Wrote up a snippet of my new RP character, Benten Killigrew, interacting with some Sister of Silence, early in the Great Crusade. Don’t know why I decided “my chatacter actually unusually OOC” was a good place to start writing, but whatever, I was in an airport and suddenly realized all my electronic equipment was about to die and neither I nor anyone else there was getting anywhere anytime soon and I had a notebook. [PG, gen]

***

The Space Marine lounged on his golden throne, knees thrown over the gilded armrest and his helmeted head resting on the other. He studied the ceiling, studied the dyed porcupine-fish quill in his hand, studied the ceiling again, then tossed it upward like a dart to slam five centimetres into the already-pitted wood.

No. While it had impacted exactly where he had intended it to, the colour gradient wasn’t quite right. The water had been darker that day, the shadows sharper where the kraken had breached the surface. Oh well, he was a poor artist. He would pull that whole section out later and try again.

He considered finding something to read, but all the previous occupants had kept around were technical manuals on hydralic fracking or porno slates. He selected another quill from a nearby bowl. Might as well get more practice in anyway.

A liveried footman let himself in and coughed his attention, attempting a salute that made his lack of history in the military clear. Killigrew waved a hand without making any move to come to attention himself.

‘Lord, an Imperial delegation has requested permission to dock.’ Likely a euphemism–Imperials did not request, they demanded.

‘My brothers?’ he asked, sounding bored. He did not correct the semantic that they too were an Imperial force. ‘Us’ was the fleet that had sworn to him after he’d killed their leaders, or had seen the way the tide was going. ‘Them’ were the holdout oil barons and pirate kings and ore-dredger citadels, and few enough of those left or he wouldn’t be so bored. ‘Imperials’ were off-worlders.

‘No, lord. Not Astartes from the hives. They have not sent word since your last status request.’ A tersely worded line to mind his own business that had been.

‘Terran bureaucrats? Representatives of the War Council or Sigillite? Iterators?’ Then he could hand over command and move on.

‘No, lord. Leastways I don’t think so. Their comm officer, real young girl that, said it was a social call from a force passing through port who’d been told their services were not needed. Called them Sisters of Silence.’

Killigrew was already past the man before he finished speaking. ‘They are my guests. Alert the household staff they’re to be treated like queens.’

*

Killigrew went without his power-armour to meet the delegation. Battle-sign was made to be performed in armour, and his gauntlets were remarkably dextrous for their martial strength, but bare arms and face made for intimate, nuanced conversation.

He was dressed in his favourite jacket, russet fabric heavy with gold braid and buttons. His hate was a tricorn monstrosity on his freshly combed black hair, with an enormous feather. He wore a king’s ransom in jewelry–rings on each finger, catching the light with each movement; bronze and copper hoops and studs up his ears and in his brow; aquila pendants and broaches glittering.

The Sisters were short and slight in comparison still. His retainers wondered at it, for though they had seen their lord’s amusement before, his smirk, they had never seen him display such an emotion as affection before. His sisters, he had called them, rather than his women like the harems kept by most pirate kings and queens. They had gotten used to him, as people got used to how Astartes were–terrifying, horrible, transhuman. These women were not Astartes, yet something about made the scene even more inexplicable–they did not deserve affection.

Killigrew saw only that they didn’t flinch–that tiny, unconscious moment of revulsion everyone who met him felt, more noticeable in its absence than presence.

:Sister Amarita, is that a new scar across your eye? Very dashing.:

:May you be clawed across the face if you wish ‘dashin’ too, you pirate.:

:What can I say? A significant amount of this planet’s industrial output comes from its offshore mining operations and manufactoria, or is carried by its merchant fleets. Someone had to secure them while our main forces took the hives.:

Unmentioned went that dozens of Astartes were working in concert elsewhere on the planet, while it just so happened to have been him assigned to a duty that was lacking in glory, distant, and unsupported.

:We are told compliance will be declared soon.:

He shrugged, communicating clearly that they’d been told as much as he had then.

:I’m glad you saw my code in the personnel manifests.:

:It is always good to see a brother while our cutter refuels.:

*

They dined in a hall richly decorated with tapestries and cut-crystal chandeliers. The Sisters’ chairs were elegantly carved ebony, richly cushioned, while the Astartes took a blocky bench more suited to his weight, even unarmoured.

The candelabras were gold, the plates porcelain, the cutlery silver. The food was exquisitive in taste and artful in preparation.

:This hardly seems something an Astartes would concern himself with,: Sister Theliope commented, fork in her other hand, one of Amarita’s sisters he’d met before so she was comfortable enough opening conversation.

:My chefs served the previous pirate king here. They were terrified of being killed, of course, but also of finding themselves without employment. So I told them they could stay. Why bring new people in to figure out supply lines over those that already existed? Why not use what I have?:

:I know few civilians, but it did always seem to me that most people don’t care in the least which overlord their taxes and tithes are going to, as long their lives don’t change. Astartes can kill a few of their leaders and leave them to get on with it and they’ll be compliant.: Amarita shrugged. :Not that conquest or rule are my business.:

:I suppose it makes sense to make use of the resources at your disposal,: Theliope conceded. :The Emperor, beloved of all, hardly preaches austerity as the highest virtue. I’ve seen the Palace.:

:You haven’t seen the half of it,: he gestured expansively. :Well, it’s not Palace of Terra, but you haven’t seen the half of it.:

*

Diamonds, in piles. Emeralds strewn with reckless abandon. Gold bars, platinum ingots, chests of fine silks and fragrant spices. There was no organisation to it, no way of finding any particular thing unless you knew where it was. Nothing was display, simply tossed to the ground, on top of other things, like trash.

Killigrew pushed aside a stack of bolts of fabric woven so fine each layer was transparent absent-mindedly, digging around in a chest of gold coins to produce a mastercrafted power-sword.

:For you, Knight-Centura. The blade of the tyrant of Promethium Refinery Gamma-Delta. Take it. It’s sized for the unaugmented anyway, would only be an awkward dagger for me.:

:It’s a fine sword. Thank you, brother.:

:All of you, feel free to take anything. As much as you can carry.:

The women broke out of their trances, having been captivated trying to pick out individual items in the junk. A sword was one thing, swords were their work, but… :We shouldn’t,: one of the younger sisters who hadn’t been left on the ship with the novices signed. :We renounced normal life, personal property, to serve the Emperor as his Null Maidens.:

:You don’t need to bribe us,: one of the sisters said with a kind expression. :You don’t have to make us pretend to like you.:

Killigrew shook his head. :You have it wrong. I want you to have it, but that’s not why. Do you know why I have this?:

:You took it from those you brought into compliance or were tithed it as tribute?:

:That’s how. I sent requests to the Army, to logistics.: The word ‘Munitorium’ didn’t exist yet. :They tell me they can’t route me any more munitions. My brothers say I don’t need any more, or their need is greater. My bolter is out of rounds. So I sell this stuff.: He waved an arm. :So much of it I have. You wouldn’t believe how many material possessions despots accumulate over the years. So much I can’t arrange the logistics of getting rid of it as fast as I get it. But there are people out there who have decided shiny rocks are valuable. You give them a rock and they give you a gun. I equip my fleet myself. I trade with powers not worth the fight of conquering, like Terra and Mars.

:That’s why I want you to have this. Insurance. For when the local authorities forget the Emperor’s will and get in the way of you doing it. His authority will be restored in the long term, but that’s no consolation when the short term is all you have. It’s not stealing from the Imperium–we live to serve the Emperor, so preserving our lives in anticipation of better use, a more useful death–is service to the Imperium.

:So, uh, please partake of this bounty. Because of what we are. So you have something on you you can pawn. In case someday that’s what saves you. People like money, whoever’s hand it’s in.:

:Thank you, Ben.: Amarita put a hand on his arm to draw the movement to a close. :Let us not let our host’s generosity and understanding go to waste.:

*

Later, they gossiped. Killigrew sat low to the floor to loom less, uncaring of gems crushed or scratched by his weight. There were always more.

The junior sisters openly admired themselves in silver-backed mirrors and played with fancy cosmetics and ointments, while the senior ones did so more surreptitiously. Why shouldn’t they? They had permission. He was vainer than most of them but had had longer to explore his hoard.

:There were witches in a leper hospital on Beta Centauri. They made rotting things walk, dead but not dead. The Army had to use plasma on them, not swords or bolters, for those just spread them over a larger area. Where we touched, their slimes became merely misshapen proteins suspended in mucus or pus.:

:There were trees made of children’s bloody handprints. But we touched them and they became flowers red and fragrant, and leaves and branches and bark. We dug up every root and seed and burned them.:

:They released a kraken against my fleet. The idea of a kraken, a legend of a monster from the deep, a ship-killer. The sorcerers prayed to it and drowned sacrifices to it. I took a concept and turned it into a big fish. Then it was just meat and I killed it.:

These topics were proscribed, secrets and mysteries of the Sisterhood, but they treated him as one of them in this. It felt good–Astartes were wired to crave brotherhood, even if he’d spent years teaching himself to suppress the urge. He’d never felt a fraction as comfortable–his affection reciprocated–among his blood-brothers as among his sworn-sisters.

:I’ve heard another primarch’s been found.:

:Which is it?: He’d have heard if it had been his, he reminded himself to curtail his automatic spike of anticipation. Besides, it would probably be underwhelming compared to how people talked. Some psychic phenomena. :Is he as unnecessarily tall as Horus?:

:VI, and I have no idea.:

The VIth were a tightly knit group. Few of them, no one said geneseed degradation above a whisper, but people noticed that some bloodlines sure had more living neophytes out of their allocations of aspirants. All Astartes were brothers but some were more brothers than others. Yet he’d never felt particularly closer to those few who were designated to one day be Legion II than to the First or other prototypes. :Good for them, I suppose.:

*

The Sisters left as quickly, and quietly, as they’d arrived. Killigrew watched the ocean after their flier had gone further than his enhanced eyesight could follow, past the curve of the horizon. No one dared to disturb him, or cared to.

He shook his head at himself. Looking back, he was as close to embarrassed as Astartes commonly got. Like a damn puppy so eager it was likely to piss itself. Close it down, lock it away. Be the person he had chosen to be. Someone who liked what he did and how he did it and was good at it. Someone who didn’t need anyone and didn’t want them. Someone quite happy to be disliked through his own merits rather than those outside his control. Someone who could work with people if they fit into a role in his dastardly privateer drama, but had no patience for or interest in those who wouldn’t play along. An Astartes needed no weakness.

He levered himself back up on the golden throne atop a pile of loot that he had built for himself. Out here, he could do anything he wanted, and this was what he had done. Everything he wanted.