Their commander—Talon-One—kept stealing glances at me, eyes narrowing not with hostility, but with the uncertainty of a man trying to categorize something beyond his training.
I broke the silence.
“You handled yourselves well,” I said softly. “Disciplined. Coordinated.”
Several soldiers blinked, confused. One coughed awkwardly.
Compliments were evidently rarer than bullets.
Talon-One cleared his throat.
“Uh… thank you? Sir?”
I smiled.
The term sir hit oddly.
“I am not your superior,” I said. “But kindness is not rank. It’s… human.”
A few armsmen shifted uneasily, unsure whether they liked me speaking in such calm, measured tones. One woman with a scar across her jaw looked away quickly—as if kindness was more frightening than null-fields.
“I know I frightened you,” I continued.
“My presence. My field. The… pressure. It affects living minds. I am sorry for the pain it caused your psykers.”
The psykers trembled at the far end of the bay, whispering prayers into their restraints. When they saw me looking, they flinched violently and turned their faces away.
“I will keep myself contained while aboard your vessel,” I said. “They will not suffer again.”
The commander exhaled, relief softening the tension in his face.
“Appreciated,” he muttered. “They’re… fragile.”
Fragile was an understatement.
Their minds were quivering threads stretched across a chasm they could barely perceive.
One of the younger armsmen swallowed audibly.
“So, uh… anomaly—sir—do you… eat? Or breathe? Or… actually what are you?”
Before I could answer, a burst of harsh binaric static cut through the ship:
“
The Tech-Priest had shuffled closer—robes scraping the deck plating, mechadendrite jittering with excitement. His optic glowed so harshly it reflected off the gunship walls in crimson arcs.
He wasn’t speaking to me.
He was documenting me.
To himself.
To the machine.
To whatever recorded his every twitch.
Another burst:
“
He leaned close—too close—his scent a nauseating mix of machine oil, antiseptic, and rotting tissue where augmentations met inflamed flesh.
His binaric pitch sharpened:
“
“Machine-God?” I repeated quietly.
A few armsmen made the sign of the aquila immediately.
Talon-One stiffened.
“Yes,” he said cautiously. “The Omnissiah. The Divine Mechanic. The holy form of the Emperor as the Master of All Machines.”
My smile froze on my lips.
“Emperor,” I echoed.
The commander nodded.
“You… you really don’t know?”
“I know the word,” I said carefully. “But not what it means now.”
The older armsman to my right frowned.
“He’s the God-Emperor of Mankind. Ruler of the Imperium. Guardian of humanity. Giver of truth.”
“Praise be His name,” another murmured.
The Tech-Priest blurted a rapid burst of binaric:
“
”
The walls seemed to hum with his fervor.
I smiled politely.
Nodded slowly.
Inside, a cold blade slid beneath my ribs.
A god.
They made him a god.
A man—an engineered psi-construct, a weapon prototype, or something adjacent—elevated to divinity.
Humanity had walked backward into myth.
“And this… Emperor,” I said gently. “You say he rules humanity?”
“Rules?” Talon-One snorted. “He defines it. Without Him, we are nothing.”
My smile tightened.
Nothing.
To deify a lost experiment meant something catastrophic happened in my absence. Something that required a figurehead of unity—or control—so overwhelming that entire civilizations collapsed around it.
The Tech-Priest tilted his head, red optic blazing.
“
Warp displacement.
Yes.
My homeworld had been drawn into hell and spat out neither alive nor dead.
“Emperor…” I whispered again.
Not reverently.
As a man recognizing a familiar term twisted beyond recognition.
The armsmen watched me closely, waiting for something—fear, praise, panic. Anything.
I offered them gentleness instead.
“I am glad you have something to believe in,” I said. “Truly.”
A few soldiers blinked.
That wasn’t what they expected.
Not even close.
“We all need something that keeps us human.”
Talon-One’s posture eased.
The younger soldiers relaxed a little, if only because kindness didn’t fit their image of a threat.
Even the psykers raised their heads, confused by the softness in my tone.
But the Tech-Priest…
He was silent.
His red optic whirred sharply as he scanned me, servos locking tight, mechadendrite curling like a threatened insect.
A burst of binaric static crackled from his vox:
“”
“
Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
The armsmen looked alarmed, hands drifting closer to their weapons.
Everyone froze, waiting for my answer.
I felt the danger immediately.
The priest’s posture.
The twitch of his mechadendrite.
The religious tremor in his breath.
This was not a man who handled contradictions peacefully.
A wrong word would ignite violence.
Fanaticism was woven into his flesh.
So I bowed my head slightly—neither submissive nor challenging.
“My construction is… old,” I said gently.
“Older than any record you have access to, I suspect. Time has changed much.”
The priest stiffened, unsure if that was an answer or an evasion.
Good.
I intended it to be both.
Before he could push further, I shifted my gaze to the armsmen instead—warmly, deliberately.
“Tell me,” I said, “about your vessel. About your people. Where do you come from?”
The Tech-Priest paused, thrown off balance by the deflection.
One of the younger armsmen perked up—eager, proud, relieved to speak of something familiar.
“We serve aboard the Divine Promise,” she said, tapping her chest armor. “Rogue Trader flagship of the Steelheart Dynasty.”
Another soldier nodded.
“A line that goes back nine thousand years. Old charter, old blood. Explorers. Mapmakers. Traders. Diplomats when needed.”
“And warriors when not,” the commander added dryly.
A ripple of pride moved through the troops.
Even the psykers lifted their heads at the name.
I leaned in slightly.
“Steelheart,” I repeated.
“A lineage of… explorers?”
“A legacy,” the commander corrected.
“Bound by oath to expand the Imperium’s reach. To claim lost worlds. To bargain, fight, or negotiate as required.”
A Rogue Trader dynasty.
Free authority.
Autonomy.
Power tempered by isolation.
My chest tightened in a quiet pang of admiration.
“That is… impressive,” I said.
The young armsman beside me grinned despite himself—a flash of youthful pride cracking the tension.
The Tech-Priest, however, did not relax.
He released another suspicious burst of binharic:
“
I smiled politely in response.
He tensed further—machine and flesh both unsettled by gentleness he did not expect.
The dropship bucked slightly as it broke through the cloud layer.
The deck vibrated with the pressure change.
“Coming into docking alignment,” the pilot called out.
Through the narrow viewing slit, I saw it:
The underbelly of the cathedral-ship looming like a continent of steel and stone.
Gothic arches.
Flying buttresses.
Massive statues protruding from the hull.
Illuminated runes burning faint blue against the voidshield barrier.
A vast docking aperture opened, revealing layered decks of scaffolding, cranes, personnel corridors, and mechanized lifts.
The soldiers straightened.
Voices quieted.
Even the psykers steadied themselves in fearful anticipation.
The commander’s expression hardened with duty.
“Talon-One to command,” he said into his vox. “We are on approach. Preparing to secure the anomaly for transfer.”
The term no longer stung.
It was simply how they saw me.
How could they see me otherwise?
The docking bay grew larger—hungry, waiting, ancient as a tomb.
Steel rang as the landing struts deployed.
The dropship descended.
Slowed.
Touched down with a heavy metallic thud.
Hydraulics hissed.
Restraints clacked open.
Weapons shifted.
Boots braced.
The commander looked at me.
“Remember,” he said quietly, “the Captain agreed to parlay. But don’t mistake that for trust.”
I nodded.
“I wouldn’t expect trust,” I replied. “Only the chance to earn it.”
The ramp slammed open.
Harsh docking-bay light flooded in.
I rose slowly, feeling the weight of the moment press against me.
A new ship.
New people.
New gods.
A new future.
And perhaps—finally—an end to solitude.
“Let us meet your Captain,” I said.
And stepped into the light.
The mechanical lights of the docking bay struck me first—cold, white, merciless.
Not the clean illumination of my time, but the flicker-heavy glare of overworked lumen strips mounted along rust-eaten girders. The atmosphere hummed with uneven electrical discharge, as though the bay itself breathed through failing machines.
My feet touched the metal floor.
It groaned.
The docking platform stretched before me in a patchwork of barricades: stacked crates stamped with shipping sigils, half-welded breastworks, portable siege-walls marked with impact scars. Concertina wire looped along the edges, unnecessary but telling.
From behind the improvised defenses, armsmen watched me with wide, unblinking eyes.
Some braced solid projectile rifles.
Some held las-carbines with exposed wiring.
A few clutched heavy shotguns like religious talismans.
Above them—mounted to ceiling rails—automated las-turrets tracked my every movement.
Their targeting arrays whined softly as I walked.
The faint tremor of charging capacitors thrummed in the air.
Every step I took made a dozen weapons tighten against their owners’ shoulders.
A welcoming party… by Imperial standards.
And standing before it all, framed by a gap cut deliberately through two parallel rows of elite troopers—
—was the Captain.
Her soldiers wore exo-skeletal frames: crude, bulky harnesses of pistons and plasteel plates layered over flak armor. Decorative seals dangled from chestplates. Gold trim traced the edges of their pauldrons. Helmets crowned with heraldic crests concealed their expressions, but not their intent: violence in reserve.
They carried ornate bolters, each embossed with the Steelheart sigil.
Chainblades rested idly against armored thighs, teeth glinting with promise.
Twenty of them.
Ten to each side.
Perfect symmetry.
The space between them was a corridor of controlled terror.
The Captain stood alone at the very end—motionless, proud, carved from command and expectation.
Her coat was immaculate.
Her boots polished.
Her chin lifted just enough to convey dominance.
She attempted to look down on me.
It almost worked—until I moved closer.
With each step, the tension in the bay tightened like a drawn cable.
With each step, the guards’ fingers drifted nearer to triggers.
With each step, the turrets adjusted with barely-contained panic.
And with each step… I loomed heavier over her.
The air changed—pressure, gravity, the weight of presence.
She felt it.
Everyone did.
But she did not back away.
Two meters.
One.
I came to a stop within arm’s reach.
Her elite guards reacted instantly—bolters snapping up as one, muzzles fixed on my skull and chest.
Their servo-braced limbs whirred with the sudden motion.
Chainblades roared to life in warning, their teeth chattering like hungry insects.
A single gesture from her had summoned all this motion.
Not fear.
Control.
I stood perfectly still.
The Captain stared up at me, steady-eyed, unflinching, but forced now to tilt her head higher than she liked.
The weapons stayed leveled.
The turrets hummed louder.
The armsmen behind the barricades braced for death they did not want but were prepared to deliver.
And I looked down on her—
—silent—
—waiting.
A breath held by the entire bay.
Her eyes traced upward.
And only then did she grasp what truly stood before her.
He was tall—almost Astartes-tall—but without the monstrous bulk.
His silhouette was not the exaggerated mass of a gene-forged giant, but something leaner, older, more deliberate.
A primal design.
Built for function.
Refined by purpose.
Every line of his body efficient and honed.
Corded muscle shifted beneath torn remnants of a uniform that had not existed in the Imperium for tens of thousands of years.
A bodyglove—slick as midnight water and woven from a cyber-synthetic lattice—clung to him from wrist to clavicle, from hip to ankle.
The material shimmered faintly, a relic of a purity the Mechanicus could not replicate even in sacred forges.
The torn upper layers of his clothing exposed spirals of musculature that looked carved rather than grown—fibers braided like cable, ridges defined through starvation, war, and time.
His skin was pale like sunless parchment.
Not sickly.
Not weak.
But untouched—preserved—like something that had been locked away from the world.
His hair fell in uneven, ragged lengths to his brow, strands dark as void-bleached iron.
Enough of it hung forward to shadow his eyes—
—but not enough to hide them.
Eyes that did not glow, did not shine, did not burn with warp-taint.
They absorbed light.
Deep.
Sharp.
Unfathomable.
His gaze met hers with such intensity that it felt like standing at the edge of deep water—black, bottomless, dragging the breath from her lungs.
A drowning stare.
Silent gravity.
He loomed over her with the presence of something ancient and unsimplified by human understanding.
Not a monster.
Not a warrior.
A relic.
A relic that had learned to walk again.
The guards around her tightened their grips. The chainblades whirred louder, bolters pressed harder into armored shoulders.
But he did not move.
Not a twitch.
Not a breath wasted.
He simply stood there—within reach—gazing down at her as though measuring the shape of her will.
A quiet tower of forgotten humanity.
And in the harsh, cold light of the docking bay, even the turrets seemed to hesitate.
For a moment, neither of them breathed.
Then he tilted his head slightly—voice deep, resonant, gentle only in tone.
“Captain?”
Every soldier stiffened.
He took one step closer.
“Captain Steelheart?”
The reaction was instantaneous.
Bolters rose.
Chainswords roared.
Helmets snapped toward him in a coordinated jolt of fear.
The Captain herself flinched—betraying the instinct she tried so hard to hide.
A single heartbeat later, she mastered herself.
Her spine straightened.
Her chin lifted.
Authority reclaimed her features like a mask sliding back into place.
“You will address me properly,” she said, steady but taut, “as your captor.”
Her voice carried across the bay, amplified not by technology but by sheer command.
“By the will of the Emperor, I am His voice, His will, and His hammer in these unclaimed stars.”
A ripple of religious affirmation passed through her soldiers.
She raised a gloved hand.
“And by His right,” she declared, “I claim you.”
Silence expanded across the docking bay like a held breath.
“I claim this world,” she continued. “Its ruins. Its relics. Its secrets. All that stands upon it.”
Her eyes locked on him with cold, imperial certainty.
“They are my tithe—my offering—to the Imperium of Man.”
Then, slowly, with absolute authority:
“You will comply.”
A beat.
“Or you will dare to defy me.”
Every guard leaned forward, tense and ready.
His hands remained at his sides.
But his right fist curled.
Knuckles cracked like distant gunfire.
Tendons stretched.
Synthetic-muscle cables tightened beneath pale skin.
A slow, heavy sound—like the shifting of tectonic plates—echoed in the bay.
“…And what,” he asked quietly, “if I do not?”
Several soldiers gasped.
One whispered a prayer.
The null pressure deepened, air thickening around him.
The Captain opened her mouth to answer—
—but someone behind him panicked first.
A lone crewman, shaking uncontrollably, fired.
A single las-burst.
Bright.
Sharp.
Scorching the air.
It struck the back of the his shoulder.
Did nothing.
Silence shattered.
The guards erupted.
A wall of las-fire poured toward him like a blazing storm.
Projectile rifles thundered, slugs whining through the bay.
Shotguns roared with bone-cracking brutality.
A few bolters fired—blooms of explosive death detonating in bright, vicious flashes.
He stood still.
Guards surged forward to protect the Captain, their exo-frames grinding as they locked shields.
She was dragged behind a phalanx of armored bodies, fury and shock warring on her face.
The bay filled with smoke.
Alarms blared.
The air tasted of ozone, burnt metal, and fear.
“CEASE FIRE!” Talon-One screamed.
“CEASE—CEASE—HOLD FIRE, YOU FOOLS!”
The shooting stuttered.
Stopped in ragged bursts.
Echoes faded into trembling silence.
Smoke drifted like ghosts.
In its midst…
He remained.
Unmoving.
Calm.
Shredded cloth fell from his body in ribbons, revealing more of the dark, machine-fine bodyglove, unmarred and gleaming beneath the ruin of his uniform.
His pale skin had not even reddened.
Las impacts dissipated off him as faint wisps of cooling vapor.
Expended slugs clinked against the floor, rolling across the metal in a lazy scatter.
A half-burned bolter shell had lodged against his boot; he nudged it aside absently.
He looked up through falling smoke—hair partially hiding his drowning-dark eyes.
And stepped forward once more.
Untouched.
Unscathed.
Unimpressed.
The Captain stared in disbelief from behind her shi
eld wall.
He opened his hand slowly—fingers uncurling one by one—voice quiet but carrying through the bay like the tolling of a bell.
“Captain Steelheart,” he said, “I do not wish to fight you.”
The next breath every soldier took was sharp and involuntary.
“But understand…”
The smoke parted around him like a curtain.
“…you cannot kill me.”