CONTENT WARNING: Yeah this gets pretty dark in places. Murder, bigotry, genocide, etc, all the general 'the imperium is terrible tropes' you probably expect. However, towards the end there is a scene that may call to mind certain forms of SA (forced stripping and bodily inspections), so I would advise once you get to the section about the first mate being called to the captains office to skip to the part where conventional violence starts if you're sensitive to SA.
HEREIN THIS SCROLL IS THE SUM TOTAL OF ALL CURRENTLY DECLASSIFIED RECORDS SALVAGED FROM THE VESSEL THE XANAX'S PROSPERITY, A GOTHIC CLASS CRUISER.
The Last Voyage of the St. Xanax's Prosperity
The Journal of Captain Harb Goldengun, Captain of St. Xanax's Prosperity
Dear ledger, I have discovered news most unwelcome. Our ship is to be sent into the Carthago Sector, to join the crusade fleet against the vile Nukerats. The men don't know yet: I don't expect the officers to raise any trouble, but the menials and mid-crew…The men I doubt will take the news as well. Their thoughts like my own will no doubt be troubled by both rumors and their own recollection of ships that have emerged from that accursed stretch. The ships overgrown with barbed barnacles, requiring full decontaminations and application of the rite of phosphex cleansing. The stories of plagues of mutation, spreading among all but the most faithful and warping their flesh, forcing terrible losses even on successful battles. The tales of terrible sea witches drowning entire decks under terrible deluges and casting terrible curses upon ships that have earned their ire and damning souls to the dark depths.
To die in the service of the Emperor is, of course, a glory, and to keep the morale of the men up I will do my best to appear unphased by this turn of events, but I will likely need to find a way to keep the crew in line. With our destination changed, we should have a surplus of goods that no longer have their destination: I will distribute as either payment or additional rations to crew with sufficient seniority. Hopefully that will keep morale high enough that I will only need to make a few examples of disobedient crew.
I will attempt to discuss with the crew what might be done. Unless a solution presents itself, however, we will have to pray to the God Emperor and hope he deems us worthy.
…
Personal Ledger of Joishua Dredd, Helmsman
The captain has gone mad. We have been ordered to be sent to the gates of apurgitory to join St. Commodus' Crusade, and when he tells us this, he acts as if he's merely received an inconvenient summons to wreck pirates, and then proceeds to tell the officers they're receiving extra pay and we're butchering the shipment of Tigrisoids meant for the Lord Protectors personal zoo for extra rations.
Were he simply confident it would be one thing, but the Captain acts as if fighting our most hated and dreadful enemy in the nearby sectors carries the same importance as going to war with greenskin pirates or stamping out a rebellious civilized world.
When asked how he intends to protect the crew, the fool blithely responded that they would be protected by the god emperor should they remain faithful enough. Perhaps that might very well work for his own apparently unshakeable faith, but I find myself far more skeptical. I have begun confiscating as many talismans of the Emperor as I can from those below-decks under the guise of freeing the menials from false icons: I am currently working on sewing them inside the lining of my jacket. Emperor willing, this will be enough to keep me safe. I'm going to repeat the process with my bedding, my shoes, and I intend to have the ships priest bless the wine in my flask: I have not survived this long by not taking precautions. I have cautioned those of my allies among the officers to take the same precautions, though I suspect the only one being as thorough is the first mate, who seemed even more alarmed by this turn of news than I. Hopefully, they take this seriously.
Notes from High Engiseer Alberto Lovelace's Personal Dataslate
HELMSMAN HAS GONE MAD. THEY HAVE BEGUN HOARDING RANDOM GARBAGE SEIZED FROM THE CREW. THEY THINK WE DON'T HEAR THE TRINKETS CLINKING IN THEIR JACKET OR KNOW THEY'VE BEEN STUFFING THEM IN THEIR PILLOW. WE DO. UNKNOWN HOW TO BROACH THIS: HAVE FILED FORMAL COMPLAINT WITH CAPTAIN, WHO HAS RESPONDED BY FOLLOWING EXAMPLE. TEKKET PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE WORKING WITHIN PREDICTED PARAMETERS. CREW MORALE DROPPING CONSIDERABLY. EFFORT THAT COULD BE SPENT VENERATING THE MACHINES IN ORDER TO DESTROY ENEMIES SWIFTLY TO AVOID CURSES INSTEAD BEING WASTED ON PARANOID ATTEMPTS AT SUPERNATURAL PROTECTION IN THE FORM OF HARASSING THE MENIALS.
I MEANWHILE HAVE BEEN PRODUCTIVE: I HAVE INSTALLED ON MOST CRITICAL DECKS WATER PUMPS DESIGNED TO REMOVE ANY BILGE FLOODS. THESE WATER PUMPS WILL BE PROTECTED BY SERVITORS EQUIPPED WITH LIGHT FLAMER WEAPONRY TO PREVENT BARNACLEIZATION. FURTHER, I HAVE BEGUN INSTALLING AUGMENTATIONS INTO THE FORMS OF THOSE AMONG THE CREW WHO HAVE PROVEN TO BE ALLIES TO MYSELF AND THE SPIRITS OF THE MACHINE IN ORDER TO PROOF THEM AGAINST MUTATIONS. I WILL ALSO WORK TO INCREASE OUR STOCK OF SERVITORS IN ORDER TO PRECEDE THE INEVITABLE COLLAPSE OF MORALE AMONG THE MENIALS.
BY THE TIME WE ARRIVE IN THE CARTHAGO SECTOR IN A FEW MONTHS TIME, I ESTIMATE THAT THE INSTALLATIONS SHOULD BE MOSTLY COMPLETE ASSUMING NO ONE DOES ANYTHING STUPID.
Journal of Lucian St. Valentinus, Ship Minister.
The Engiseer has gone mad! He's decided to turn a full tenth of the crew into servitors, and worse, the Captain has decided to go along with this! Can't that fool see that Lovelace is preparing to overthrow him? Why else would he want so many of those horrid machines, why else would he be so eager to install cybernetics in his 'allies', and for what other purpose would he create these so-termed 'water pumps' AND have them guarded by automata equipped with flamethrowers?!
He claims these countermeasures to help proof us against the foul magicks of the witchweasels! Does he think us all fools? Just because one can replace your flesh to hide mutation does not change the nature of whether mutation has occurred, and one cannot use mere PUMPS to defeat witch conjured water!
I have discussed things with my followers among the crew, and we've agreed to protest: each day until these pumps are removed and the servitorization stops, one among my flock will martyr themselves in holy prometheum as a form of protest! We will not stop until Lovelace's foul scheme is destroyed.
The Journal of Captain Harb Goldengun, Captain of St. Xanax's Prosperity
The priest has gone mad! He keeps telling the crew they need to set themselves on fire, and when we finally finished the translation from the warp to St. Commodus's Rest, one of them listened! A madman snuck his way onto the bridge and doused himself in prometheum! We have a hole melted through four floors!
I've disciplined St. Valentinus, who aggravatingly doesn't seem remotely deterred. If this continues, I'll need to shut the pumps off to keep the crew pacified, something I know will anger Lovelace. There isn't enough amasec in the world for this. Worse, we're to dock soon so that I might learn our assignment. I am apparently to meet with a representative of the Lord Protector himself, who is to tell us what part of Battlefleet Carthago we are to join. I can't let them see how bad morale is, and I can't let them see the rift that's been burned through my bridge. I'll have to convene with the helmsman, make up an excuse while the hole is patched.
Personal Ledger of Joishua Dredd, Helmsman
We're doomed. Not only is the Captain mad, he's driving the rest of the crew mad as well. He told me that we're ignoring the hole thats in the bridge and making sure the Lord Protector can't see it, even when the damned priest is still trying to goad the crew into repeating the process! Meanwhile Lovelace has used his antics to justify increasing the pace of servitorization and putting more guards near the pumps, which has just made the crew even more paranoid, while simultaneously angering the High Factotum for wasting unnecessary resources on servitors we don't need, causing HIM to decide to start denying every requisition made by the Engiseer! About the only people acting rational are the first mate and myself!
I've been taking the opportunity granted by us docking to do some investigating. The Rest is used by a fair bit of the fleet as a rally point, meaning the bars of the planet had plenty of crewmen and even land-grubbers. The stories they tell…
I don't envy the latter, at least. As bad as they can be in space, apparently the Witch Weasels are worse on land. Their devils and their evil spirits are stronger world-side, and it's where their worst and most terrible weapons are supposedly used. One shivering private recounted to me having met strange devils wearing fearsome, terrible warmasks descending upon them in the trenches, alchemical nuclear bombs that burned like stars for hours on end blinding all who looked at them, and all manner of horrific spirits that accompanied battles against them, such as a nightmarish horror resembling a titanic metal skeleton that seemed to grow larger as it devoured the dead that, at its zenith, had been large enough for their fingers to brush against the atmospheres edge.
Still, it seemed many of the rumors I had heard about their space capabilities were not exaggeration either: several veteran void sailors I managed to bribe into parting with information told me things that would chill the bone. Entire decks converted into scaled fish-men, mutated beyond recognition. Worse, this spell affected everything aboard: men it turned into mutants, plants and vegetation would turn into parasites and infestation, and beasts and vermin, including those it conjures given enough time, it turns into monsters. Worse yet, this plague is degenerative in its affects: according to many I interrogated, the longer one battles with the Tekket ship, the worse the effects get. Initially, tis only minor alterations, the kind that can be hidden with surgery if you have a sympathetic doctor.
One of the sailors showed me what happens if the fight lasts long enough, however. Under one of the bars, they showed me one of their crewmembers who had seen too many battles. His head was entirely replaced, transformed into a grey skinned, soft scaled noseless creature, its long horselike head noseless. One eye was located on the side of their skull, still human looking even as it faced the side. The other had remained forward facing even as the blue has melted away for a thick membraned, oval pupiled amber. Their limbs were likewise altered: one arm now ended in a thick shelled crustaceous claw, a bundle of ringed, heavy suckered tentacles emerging from around it, while the other was instead a webbed claw of some form.
He's to be sent to Mutie-Town, apparently: the ultimate fate of those afflicted, to be herded to a place where good imperial citizens don't have to look at them and they can be put to use attempting to redeem themselves for their genecrimes through labour.
I can't let that happen to me. We're setting off in a few days: us and a few other ships are headed to fight in Justinians Rift, where we're to perform punitive action against a rebellious world that has refused to pay their tithe. We're to pass through the Wrack to get there: a gigantic structure consisting of dozens of beached space hulks. It's my intent to disembark as we pass through: there exists according to what I can tell a great many imperial communities aboard the megahulk, salvagers that earn their meals by helping deconstruct the titanic edifice, section by section. I've been confiscating thrones from the crew: I intend to use it and my own savings to disappear into one of these communities. Joishua Dredd will be a phantom on the voidwind, and, when the ship leaves and enough time passes for my desertion to be forgotten, I'll attempt to make my way back to St. Commoduses Rest, under a new name and identity.
The plan is foolproof. All I need to do is convince the First Mate to aid me.
Notes from High Engiseer Alberto Lovelace's Personal Dataslate
THE CREW IS GOING MAD. THE HELMSMAN IS DEAD, KILLED BECAUSE OF THEIR ATTEMPT TO DESERT. THE FOOL ATTEMPTED TO ENLIST THE AID OF THE FIRST MATE, WHO PROMPTLY MADE AN EXAMPLE OF THE POOR COWARDICE TO THE REST OF THE CREW. WHAT IS LEFT OF THEM HAS BEEN CONVERTED INTO A PAIN-SERVITOR, DESIGNED TO USE ITS ANGUISHED CRIES AND AGONIZED SCREAMS TO SERVE AS A REMINDER OF WHAT HAPPENS TO THOSE WHO FAIL TO FULFILL THEIR DUTIES.
WE HAVE ONLY JUST REACHED WRACK, AND THE CREW IS ALREADY SUFFERING FROM THE PSYCHOLOGICAL DETERIORATION CAUSED BY TEKKET WARFARE. ACCORDING TO DATA COLLATED FROM OTHER MAGOS, WE ARE LIKELY TO SEE A STATE OF HEIGHTENED TENSION, LIKELY PUNCTUATED BY A WAVE OF DEATHS STEMMING FROM PARANOIA INDUCED IDIOCY. I EXPECT FROM ST. VALENTINUS: THE IGNORANT PRIEST IS LIKELY ALREADY PLOTTING SOMETHING. AS SUCH, I AM INCREASING SECURITY AROUND MY WATER PUMPS. I HAVE ACQUIRED FROM ST. COMMODUS REST A SERIES OF SCHEMATICS FOR AUTOMATED SERVO-TURRETS THAT, WHILE IMMOBILE COMPARED TO GUN SERVITORS, ARE FINE SOURCES OF STATIC DEFENCE. I WILL NEED TO CONVINCE THE HIGH FACTOTUM TO START APPROVE MY SUPPLY REQUISITION, BUT I AM SURE WE CAN COME TO AN AMICABLE AGREEMENTS LIKE RATIONAL FELLOW FOLLOWERS OF THE OMNISSIAH.
Journal of Lucian St. Valentinus, Ship Minister.
The perfidious tech-priest goes too far! Now he arms his water pumps with turrets and threatens the high factotum with violence if the adept does not approve his requisitions! Twenty of my followers have alighted themselves in the vain hopes of convincing the Captain to stop the mans schemes and plans, and yet the fool does nothing!
Clearly, we must escalate this. If my followers martyring themselves isn't enough, there are other means by which we can coerce the Captain into listening to us! Emperor hopes it will be enough, and that we'll be able to stop whatever plot Lovelace is embarking on before it is too late.
Private log of First Mate Allen
Dear diary. I write to record in you the unpleasant and uncanny events we've discovered as of late. It started with a sense of unease in the crew: at first, I assumed it was an ill mood caused by the heresy and yellowness of the Helmsman and discomfit of his fate, something which sits unwell with me as well. At night I have begun dreaming his spirit haunts me, sitting at the end of my bed in my old chair, the rocker creaking as it tilted forward and back slowly, his pink eyed specter glaring at me in anger and anguish alike.
While both of these are attributable to mundane causes, however, we have encountered something that we can't explain. While passing through the system betwixt the Wrack and our destination, at the systems edge we encountered a ship exiting warp space, its systems dark. When looked at via viewscreen, I had thought the ship hauntingly familiar, though I couldn't place it. According to our augur-master, however, the ship is apparently known as Mermedeus Folly. Another vessel of Battlefleet Carthago, one that we were supposed to reconvene with upon reaching our destination.
I was part of the boarding party, and aboard that ship we found horrors. First we entered the bridge, finding the captain dead, his skeletal, waterlogged body overcame with years worth of barnacles and decay even though he could only have died within the last few months. His crew were in little better shape: more flesh, yes, but just as dead, their bodies bloated, puffy, and half submerged in the brackish brine that drenched the facility.
I will, I think, be haunted by their appearance: I cannot dispel from my mind the image of one unfortunate ensigns face. The open mouthed, gaping look of shock as we turned them over. The milky white eye widened in eternal horror at the ceiling as we attempted to search their clothes. The off tilt of their nose, forever stuck at a wrong angle upon their face. The blueness of their lips, the water that dribbled from their lungs as we worked. The sloughing of their skin, and the discovery that beneath it was a hive of finger biting crustaceans and fleshburrowing fish.
The worst was how soft their flesh was. It moved like putty, coming apart in rotting chunks like grox that had been boiled for hours: I could feel it, under their uniform, the meat shifting and being undone as we rifled through their pockets from the lightest of touches.
As we descended, we would encounter flooded deck after flooded deck. Some had exploded, the pressure of the water squeezing the air so tightly it eventually caused steel to buckle and break. On those decks, we could find no remains but red clouds in the water. I can only presume that the crews bodies, their flesh and blood, gave way before the metal did. Worse, we found barnacles, urchins, and other terrors: razor sharped, barbed, and in many cases blood drinking. One poor soul found themselves swarmed by urchins, and I fear watching him wither and be drained to a husk in front of my eyes will also feature in my dreams. It was fast enough that I was unable to help, but slow enough for the process to be agonizing. By the time I had fired my flamer, most of his body was mere skin and bones.
Not all the decks were flooded, however. Once we went far enough below, we encountered some that were only somewhat water logged. The smell was…indescribable. The water was black, thick, and smelled of sulfur. Worse, it was warm, bubbling. We thought it merely revolting, however. It wasn't until we found the corpse of the ships Engiseer that we realized how much worse it was.
It had been located in their quarters, on Deck 37. The door had been barricaded: surrounding it was a swarm of shambling, almost humanoid creatures, strange agglomerations of pelagic homnid, fish, crustacean, and coral, hulking seaspawn that had tried to accost us, only driven back by the purifying heat of our flamers. Inside, we had found the tech-priests of the ship alongside the corpses of dozens of menials, all having killed themselves, some by hanging, some by poison, some by drowning. In the center of that damp, dripping, and dimly lit chamber was the Engiseers corpse, his body having decomposed to bone, moss, and what remained of their augments.
When we touched them, we had only been trying to search them for information on what had happened. And yet, the moment our hands made contact with the muddy brown cloak of theirs, the red dye in it having long faded, the body began to stir, letting out a long, low gurgle. It reached out with a bony hand and grabbed the Bosun, who let out a scream as their skin began to turn black and begin flaking around where the engiseer had grabbed before I managed to tear the man free.
Unfortunately, it seemed that this caused the rest of the corpses to stir, the ones hanging from the ceiling letting out chokey rasps as they writhed in their nooses, while the others found themselves rising, slowly, their bones letting out creaks and groans even while tar bubbled from the mouths of the walking corpses, their eyes coming to life with a strange uncanny pink glow.
We fled, of course, sealing the deck behind us. Captain Goldgun has agreed to cease all exploration of the ship: he intends to send word of the ships destruction and curse to the fleet when next we find an astropath. He has informed me that I am not to tell the crew what was discovered on the ship, that it would cause undue alarm in the crew.
We are to begin translation to the warp immediately. The sooner we reach Justinians Rift, the better.
The Journal of Captain Harb Goldengun, Captain of St. Xanax's Prosperity
We've joined the fleet, and had our first battle against the enemy. Our fleet has four vessels in total, all of them answering to Blessing of Sanguinus, the personal flagship of Commodore Sharpe. Our duty is to provide orbital support for the Pyrite 17th to conduct punitive decimations on the world of Sapphique 3 and prevent any sympathetic fleets from intervening, in case the rebellious population of the world attempt to convince the Tekket or other factions from interceding on their behalf. As well, we were to destroy the planets defense fleet: the Sector Lord wishes their captains admirals taken alive, though only two such figures have been located so far: one has been crucified as an example of the wages of treachery, the other is to be sacrified in a triumph once the planet has been taken. The others we've managed to corner so far have chose to drink poison instead.
Once we destroyed their fleet, the Heretics attempted to activate the orbital void shields in preparation of bombing campaigns. Commodore Sharpe shared with myself and the rest of the captains over vox that this event is of little concern: apparently, the Lord Protector wants the planet brought back into the fold once the decimations are finished, so we are only allowed to perform light bombing anyways. A few days into the invasion, a scant mere hours before I sat down to record this, a series of ships emerged: 'Endeavors', apparently, the most common vessel in the Tekket fleet.
We managed to beat them back, but not without cost. Their ships are more sturdy than they appear, and their weapons consist of alchemical torpedos that create living, moving conflagrations that force a vessel to remain mobile unless they want their voidshields burned through. Worse, we faced our own first taste of their magicks: flooding, barnacles, and massive reports of motion sickness from the ships medicae. Mutations…mutations have been light, thankfully. Concentrated mostly among the menials and a few midshipmen. Among the senior officers, only the High Factotum has been affected: webbed toes, small and common enough a malady that it is very likely they should be able to pass it off as mere hereditary quirk, potentially a sign of their noble lineage. Such a condition is fairly common among the upper echelons, as I understand it.
Alarmingly, it appears that the witchweasels have a weapon that makes this curse WORSE: a series of strange, phantasmal cannons that unleashed a hideous purple flash of light that caused these curses to worsen in sections they hit instead of harming the hull. We were only struck a handful of times, but one of our sister vessels, the Benediction of Justa Marie, was in the aftermath forced to purge an entire deck, the mutants numbers too large and immediate an issue to make the more humane option of mutie-town viable. Still, we managed to chase the fleet away, though only one of their infernal vessels was destroyed, and with minimal damage to our own ship.
So long as nothing changes, with the god-emperors grace, we should be fine.
The Journal of Captain Harb Goldengun, Captain of St. Xanax's Prosperity
God Emperor preserve us. Fifty crewmembers are dead, and dozens more are soon to join them. I had thought St. Valentinus content to merely burn them one at a time, but the man has apparently decided to escalate. An entire mess hall has poisoned themselves in response to Magos Lovelaces actions while a handful more chose instead to attack the water pumps directly. Worse, they did it while Commodore Sharpe was aboard, meaning I can't merely handle this in private. I allowed St. Valentinus to explain himself, then spent the next twenty minutes lecturing him on his recklessness before sentencing the man to the brig. I fear I may need to close the pumps regardless: at this point, half the crew seems to think the things are designed to poison the ships filtration system, and the other half thinks they're part of Lovelaces scheme to convert the entire crew into Servitors.
I'll talk to the man. Explain it to him: perhaps we can come to some sort of agreement, one that will allow him to have his pumps while not scaring half the crew to death.
The mission is going well, at least. A few more attacks by the Directorate: nothing hard, just probing harassment and raids. A few more officers have gained condition: the Factotum has a few new scales across his back, and he's gained the ability to inflate his throat like some amphibians, while my new helmsman has gained a change in eye color, each orb now pitch black. In both cases, the alterations are still minor: the Factotum I've agreed to let them attempt surgical correction, though the condition my helmsman is in wasn't so easily covered up. Since others know they're a mutant, I've gone ahead and confined them to quarters pending court martial for genecrimes. Its unfortunate, losing both helmsman and his successor so quickly, but little choice is presented.
According to the Commodore, the General in charge of performing the decimation has successfully subjugated around 30% of the planet. They expect the remaining heretics to surrender or collapse once 70% or so has been seized, at which point a census will be performed and a decimation performed upon the recording of the results.
I think once we have successfully subjugated this world, I'll be putting in for my retirement. It will need new governors, no doubt, to replace its PDF, nobility, regional leadership: I'll put in my papers, ask Sharpe if he could grant me my leave. It is, I think, time for this sailor to hang up his cap. I'm not cut out for this: this entire journey has been plagued by misery and ill omen. This war, I believe, is meant for younger men than I. I have done my best to maintain my composure, but every time we go to battle against one of the Directorate ships, I find myself white knuckle clenching my hand gripping my hymnal, and I find myself looking in the mirror nightly for mutation. My dreams are of my old helmsman describing the place he had ultimately died trying to escape: mutie town. The human effluvia pumped in from above, the dregs of carcases processed by the corpse starch recyclers, the stench so thick, so awful you'll wish you had died. The factories and sweat shops I would be forced to labour in for days at a time for a mere pittance of thrones for mere crusts of bread. The periodic purges, arbites going door to door and shooting as many mutants as it took to keep their numbers under control: I would be forced to listen, and hope they reached their quota before they reached my own hovel as they passed, apartment by apartment, closer and closer.
'It's what I ran from, Harb,' His specter says, his eyes pink. 'It's what you killed me for. It's where you're running.' Every night he appears in my dreams, a few times a week, he will assault me so, giving me a ghastly grin as he peers at my sleeping form, my body trapped in a strange trance and unable to move as his corpse gibbers maddened accusations. 'You should have ran when you could, you should have ran when you could!'
Other nights, I dream of drowning: as I close my eyes, I will open to find myself underwater, in some strange, dark, sunless place, unable to breath as I claw for air, attempting to orient myself and figure out which direction is up. I don't drown in reality:
so far tis only been a dream: my lungs are filling themself with clean oxygen in reality, especially as I have taken to wearing a relic known as a Oxybreather Mask when I sleep. But this just prolongs the nightmare, which feels the whole time like my lungs are filling with water, without sufficient air to breath. Eventually, I'll realize what direction is up, but when I start to swim, I'll find something grabbing me by the ankle, anchoring me in place. Looking down I see-
I am going to keep doing my best to project strength to the men for as long as I continue to serve, but I fear that if I don't retire, if I don't stop, if I don't rest I'll finally snap.
Notes from High Engiseer Alberto Lovelace's Personal Dataslate
I HAVE SUCCESSFULLY PRESERVED MY PUMPS. THE CAPTAIN IS NOT HAPPY WITH ME, BUT HE HAS BEEN FORCED TO COMPLY. I APPROACHED THE COMMODORE UNDER THE GUISE OF DEPLOYING THE FLEET WITH MORE WIDESPREAD ANTI-CURSE MODIFICATIONS, SHOWING HIM THE SACRED SCHEMATICS FOR THE PUMP-AQUA MACHINE. I THEN DEMONSTRATED THEM IN USE, FURNISHING HIM WITH THE TACTICAL DATA OBTAINED IN COMBAT. I HAD TO OMIT SOME OF THE DATA: IF HE KNEW ABOUT THE BLOCKAGES, IT WOULD ONLY MUDDY THE NARRATIVE AND OPEN THE POSSIBILITY OF HIM MAKING A SUB-OPTIMAL DECISIONS. WHEN HE CALLED THE CAPTAIN TO INQUIRE MORE, GOLDGUN'S NATURAL COWARDICE LED TO THEM BRAGGING ABOUT HOW EFFECTIVE THE PUMPS HAD BEEN. HE WILL NOT CLOSE THEM NOW, NOT WHEN HE HAS ACCIDENTALLY TIED THEIR USEAGE TO THE ESTEEM THE COMMODORE HOLDS HIM IN.
I AM ALSO PLEASED TO NOTE THAT MY THEORIES ABOUT FIGHTING THE MUTAGENIC AND PSYCHOACTIVE EFFECTS OF THE TEKKET CURSE VIA AUGMENTATION WAS BORNE OUT: WE HAVE BEEN ASSAULTED BY A TEKKET BATTLECRAFT KNOWN AS A VALIANT, AND WHILE IT INFLICTED SIGNIFICANT DAMAGE WITH ITS SHORT RANGE FUSION WEAPONRY, THOSE I ALTERED WERE SIGNIFICANTLY LESS LIKELY TO SUFFER MUTATION. A NOTABLE COLLECTION HAVE SHOWN A BENEFICIAL EFFECT: RECENT SURGERIES AND IMPLANTS HAVE SHOWN SIGNIFICANT HEALING IN DAMAGED TISSUE, AND IMPROPER IMPLANTATIONS APPEAR TO HAVE MENDED THEMSELVES.
HOWEVER, PRIEST HAS PROVEN AGITATED. VALENTINUS HAS SHOWN DETERIORATING MENTAL CONDITION: LIKELY SUFFERING CRITICAL LEVELS OF CORTISOL AND ADRENALINE IN THE BRAIN. CAPTAIN HAS PROVEN UNWILLING TO DEAL WITH THEM: THEY WILL LIKELY DO SOMETHING STUPID. POISON? UNLIKELY, I DO NOT EAT BUT FROM MY PERSONAL STOCK. ANGRY MOB? POTENTIALLY, BUT MY SECURITY IS PRIMED TO TARGET ANY LARGE GROUPS NEARING MY QUARTERS. A LONE ASSASSIN IS UNLIKELY FOR THE SAME REASON: ALL OF ST. VALENTINUS FOLLOWERS AND ALLIES WILL TRIGGER A PROXIMITY ALARM IF THE GENESENSORS IN MY PROTECTION DETAIL DETECT THEM IN THREATENING PROXIMITY. STILL, I WILL PREPARE SO THAT SHOULD THEY COME AT ME WITH HOSTILE INTENT, THEY WILL FIND THEMSELVES ANNIHILATED.
MAINTENANCE IS BECOMING AN ISSUE. MOST BLOCKAGES AND GROWTHS HAVE PROVEN VULNERABLE TO LIGHT MAINTENANCE FLAMER FIRE, ALLOWING THE PUMPS TO CONTINUE THEIR SACRED MOTIONS AND KEEP THE AMOUNT OF FLOODING TO MANAGEABLE LEVELS. HOWEVER, IT APPEARS SOMETHING HAS TAKEN ROOT IN THE PIPES IN SEVERAL DECKS: SENSORS HAVE DETECTED SOMETHING MOVING, AND THIS HAS SHOWN A CORRELATION TO THE MALFUNCTION OF PIPE AND PUMPWORKS. IT HAS BEGUN BLOCKING THE PIPES, BEYOND MY ABILITY TO EASILY REACH AND IN A LOCATION WHERE WE CANNOT MERELY SET IT ABLAZE TO BURN WHATEVER IT IS ALIGHT IN CLEANSING AND MACHINE INVIGORATING FLAME.
SO FAR, THE PHENOMENA SEEMS CONFINED TO A HANDFUL OF DECKS, LARGELY CENTRALIZED IN REGION SURROUNDING WASTEWATER AND SEWAGE TANKS. I AM SENDING A GROUP OF SKITARII EQUIPPED WITH RADGUNS TO DISINFECT THEM AND PERFORM THE CANT MECHANICA VERSES 2001 TO 2110: THIS SHOULD ALLEVIATE THE MACHINE SPIRITS OF THE PARASITE THAT BLOCKS THE FLOW OF EXCESS WASTE-WATER.
Journal of Lucian St. Valentinus, Ship Minister.
I can tolerate this no longer! We can tolerate this no longer! Can't the captain see that the machine-priests aims are dark? He is now insisting that the cure to mutation is partial servitorization, as if the rest of us cannot recognize what is being planned! Ignoring my counsel that the solution to this is not mere treatment of the symptoms via amputation! He is using the cowardice of the captain and the veil of ignorance to skirt the spirit of heresy under the letter of law to turn the crew into those abominations, all while ignoring that mutated flesh is mutated flesh even if it is unblemished on the surface! Worse yet, this is corruption that the affected will carry in their geneline: they will on the surface be mere cyborgs, but their mutation will be obvious in their children, and their childrens children, those that are afforded the autonomy to reproduce once that 'priest' is done butchering them!
No, no, no, I will NOT let him do this. This has gone on long enough.One of my acolytes have witnessed some of the ships skitarii guarding the ship septic tanks, and hearing through the vents strange noises and smells coming from those nightmarish waste-spaces. That is the focal point of the engineers schemes, I think. We have discovered a series of secret passage to these locations, one that predate the both of us by millenia: I have purchased rad-suits from the other ships to protect me from the weapons of the skitarii. It is my hope to stop the Engiseers schemes at their root! My spies in his retinue will attempt to draw him to this location, where I will use the secret passages to ambush the fiend and send him to the heretics hell! Not a single member more of my flock shall be turned into a mechanical abomination! VAE VICTIS!
Private log of First Mate Allen
God Emperor save us all, they're both dead. A few hours ago, around 0200 hours, I had been conversing with the Engiseer. The way he was going about his ideas, it was terrifying the men. I know he is was not an evil man, but he does not didn't know the heart of man very w-
I was discussing the possibility of attempting to reassure the men: he had agreed to publicly renounce the idea he would convert the menials to servitors, and as we talked, I could tell he was warming to the idea of accepting volunteers only for his menial augmentations. After all, I told him, once they saw it was their only way to escape mutie-town-
There was an alarm. The Engiseer was called away: some emergency sent by his skitarii near a waste tank. They were under attack. I came with him, offering my gun. Best to build as much sympathy with him as possible, I thought, if I was to get him to accede to as much compromise as would be required to reassure the crew.
When we got there, we found the place overgrown with moss, algae: strange rocky molds growing upon the ground around the tanks, which was wet, the walkways under several inches of effluvia barring a handful of places where the ancient grating had not given way. Off-color metallic barnacles upon the wall, bubbling and occasionally unleashing drips of glowing ooze, which covered the filthy blackwater drenched walkways like an oily, shimmering film. In the septic tanks I saw titanic abominations I still struggle describe, gigantic floating masses of a hideous organic pink glowing substance: in this ooze I thought I could see bodies, screaming crewmembers that were slowly being DIGESTED by whatever had taken nest in the tanks, their bodies dissolving slowly before my eyes: even still we are only now tallying the dead, those who had been taken without us knowing it in the night, slurped up through the pipes because we assumed the curse would only affect the places we can see. A few of these formless oozes had been freed by the gunfire, creeping across the battlefield, showing a horrific intelligence as they swarmed the engiseers retinue while ignoring the parade of mutants attempting to assassinate us. Anything the things touched that was flesh, they digested, flesh blistering and bubbling and sloughing as the horrific things slithered up the frame of the skitarii until they successfully touched something borne of flesh, wherapon the horrific pink devils would begin hollowing the cyborgs out.
Myself and the Engiseer fought together: I pulled out my plasma carbine, he his axe. The necrojellies are foul, disgusting: but fragile: we would retreat to one of the handful of dry locations in the facility, a flat pane of metal, where we attempted to hold off both mutant and monster. I would provide suppressing fire, reducing attackers at range to cinders, while any that approached close, primarily the jellies, would be slain by the machine priests weapon.
The things would shriek and burst, dying in their entirety as they were struck, their bodies boiling. Together, we piled the place high with the corpse of our enemies, though many skitarii lost their lives, their bodies burrowed into and eaten from the insides out. However, just as the tempo of the mutants was beginning to falter, the ship minister charged into combat, wielding a power sword. I had been about to shoot him, when a jelly dropped onto my gun from the ceiling. It…it coordinated with him, I know this: it knew that St. Valentinus was attempting to murder Lovelace, who they had deemed greater threats to their plans. I know not if the priest knew he was being manipulated, god emperor rest his soul. I can only pray that in the end, it was mere ignorance that caused his actions.
With me attempting to free my gun and avoid being digested, the Engiseer was unable to protect himself. The priest was the better duelist of the two, and in a short flurry of attacks, the man had parted the engiseers head from his shoulders.
"VAE VICTIS! THE EMPEROR WILLS IT!" He roared, triumphantly, even as I finally vented the plasma on my weapon, boiling the necrojelly alive and freeing my gun. Staggering, I let out a scream of rage, of frustration as I ran the priest down, tackling him to the floor and wrapping my hands around his throat and SQUEEZING-
He attempted to choke out justifications as his face went purple my knuckles white eyes bulging saying he had to do it
I roared, tightening my grip tighter tighter until I heard a thick meaty snap. God emperor I can still remember the rush of adrenaline and the crunch of bone as I twisted his spine loose from his body.
With the priest dead, his followers broke, and we were left alone. And yet, the catastrophic confrontation between Lovelace and St. Valentinus was not where the strange terrors that would afflict us would end that day. As we returned to the bridge, I was assaulted by the sound of the alarm. We were under attack. Returning, I learned to my dismay the Directorates ships were being detected over sensorium. We were down an Engiseer, down a(n admittedly replaceable) chunk of the crew, and down the priest. And now, we were immediately thrust into the midst of battle.
This time, their strike fleet consisted of a collection of their frogships, the vessels larger than their Endeavors, the ones that possess the fusion lance weaponry. They wracked great terror across the fleet: for as tiny as the vessels might be, like their namesake they are quick, and nimble, and possessed of terrible spitting venom. Worse yet, they were able to inflict great and terrible losses through their curses: our newest Engiseer is reporting more of these formless fleshes hiding aboard in the aftermath, seemingly feeding on our waste to grow large enough to commit mitosis. More of the crew are mutated, and the more become so, the more agitated the crew as a whole grows: the death of the old engiseer is small balm to them. They still have mutie town to await. Worse, with the engiseer being gone, his replacements are struggling to keep everything maintained and functional: the machine spirits are growing displeased.
The only good news is that the ground campaign is progressing well, according to the news of the Commodore. If we can break the defenders of Saphique 3 quick enough, perhaps we might be afforded the breathing room to recoup our losses, but I feel every inch of pressure they put on us drives us closer to the edge.
The Journal of Captain Harb Goldengun, Captain of St. Xanax's Prosperity
We are down a ship. The Tekket attempted to break our cordon: five frogships and as many such Endeavors have successfully destroyed the Benediction of Justa Marie. Now, it is a waterlogged wreck floating in the void, crawling with all manner of strange mutant and twisted xeno beast. Worse, they managed to deliver aid to the defenders of Sapphique 3: fusionmelta weaponry and xenotech shield devices designed to counter imperial arms such as the lasgun, alongside brigades of automata to replenish their ranks. Worse, some of their infernal huntweasels have almost certainly made landfall: the general in charge of the invasion was found poisoned, and apparently commisars, officers, and priests alike have been suffering from a wave of death via nukerat snipers, typically in the presumed safety of our fortifications in what should be taken territory, well behind the battle lines.
They emerged screaming from the warp, their weapons lashing white fire against our void-shields, casting all manner of terrible curse that afflicted our crews. At first, the battle was hard fought, but none of the ships fell until they cast some form of conjuration, summoning what appeared to be some genus of void kraken, though not one I've ever seen. Smaller than the few specimens I've encountered, I wager it was only a little larger than our own vessel, and it was possessed of a metallic shell upon its back. From its thousands of tentacles lightning lashed, arcing onto the hull of the vessels it struck: the current engiseer, a man by the name of Aaron Coppernicus Upsilon, says the machine spirits were overloaded throughout the ship. We fought it off, but by the end, we were waterlogged, we have three decks converted into mutants, and some of the coral is now electric, making removing it and unflooding those floor hazardous: so far, the best solution I've come up with is to have the mutants do it. Electrocution is likely a kinder fate than what the Engiseer would have done to them, and it provides them a way to atone for their genecrime.
And when the thing finally retreated, back into the fight the other ships entered: the only thing worse than the effects of their curses is the battle damage. The Justa Marie didn't survive: its void shield had been destroyed by the kraken, I think.
Worse, we now have reports of guerrillas and insurgents disguising themselves as members of the guard in order to plant bombs and smart mines, and with so much of the commissariat dying, some may indeed be our own troops gone rogue, a troubling notion. Most of the tank brigades on the planet have been damaged to the point where the tech-priests have consigned themselves to recycling what's left for parts: gallingly, one of the machines that has been destroyed utterly was the baneblade assigned to planetary pacification. The official word on how it was lost according to my more official sources among the fleet was that its crew and commander both went down in a blaze of glory, sacrificing themselves to destroy a rebel stronghold that served as a lynchpin for the defense efforts, sacrificing captured devout members of the astra imperialis in barbaric victory-rituals unless their captive converts: a clear and troubling sign of their corruption by the perfidious xeno. The tankers of Ollanius' Hammer killed hundreds, if not thousands of rebels according to the official reports before finally being slain by a wicked fusion mine sending it and it's troops to Elysium, though unfortunately in the process they were unable to save any of the hostages who unfortunately perished in the battle. May they be carried to glory on the wings of the Emperor to join his eternal army: no doubt when this campaign is honored, the crew will be honored during the triumph, most likely by lashing some rebels and their families to the pyre in the tanks honor.
Still, it seems that our troubles aren't with end, some days: the leaders of the astra militaris are being murdered in safe territory, our tanks are being destroyed, and half my crew is mad and a tenth of it mutated. At this point I can only hope that this nightmare ends soon.
The Journal of Captain Harb Goldengun, Captain of St. Xanax's Prosperity
Another ship down. The Blade of Macharius. This time, the enemy fleet brought with them a pod of void whales: no doubt presents from Waaagh Skultaka. The beasts were enraged, in frenzy: it took several minutes of sustained bombardment to kill the largest among their number, during which time they proved sufficient distraction for boarding operations upon the blade, where they unleashed their khimera-beasts, who managed to hijack control of the vessel to send it crashing into the planet, flattening one of our fortifications. The hole left in our anti-air defenses allowed for it to be incinerated by phosphex missiles held by the heretics.
We are down to half our fleet, now: our own and the Commodores vessels. He says that he has already requested relief. The First Mate is nervous: at first I had thought the man merely beginning to lose his nerve, but now I must wonder. I am not the only one who thought to hide mutation: what if he has been afflicted, but is hiding it? He will likely get found out eventually if this campaign does not end: and when the relief fleets come, those accursed will be replaced with fresh stock: clean, pure, human bodies unmarred by the genecrimes that disgraced their predecessors.
It is reported that more and more of the army below have turned coat and joined the heretics now that they lack the commissars and priests to guide their unruly reins: the official reports deny it, but a few of the men have been whispering about traitors aboard the ships as well. What if they're correct? The mutants, especially, would no doubt prove willing receptacles, and if there was one sufficiently desperate enough to hide their mutation, no doubt they would be sufficiently desperate enough to turn traitor as well.
No, no, this is just paranoid fantasy. I have no evidence of any traitors among the crew: even the mutants, foul as they are, are still loyal, inasmuch as one of their kind can be to the unmutated. But still, I must take more precautions, lest I find myself with a blade in the back. Mandatory inspection of bunks and bodies: I will make sure every single mutant on this ship is catalogued and documented. I will leave no stone unturned, god emperor as my witness.
PERSONAL LOG OF LEXMECHANIC ENGISEER A. COPERNICUS Υ 7
THE CAPTAIN HAS BEGUN SUBJECTING THE CREW TO RANDOM PUBLIC INSPECTIONS FOR MUTATION. FOR WHAT REASON I DO NOT KNOW: THERE EXISTS LITTLE BENEFIT TO UNCOVERING WHO IS AND ISN'T MUTATED AT THIS JUNCTURE.
SO FAR FIFTEEN MUTANTS HAVE BEEN DISCOVERED HIDING, THOUGH I PROFESS, I BELIEVE THE FIFTEENTH WAS AN ENTIRELY MUNDANE GLANDULAR ORDER THAT WAS MISSED BY PRENATAL SCREENING. IT WOULD EXPLAIN SOME IRREGULARITIES IN THEIR MEDICAL CHART.
THOSE AFFLICTED HAVE BEEN CHARGED WITH GENECRIME, AND SENTENCED TO PUBLIC WHIPPING FOR DARING TO CONCEAL THEIR CONDITION. AFTER THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO BE CONVERTED INTO PAIN-SERVITORS AS AN EXAMPLE OF WHAT HAPPENS TO THOSE WHO HIDE IMPURITY OF THE FLESH, THOUGH I WAS SUCCESSFULLY ABLE TO CONVINCE THE CAPTAIN TO OPT FOR A MORE MERCIFUL TREATMENT, HAVING THEM TAKE THE PLACE OF ASSORTED LOWER DECK MENIALS WITH THE SAME SKILLSET, WHO WOULD THEN BE PROMOTED TO FILL THE GAPS LEFT BEHIND. IT IS A MORE TASTEFUL WAY TO HANDLE THEIR CONDITION I FEEL: I WILL NOT ANNOUNCE IT PUBLICALLY, BUT THE TREATMENTS OF THOSE AFFLICTED WITH THE DARKTIDE SHOULD NOT BE TREATED AS COMMON MUTANTS.
FOR ONE THING, IT PLAYS INTO THE TEKKET PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE PROFILE: THEY ARE FLAGRANTLY MANIPULATING OUR DOCTRINES TO GET US TO TURN ON OUR OWN HOUSE: THERE IS MUCH ABOUT MY PREDECESSOR I DISAGREE WITH, BUT HIS UNDERSTANDING OF DIRECTORATE BATTLE DOCTRINES IS ASTUTE. BEYOND THAT, MANY OF THOSE AFFLICTED EARNED THEIR CONDITION IN BATTLE, DOING THEIR DUTY TO THE OMNISSIAH WHILE FENDING OFF BEAST AND BARNACLE. AND FOR THIS, THEY ARE REWARDED WITH NOUGHT BUT BITTER ASH AND THE KNOWLEDGE THAT LIFE IN A DEATH-FORGE AWAITS THEM AND THEIR FAMILIES.
THE CAPTAIN I BELIEVE EXPECTS THERE TO BE A TRAITOR AMONG THE FLEET. PERHAPS HE IS CORRECT, BUT NOT YET, I THINK: WHEN IT OCCURS HOWEVER, I SUSPECT IT WILL BE BECAUSE OF HIS ACTIONS, NOT IN SPITE.
Private log of First Mate Allen
Someone tried to kill the captain. During mess last night, when we were all eating, someone brought out a dish: the captains favorite, fried grox and blood pudding with crisped rationbites. The only reason he's alive is because his digestion was put off from stress, so he gave it to the new helmsman. The man had finished his meal, went to bed, and was only found this morning, well and dead. The engiseer, who is apparently a skilled medicae and mortician apparently, says that the cause was rat poison, injected into the groxmeat.
The captain is in a froth, as to be expected: he has ordered a search of everyones bunks, starting with mine. I must confess, journal, that when nothing untoward was found except a bottle of contraband whiskey I've been saving for myself, he seemed almost…dissapointed.
Perhaps I'm reading into his expression a bit much: no doubt his mind is weighed heavily by the assassination attempt. He seems to suspect that it was a mutant who did the deed, something that baffles me, as none of the ships cooks are mutated, nor would any of the people who handled the food en route to the officers mess hall. But the captain is convinced: he will not rest until he finds the traitor, who he firmly believes is among the mutants: as such, they've all been confined to the lower decks, where they will be quarantined and guarded by the ships enforcers until the traitor is found.
The ground invasion continues to go well, from what I hear: apparently, the rebels have managed to put together some ramshackle parts to imitate a baneblade, even going as far to paint it in the same colors as the Hammer and mimicking its crews uniform, but the terrible imitation was driven off with ease by the intrepid heroes of the astra militarum, who have begun reconsolidating their forces in key strong points in order to allow the rebels to break themselves on the fortifications of the imperium. Hopefully they destroy themselves soon: I feel as if our collective sanity is beginning to fray, up here in the void.
PERSONAL LOG OF LEXMECHANIC ENGISEER A. COPERNICUS Υ 7
WE HAVE RECEIVED GRAVE NEWS. THE REST OF THE CREW IS NOT AWARE OF THIS, BUT IT APPEARS THAT THE REBELS HAVE SOMEHOW MANAGED TO DETONATE A PERPETUNITE WARHEAD IN THE MIDST OF A MAJOR PIECE OF FORTIFICATION THE ASTRA MILITARUM WAS USING TO SUPPRESS INSURGENCIES IN THE OCCUPIED REGIONS OF SAPPHIQUE 3, NEAR ITS COAST. THE ENTIRE COMPLEX HAS BEEN REDUCED TO A BALL OF PLASMA.
OUR FORCES WERE ALREADY HAVING TO RETREAT TO VARIOUS STRONG-POINTS IN SEVERAL THEATERS. WITH THIS, THE SITUATION IS LIKELY TO CONTINUE TO DETERIORATE AS REGIONAL INSURGENCIES BEGIN TO DECAY AT OUR POWER IN THOSE REGIONS, WHICH ISN'T GOING TO BE HELPED BY THE MULTIPLE HURRICANES AND TYPHOONS OUR SENSORS ARE DETECTING THAT ARE SOON TO MAKE LANDFALL IN OUR TERRITORY. I WOULD ASSUME ROTTEN LUCK, BUT AT THIS POINT I SHALL ASSUME THE DIRECTORATE HAS SOMEHOW ENCHANTED THE WEATHER.
WE ARE DOWN TO HALF THE FLEET. THE SITUATION ON THE GROUND IS DETERIORATING. THE CAPTAIN IS GOING MAD. IF THINGS DO NOT CHANGE SOON, I FEEL WE ARE DOOMED.
The Journal of Captain Harb Goldengun, Captain of St. Xanax's Prosperity
THE !@#$ING RELIEF FLEET FINALLY ARRIVED.
I have never felt so glorious upon the receiving of reinforcements. Seven mighty and majestic vessels, including a ship of the Inquisition, an Indominus Class Super Battlecruisers equipped with twin nova lances, and a factory ship of the mechanicus. They are led by a man- an inquisitor from the Ordo Xenos!
Otto Von Clovis, his name is. A veteran in the war against the Directorate: he apparently had been on the front lines of the Volcanus 9 Secession, witnessing the fall of a once powerful and honorable planet of the Imperiums fall into the clutches of the alien. More importantly, he's a SURVIVOR of the Secession! One who has fought and weathered the curses of the enemy! With his expertise and the Commodores strength, not only did we fight off the next assault by the Directorate handily, we even managed to scrape by with minimal mutations! The Inquisitor had an ingenious idea: to counter the effects of the spell, he had ordered the self-martyring of his crew, one hundred people for each deck, crucified, vivisected, and drowned in the same manner as St. Inprobus of Dagon. Not all the decks had performed the ritual before the curse was cast, but we're seeing less reports of mutation, less reports of barnacles, and less reports of evil fish.
He claims that the only way to defeat the Tekket is to accept the unflinching destruction combat with them will require: he's overridden Commodore Sharpe to increase bombardment of the planet, covering enemy continents in vast fire storms once their planetary void shields had been crack'd. Ugly business, but the Tekket need to be prevented from gaining a foothold in the region. The planet will no doubt recover eventually.
PERSONAL LOG OF LEXMECHANIC ENGISEER A. COPERNICUS Υ 7
I LOOK AT THE PLANET BELOW, SEE FROM SPACE THE FLAMES WROUGHT BY OUR BATTLE, AND I CANNOT HELP BUT REMEMBER HOW THIS WORLD HAD BEEN A GARDEN WORLD OF SORTS ONCE, A JEWEL OF THE IMPERIUM. WE CAME TO IT BECAUSE THEY HAD BEEN UNWILLING TO PAY THEIR WHOLE TITHE.
IT WILL LIKELY NEVER BE A GARDEN WORLD AGAIN. THE WEAPONRY BEING FIELDED AGAINST THE REBELS IS PERMANENTLY DAMAGING THE ATMOSPHERE: THEY WILL LIKELY FOR CENTURIES HAVE TO USE ATMOSPHERIC REBREATHERS, AND THE HOLES IN THE OZONE MEAN THEY WILL LIKELY REQUIRE SKIN PROTECTION AS WELL. THE WATERS ARE POLLUTED WITH ASH, TOXIC RUN-OFF, AND RADIATION: UNDRINKABLE, AND NO DOUBT THE FISH THIS PLANET ONCE PROVIDED AS PART OF ITS TITHE ARE ALL DEAD. EVEN THE VERY EARTH OF SAPPHIQUE 3 HAS BEEN DAMAGED: WE'RE RECEIVING REPORTS OF EARTHQUAKES AND TECTONIC BREACHES THROUGHOUT THE PLANET, PRODUCING FISSURES THAT BELCH MORE ASH, MORE POISON INTO THE SKY.
WHAT WAS THE POINT OF THIS?
Private log of First Mate Allen
This is monstrous! It's one thing to quarantine the afflicted, but the Inquisitor has ordered a purge of the afflicted! Within ten days we're to reduce our complement of afflicted crew-members by half!
These men fought for the Imperium! They served the Imperium! And now, Von Clovis is using the attempted poisoning of the captain to murder them! I tried to tell the captain that none would have even had the opportunity, but he refuses to listen! He even threw me out of his quarters and threatened me with the brig if I protested!
I don't know what to do. I can't let this happen, but I don't know how to stop it. I attempted to gain the Engiseers support: he knows this is wrong as well as I. I told him that these people deserved better, that purging them would be a betrayal, but all he told me was that attempting to go against the word of an Inquisitor was suicide and that I should keep my silence lest I earn the Inquisitors suspicion.
I fear him correct, and yet the thought of allowing this haunts me.
The Journal of Captain Harb Goldengun, Captain of St. Xanax's Prosperity
Oh God Emperor no. Why? Whywhywhywhywhy? FUCK. Why, God Emperor? Have I not been faithful? Have I not been dutiful? What did I do to deserve this? What sin did I commit? I have been your soldier for decades, served you through my bleakest years: why does your protection forsake me now?
FUCK.
WHY. WHY. WHY WHY WHY WHY.
WHY DO I HAVE GILLS ON MY CHEST.
I can't let Von Clovis find out about this. I can't even let him suspect. I need to keep this hidden, lest I be sentenced to join the rest of the genecriminals below. Oh god emperor.
PERSONAL LOG OF ENGISEER A. COPERNICUS Υ 7
THE PURGE IS COMPLETE. HOWEVER, MORE MUTANTS HAVE BEEN CREATED BY THE TEKKET: THE INQUISITOR HAS ORDERED THAT HALF OF THOSE ACCUSED OF GENECRIME ARE TO BE SENTENCED TO DEATH.
THIS HAS HAD A SEVERELY NEGATIVE EFFECT ON CREW MORALE, AND ONE I DO NOT BEGRUDGE THEM FOR. I HAVE BEEN ATTEMPTING TO SAVE WHO I CAN: IT SEEMS THAT THE CAPTAIN HAS NOTICED MY ABILITIES AS A MEDICAE AND ASSIGNED ME TO INSPECTIONS AND CONDUCT THE TERMINATIONS. THOSE WHO I AM ABLE TO PLAUSIBLY ABLE TO DISMISS THEIR CONDITIONS AS BEING WITHIN THE ACCEPTED LEVELS OF DEVIATION FROM THE HUMAN FORM, I HAVE, AND THOSE I AM CAPABLE OF CORRECTING VIA SURGERY OR AUGMENTATION, I HAVE.
I DON'T KNOW IF IT WILL BE ENOUGH. I HAVE BEEN STUDYING THE GODOLKIN INDEX AS REFERENCE, BUT THERE ARE NO STRAINS OF RECOGNIZED ABHUMAN IN THIS OR NEARBY SECTORS THAT POSSESS GILLS, TO SAY NOTHING OF TENTACLES, CRUSTACEAN CLAWS, OR CORAL CRESTS.
THERE IS UNFORTUNATELY LITTLE ELSE I CAN DO, NOT WITHOUT OUTING MYSELF AS A MUTANT SYMPATHIZER. THE INQUISITOR IS ALREADY SUSPICIOUS, I THINK: I HAVE MANAGED TO CONVINCE HIM THE HIGH NUMBER OF ABHUMANS AND IRREGULAR MEDICAL CONDITIONS I HAVE DIAGNOSED IS MERELY THE RESULT OF AN OBSESSIVE COMPULSION TOWARDS ACCURATE CATEGORIZATION, BUT I CANNOT PUSH FURTHER THAN THAT.
FRANKLY, WERE IT NOT FOR THE RAIDS BY THE DIRECTORATE, HE WOULD HAVE LIKELY ALREADY TAKEN ACTION AGAINST US. IT IS ONLY BECAUSE HE AND THE COMMODORE HAVE HAD THEIR ATTENTION TAKEN BY THEIR ATTACKS THAT I HAVE GOTTEN AWAY WITH AS MUCH AS I HAVE. MORE AND MORE VALIANTS APPEAR WITH EACH ATTACK, THOUGH THEY ONLY RARELY SUMMON CREATURES SUCH AS VOID WHALES AND STORM KRAKENS.
BECAUSE OF THEIR SPEED, IT IS ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE TO PIN THEM DOWN LONG ENOUGH TO DESTROY THEM BEFORE THEY RETREAT, ESPECIALLY THANKS TO THEIR ABILITY TO UTILIZE THEIR ALCHEMICAL WEAPONRY TO CREATE WHAT ARE EFFECTIVELY STATIONARY SHIELDS TO BLOCK OUR HEAVIER WEAPONS-FIRE. THEY HAVE BEEN UNABLE TO DESTROY BUT ONE OF OUR VESSELS, HOWEVER, AN ESCORT, BUT THEIR SLIPPERYNESS HAS STILL MAKE THEM A CONSTERNATING FOE TO DEAL WITH, AND THE MORE WE BATTLE AGAINST THEM, THE WORSE THE STATE OF OUR SHIP GETS, EVEN WITH THE MARTYRS SACRIFICE IMPOSED BY VON CLOVIS. IT HAS MADE DEALING WITH THEIR RAIDS DIFFICULT, THOUGH IT HAS APPARENTLY NOT YET IMPEDED THE OPERATIONS ON SAPPHIQUE 3.
Private log of First Mate Allen
More ships have arrived. Three of them, transfers from Sector Sinister: now that the Carrion King and his forces have been destroyed, the remaining vessels tasked with his extermination are being assigned to Battlefleet Carthago, meaning that our forces throughout the sector are receiving relief.
I must admit, I am on one level relieved. With more guns, perhaps we can win this quickly, with less bloodshed. As it is, this grinding attrition is beginning to get to the crew: the astra militarum might be used to these kinds of losses, but we're sailors. We only receive these kinds of casualties when boarded, and even then at least it can be months or years between such events.
I have not heard whispers of mutiny yet, but it would not surprise me if next time we made port, we find ourselves with unacceptable numbers of deserters. Funny: once I would have decried those who did so as cowards, like the old Helmsman Joishua, but the more people die, the more I can't help but fear he may have had a point when he attempted to flee this wretched endeavor before it had even begun.
The only consolation is that Directorate raids seem to be thinning. I suspect they've realized how doomed a cause saving Sapphique 3 is, at this point: in the past few weeks, they've only attacked once, and while this has resulted in more nekrojellies in the pipes and even some of the dead drowned to begin rising as murderous revenants, the damage was less severe, in part due to the additional ships, in part because of the enemy assaulting us with less ships than usual.
We can only hope this finally ends.
Private log of Acting Captain Allen
God-Emperor save us. God-Emperor forgive me. The Captain and Von Clovis are both dead. It began with our astropaths noting something approaching us. Something big. I had thought that it might be a storm kraken or void whale.
It was a warship. Copernicus called it a Resistance. One of the most dangerous vessels in the Tekket fleet, at least of the ones controlled by the Directorate itself rather than its allies. According to the Engiseer, the vessels are sent to locations the Directorate considers high priority, though that leaves me with more questions: why Sapphique 3? I could perhaps understand intervening when it was still a pristine garden world, but what value does that world possess that they would send their mightiest vessel to help it?
Most likely I'll never know. The vessel came screaming out the warp with a fleet of valiants, five in total, and four more endeavors: despite its greater size, somehow the vessel was both quicker and more nimble than its smaller variations, even if they shared the same structure. Worse, its shields were strong, strong enough it took a nova lance straight on with only modest fluctuation in its shields, while its weapons melted their way across our hulls, especially the middlemost lance mounted upon it.
Even as it ravaged our fleet it cursed us. There are entire decks that have to be purged with phosphex before having their internals entirely replaced. Half of our remaining crew are mutants, and many of them hideously so.
Then there are the ghosts. While the assault proceeded, while I was at my station watching the holo-map, I found myself seeing a ghastly specter in the corner of my vision: the helmsman, but not as I knew him. His eyes have been replaced entirely with a strange eldritch pink glow. His body was covered in coral and barnacles, and his lips were a drowned blue, peeled into a grizzly, half deranged grin that sagged extremely loosely on his face as if it were no longer entirely connected to his skull properly, water dribbling from between the black rotted wood of his dentures.
At first he did not do anything: merely observed. But the longer it went on, the closer he grew, always when my attention shifted. No-one remarked on his appearance, so I ignored it, dismissing it as a hallucination caused by stress, or perhaps the enemy vessels witchcraft. Further, the closer he became, the worse his condition deteriorated: flesh decayed and sloughed, revealing a ribcage full of squirming crablike things. Coral and barnacles grew, covering his back like a shell, releasing puffs of brackish water that splashed against the floor. Blue lips in a morbid grin gave way to jaw and bone, even as his nose rotted to nothing, though his expression never changed.
Eventually, he began whispering to me. He told me things. That the Captain was actually a mutant, a hypocrite who had sentenced people to death for genecrime and hiding mutation despite them having done both. That he believed me a traitor, in league with the Tekket, and a secret mutant besides. That the Inquisitor was planning to purge all those afflicted, and was intending to do the same to mutie-town once they returned, to sacrifice them in a great pyre of millions in a great purification. The rest of the battle, he would hound me, hovering over my shoulder, telling me things that at the time I thought merely terrible lies, meant to break my will, or sap my concentration.
As I sat, a ghost in my ear, hoping that we'd make it through the battle, more reinforcements came in: five more vessels, including a battlecruiser, arriving mid-battle and increasing our numbers by five, including another battlecruiser. With the tide turning, I briefly had hope that we could at least survive this, even if we may have to retreat. But then, Inquisitor Von Clovis chose to doom us all.
He attempted parley, contacting the enemy fleet. For a brief spell the battle in the void ceased as the Inquisitor used the opportunity to taunt the enemy. I don't know what he thought he was accomplishing, and I doubt I will ever.
He told them that no matter how much they poured into this world, they could not save it: even as they fought this fleet, more and more ships were en route through the Wrack passage. The people of Sapphique were doomed: even with their Resistance ship, they would not be able to stop the martyrs tide, not before Sapphique 3 was destroyed in its entirety, a sacrifice he was willing to make if it meant keeping a former jewel of the Imperium out of their clutches.
His challenge was, I suppose, successful: the witchweasels accepted the premise that eventually Sapphique 3 would be crushed under the tide of the Imperiums strength and that continued fighting was only making it worse for them. And one cannot have predicted how they responded. In response to his communication, the enemy captain asked for a grace period to discuss things with their crew, apparently. When they resumed communication, the Tekket informed him that they had come to the conclusion that the Inquisitor was correct.
It was at that point that, at that point, in the heart of the system, a warp storm detonated into existence. I have never encountered one up close, and though I despairingly lament that it will likely not be achievable now, I have no desire to repeat the experience. It was almost like travelling through the warp with a damaged gellarfield: devils walked the halls, skewering crew-members, strange mechanical monsters rampaged through the machinery, decks would find themselves assaulted by strange watery murderous sprites, psychic fish that could cause a mans blood to boil with a glance, and spirits that almost resembled yellow eye'd silhouette of begowned women that twisted the minds of my fellow crew, bewitching them and turning them upon each other.
Desperately, the Commodore ordered the fleet to retreat, and we collectively gunned our engines. Only half the fleet managed to successfully escape to the warp, and I know not where the other half of the fleet is, as the astropaths cannot reach them now.
It was only to our horror that when we emerged, it was not in the Wrack. No, it was in another system nearby to Sapphique: the Devils Doorstep, a border system on the opposite side, on the very edge of civilized space. The path behind us was closed: with a warp-storm in the middle of the system, we would not be able to pass through Sapphique to take a shorter route. Without it, the closest imperial world is, from what the Commodore is willing to share, over five years travel through some of the darkest and most terrible stretches of void if we're
fortunate, much held by allies of the Directorate or worse, such as the Null Vampires, the Sun Eater Drakes, the footsoldiers of the Mastercomputer, and the Slaughth and their worm-gods.
After, as I and the rest of the officers attempted to regain control of the crew, I found myself called to the Captains Quarters, alongside the Engiseer and Inquisitor. The man reeked of fear and amasec, and he brandished a pistol at me. He seemed to have snapped entirely: he threatened me, attempted to forced me to strip so he could make sure I was pure of flesh. Goldengun kept insisting I was a traitor, that I had to be, that that was the only explanation for how we had been defeated. Both and I and the Engiseer protested, only for him to shoot the engiseer in the shoulder, yelling at us both for insubordination. To save Coppernicus's life, I complied, stripping as he and the Inquisitor watched, the latter merely observing. Once I was standing bare in the cold air, shivering, the captain began his inspection.
Once he failed to find anything, instead of being mollified, he instead became more enraged, attacking me and attempting to beat a confession out of me. I resisted, and we fought: in the process, I grabbed his shirt and, in the ensuing struggle, it tore.
He had gills. The captain had fucking gills. Once he realized that we had seen them, the monster began to stammer and blubber excuses, pleas, justifications for why he was a good man, a god-fearing servant of the Emperor who didn't deserve what had happened to him, that his mutations, of which he's sentenced others to death for less, were really so minor that they shouldn't count.
Behind him, I saw the helmsman. His skeletal face was no longer smiling: the flickering lamplight of the captains office and the contours of his eyes now framed his ghastly, skull-like mouth in a frown. It was at that point I realized everything the Helmsman said was true. It was at that point my vision began to blur around the edges.
The next few minutes are unclear, hazy, and though I am haunted by what occurred during them I do not recall the details with perfect clarity, perhaps for the best. I know I descended upon the man in a screaming, feral rage as I struck him repeatedly, ignoring his blurbling, bloody pleas for mercy as my fists treated him, his face, his torso, his head as a drum. I recall at one point hearing a crack, the sound of bone giving way, and it was only when he finally went silent, reduced to twitches and the whimpers of a dying man that I realized what I was doing fully. With horror, I stepped back, watching as the man desperately gasped for air, puffs of blood bursting from his gills and spurts of crimson rising from his mouth, his eyes ruined, reduced to a smear of gore.
It took him three minute to finally, mercifully die, and though I still despise the man, the thought of how he perished and my hand in it has left me ill-eased. His face was…he didn't deserve that. Death, yes, but something quick, painless. That…that was cruel. I should have simply shot them and made it quick.
"Well, it appears the mutant has outed themselves at long last," The inquisitor said. "And as is destiny, they were exterminated by a champion of the Imperium forged in the furnace of hardship into a true, rapturous zealot."
The way he said it…he was proud of me. Satisfied. He thought that my rage at the Captain had been his mutation. He informed me that I was taking the Captains place, and that I was to begin conducting a purge.
I punched him, sending him to the floor. The man screamed at me for assaulting a member of his Majesties glorious Inquisition, promising to see me burned at the pyre as a heretic as they attempted to draw their weapon, only to find their skull split in twain by Coppernicus, gore-matter sliding onto the ground.
"It appears that Captain Goldengun has gone mad and killed the Inquisitor," He told me even as he removed his axe from Von Clovis's head, the mans corpse falling to the ground. "We should attempt to secure the crime scene so that a thorough investigation can be performed. Thankfully, before he perished, he was able to promote a replacement to take command of the vessel," He continued, pressing a button on his body and causing a recording of the inquisitors voice to replay his assigning me the position of captain.
His meaning was immediate and obvious. If what we have done ever gets out, not only are we dead, everyone on the ship is. And so, with his help, we arranged the captains quarters to look like the man had assaulted the inquisitor, ambushing him with his power sword, only to get attacked by me after in order to apprehend the murderer.
None yet have questioned it, not as chaotic as things were and still are, and once I announced that I would be suspending all purges because of extraordinary conditions, we finally managed to get the crew under control: the Commodore has apparently ordered the same throughout the fleet, suspending or belaying any current crimes in the crew until we find our way back to home territory. And yet, even with them mollified that extermination is not awaiting them, we are still lost, thousands of lightyears from the nearest friendly port.
We are adrift at sea, forced to sail into that vast and unrelenting darktide. And I fear we may never reach home.
To be continued…
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Commissioned by @Kirbstomp . 
