course I am,” Faith said, rubbing at her belly. Then, very gently, as if she were explaining something to a child, she added, “We tried very hard, Gav and me.”

“Have you told him yet?” the Farseer asked. Then, before Faith could answer, he answered his own question. “No, of course not. How would you get a message to him?”

“Are you going to see him soon?” Faith asked. “Would you tell him for me? Please?”

This time the Farseer patted Faith’s hand, giving one of the ogryn’s huge fingers a squeeze. “I will. You have my word.”

***

A servitor walked the halls of the medicae facility, attending to its duties. The only sounds it made were the hiss of locomotion pistons, and the soft counterpoint of ragged breathing as it sucked in air, and blew out depleted carbon dioxide. Its hair hung lank from its scalp, and the scars along its limbs were a pale pink, long healed over from the installation process. Its eyes were cloudy, barely able to see, but it followed its simple programming. It shuffled from room to room, carrying linens, cleaning messes, and smiling at patients. Or, at least, it tried to smile. Its cracked lips and damaged teeth had been deemed aesthetic damage, and not important enough to warrant repair by the resident tech adepts who serviced the labor force at the facility.

The servitor hefted a heavy, canvas bag of blood and bile-stained linens, transporting them to the chutes that led to the laundry below. As it strained something inside it whined, and a red, warning sigil lit up in its internal display. Damage had been done to one of the main cable lines that ran through the shoulder joint and into the fiber bundles of the arm. Streams of data ran along the display, recording every moment of pain that flashed through the cyborg’s system. The servitor paused before opening the laundry chute door with its good arm. It spread its legs, bent, and gripped the bundle. It straightened explosively, machinery whirring and muscles flexing as it hoisted the bag, flinging it into the chute. It slammed into the back wall of the metal throat, tumbling down violently. Such a maneuver was not part of the servitor’s programming. Nor was the hard, sharp smile it wore as the thing closed the chute, and turned to report to the docking bay for maintenance. Or, more likely, to wait until someone noticed it required maintenance.

A route picked itself out in the servitor’s internal display module. Three steps into the hallway. Turn south. Follow the corridor for 36 rooms. If construction parameters allow, take the stairs down in order to keep elevators free of unnecessary traffic. If construction parameters do not allow safe passage, re-route to the freight elevator in the southwest wing. The servitor followed the path laid out for it, moving with the stuttering grace of an old, clockwork ballerina that had seen better days. It reached the stairway in question, and found that it was currently roped-off. It paused, and shifted, engaging the secondary pathfinding as it sought the shortest route to the freight elevator.

When the servitor reached the branching hallway that led to the elevator, it saw something; a trail of strange colors that lingered in the air like an oil-stained rainbow. It raised its head, pausing the directive to return to the maintenance bay. It watched as the colors faded from view, a trail of them disappearing into a room at the end of the hallway. It had no record of this phenomenon. It was not part of the servitor’s programming to investigate such things. Despite that, though, it kept walking, following where the trail had been, and approaching the door at the end of the hall. It was ajar, and nothing but darkness loomed within.

The servitor lingered a moment longer, balanced on the threshold. Then despite all the alarm bells, and all the program’s demands pulling at its body and brain, it stepped into the darkness. It took a second step, then a third. A fourth step brought it to the opposite wall. It turned its head to the left, then the right, but saw nothing. When the servitor reversed its steps, though, a figure stood where there had been none before.

It was tall, and lean, a cloak covering its form, and a hood drawn up over its head. The servitor’s ocular implants ran a scan over it, but it matched no known personnel or patients. So the servitor did what it always did when presented with someone it did not recognize. It straightened, pushed back its shoulders, and raised its head. It smiled, pulling back ragged lips to expose its stained teeth and darkening gums.

“Hello, Sir,” the servitor said in a ragged, grinding voice. “How may I assist you today?”

A small light bloomed from the figure. The glow seemed to come from one hand as the other drew out an oversized envelope. The light illuminated beneath the cowl, revealing a stiff, white mask. The mouth was drawn up into an oversized, exaggerated smile, and the eyes were narrowed with merriment. The voice that slid between those laughing lips, though, was soft, and oddly formal. He spoke the way one might speak as part of a funeral dirge.

“I come in search of the one named Tala, the Sister of Battle who once stood before a servant of She Who Thirsts, and fought it with little more than courage, and conviction,” the figure said. With a flourish, a small blade appeared in his hand, and he slit the envelope open. “I come to deliver the greetings and well-wishes of Gav Smythe, a name that is well-known to you.”

The servitor’s smile faltered. It had heard the name Tala before. Glitches and errors began running through its subroutines as it sought some kind of polite response. The person had not asked a question, but made a statement, and statements required no answer. Then it said that other name. The clouded eyes widened, and the servitor drew another breath to speak. Its smile, which had been faltering, returned.

“Gav Smythe was once a patient here,” the servitor said. “But no longer. We are pleased he is well.”

The figure slid long, gloved fingers into the envelop, and withdrew a card. In the pale light, it shone a deep red. There were small, gold bells drawn on it. They were bold, round, and formed from several layers of wax. He flipped the card open in one hand, and intoned the words written inside.

“Tala,” he said. “Merry Sanguinala! I know I haven’t written you before, and I’m sorry about that. Grint’s been helping me, though. I can’t tell you what I’ve been doing, or where I’ve been, but I’m doing the Emperor’s work. I finally got used to my new arm, and so far I’ve managed to keep all the other parts of me. I hope they fixed your eyes, and that you don’t have any trouble reading this. Wanted you to know I never forgot you. Much love, Gav.”

The figure closed the card, and carefully slid it back inside the envelope. The servitor stood there, still as a statue. A whirring noise came from deep in its body cavity. Its mouth began to twitch, and the muscles of the face convulsed. A tear ran from one eye, saltwater mixed with a bright sheen of oil. The figure closed its hand, and the light went out.

“G-G-Gav,” the servitor stuttered. “I-I-I…”

“Your Imperium has shamed you,” the figure said. It stepped closer to the servitor. The servitor’s eyes blinked furiously, tears running down its face as something inside of it clawed its way back from the blackness. Something that had been smothered so thoroughly, and for so long, that the tech adepts and labor masters were all certain she’d drowned. The servitor’s uninjured hand groped in the darkness, and the solitaire slid his fingers in between hers. “You were brave, and you fought against a thing that we unleashed onto this galaxy. You stood when others fell, and this is how they chose to repay you. You deserve better than this.”

There was a flash in the darkness. The servitor’s mouth went slack. Blood burbled over the ravaged lips, and ran from the rent in her throat. The internal warning bells sounded louder, but there was nothing the implanted cybernetics could do. Tala’s new form had not been built for battle, and armored with fail safes. No, she had been imprisoned in her own body, and left to do empty, repetitive, menial tasks. And now, all the mechanisms that kept her bound within herself could do was seize up as her blood stopped pumping, and the oil that lubricated the necessary components ran into a puddle on the floor. Even as she went limp, and her final breath rattled in her ruined throat, the solitaire did not let her go. He held her, and sang to her a song few had ever heard. It was the song of what his people had done, so long ago, and how her deeds had helped push back that tide of darkness even a little. When she was well and truly gone, he laid her on the bed, and crossed her arms over Gav’s card.

“Flee this prison, now,” he said to her just as stumping, shuffling steps came from out in the hallway. “And may you find what you were denied among the sea of souls.”

(This story has been made into an audio drama over on the YouTube channel A Vox in The Void!)

More Stories From Neal Litherland

If you enjoyed this tale, then please consider leaving a comment or a like, and sharing it with other readers! This is the latest installment of my Table Talk series, and if you wish to help me keep putting out new stories then consider becoming a Patreon patron, or just buying me a Ko-Fi as a way to put a tip in my jar for a job well done!

But if you're in the mood for more of my stories, check out some of the following examples!

- Old Soldiers: The Hyperion Conflict devastated the planet, but humanity survived. So, too, did the Myrmidon; genetically-engineered shock troopers who stood on the front lines of the war. Pollux has been trying to escape the horrors of that war for a decade, now, and he may be able to do so... until a shadowy conspiracy makes a move on him. Reassembling the remains of his old squad, he prepares to do what he was made to do, but there is a question in the back of his mind. Is this really happening, or is it all in his head?

- Where The Red Flowers Bloom: When Japanese forces sent a small garrison to an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, none of them expected to so much as see the enemy before the end of the war. But there is something on the island... something more dangerous than an entire fleet of American warships. Something that bullets simply will not kill.

- Broken Heroes: Rann was sent out to retrieve a lost weapon, but now he and the squad who came with him are surrounded by the colossal, insectoid creatures that claimed the forest. When a brave act crashes him through the ground and into an ancient bunker, he finds something far more potent than he could ever have hoped for... something that wants to finish the fight it started so long ago.

- Field Test: When Inquisitor Hargrave came to the world of New Canaan a few days ahead of an ork rok, she promised them a weapon that would destroy the greenskins. When that weapon was unleashed, though, none could have predicted just how powerful, or how dangerous, he truly was.

- Beyond The Black: The Emperor's Hand: Gav Smythe has fought daemons and traitors in the Emperor's name all his life... but this may be the greatest challenge the ogryn has yet faced!

- Gav and Bob Part V: Faith and Martyrs: The Imperium's bravest ogryn sits down to talk with a canoness confessor of the Adeptus Sororitas. She will weigh his sanity, and his soul, and Gav may just find some of the peace he didn't know he was seeking.

- Waking Dogs- A World Eaters Tale: For my fans of Warhammer 40K, this is a story I felt compelled to tell about one of the infamous World Eaters remembering who he once was.

- Broken Chains- A World Eaters Tale: The sequel to Waking Dogs, we see that Crixus is taking his personal crusade seriously. Word is beginning to spread of his deeds, and his old sergeant Atillus realizes that the time may have come for him to pay for the decisions he made so very long ago.

- Waking Dogs Part Three - Warhounds: Crixus is captured by a band of his former brothers, and forced into the arena to fight for his life. Will this be his end, or will the old war hound manage to fight his way free?

- The Final Lamentation: When a member of the Lamenters is captured by the Black Legion and taken onboard their ship, the war band learns too late that he isn't trapped in here with them... they're trapped in here with him, and all the terrible curses of his chapter's bloodline.