"Are you really just going to let her enter the city alone?" Konrad Curze asked in the venom-laced tone he had grown accustomed to using lately. "I thought your duty was to protect her life."
The golden figure he directed his sarcasm at remained unmoved. Somnus, his face forever hidden beneath that gilded helm, stood motionless amidst the layers of holographic screens projected in the air, like a statue that had melted into the background, utterly indifferent to the Night Haunter's provocation.
Even his voice, processed through his helmet, carried the same mechanical flatness. Someone with a vivid imagination might have speculated that beneath that armor lurked nothing more than a loathsome machine-spirit.
"No scenario requiring armed intervention on the Captain's behalf has been detected," Somnus stated emotionlessly, as usual. "Sector records and planetary governance data confirm that Jastael, as an agri-world with weak general security forces, poses no significant armed threat. Cross-referencing data from the Auger Array and Sheba Lens further supports this conclusion."
"But we both know there's 'something wrong' with this planet, even if we don't yet know what," Curze retorted, arms crossed. "Even if you don't trust my foresight, the instruments aboard the Storm's Edge—the ones we don't even fully understand—have sounded the alarm."
"The Sheba Lens rates this region's 'Human Order Foundation Value' as C. Warp energy levels remain stable in the Yellow Zone. Trismegistus has not issued any anomaly alerts. Given the surrounding warp conditions, these readings fall within the 'normal' range. In the absence of an explicit request for support, I will remain on standby while continuing intelligence-gathering operations."
"..." Somnus' machinelike demeanor eventually drained Curze of his desire to argue, forcing him to cut to the chase: "Fujimaru Ritsuka's exosuit comms remain linked to the Storm's Edge. You heard it yourself—she's found some clues after interacting with the locals."
He waited a moment, but Somnus showed no reaction. Curze couldn't even tell if the Custodian was waiting for him to continue or simply ignoring the blatant hint. After ten seconds, he finally snapped: "So, are you going to investigate the source of this planet's pesticides or not?"
At last, Somnus reacted—though barely.
"No explicit request for support has been received," he repeated, like a machine regurgitating preprogrammed lines. "In its absence, I will remain on standby while continuing intelligence-gathering operations."
Konrad Curze narrowed his eyes dangerously, idly scraping his claws together with a metallic shink. Under Ritsuka's supervision (or, as Curze preferred to phrase it, coercion), he had maintained decent hygiene in this second life of his. But some habits, ingrained too deeply, had not faded with death and rebirth.
Sometimes, this disgusted him. Other times, it gave him a perverse sense of comfort—proof that he was still himself.
He shoved those thoughts aside and deliberately adopted the refined, aristocratic cadence of High Gothic:
"If you insist on entombing yourself in the command center as a mere ornament, might I at least trouble you to inquire about the location of Jastael's pesticide facilities—assuming they exist on this planet?"
"Negative. There exists no clear chain of command or cooperation between us," Somnus replied instantly. "My duty here is to obey the Captain's orders and safeguard her person. In the absence of explicit instructions regarding 'authority transfer,' the commands or requests of others are irrelevant."
—He showed no emotional fluctuation, but he had deliberately switched to Nostraman.
This did provoke Curze. The Primarch straightened to his full height, his fury making his already colossal frame seem to blot out the sky. A suffocating pressure filled the Storm's Edge's command center, but even in his rage, Curze restrained himself, channeling his displeasure into words alone—
And then, the alarms blared.
The silver-white command center was instantly bathed in flashing crimson light, abruptly derailing Curze's brewing tirade. Even the statue-like Somnus was jolted into action, half the hovering holograms vanishing as the golden figure finally deigned to step forward and examine the data flooding the consoles.
"Sheba has detected anomalous warp fluctuations. Waveform analysis matches known Eldar webway gate signatures," Somnus reported rapidly, summarizing the data while manipulating the controls. "Under emergency protocols, mission priority has been updated. Relevant data has been transmitted to the Outer Naos-type Spiritron Dress."
Fine. Curze thought bitterly. He knew exactly what those protocols entailed—in short, if the situation allowed, he'd be tossed at the xenos to clean house. They had their own mission, but as Imperial forces personally dispatched by the Emperor, turning a blind eye to basic defense duties on an Imperial world was theoretically unacceptable.
The Storm's Edge's archaic second-millennium keyboard inputs and outdated interface didn't slow Somnus down. Similarly, Ritsuka—currently strolling through the city with a local farm girl and a self-retired Astartes—wasted no time in making her decision.
"If their numbers are manageable, drive them off. At the very least, find out why they're here," she murmured over the comms. "This damn place keeps sprouting more problems. I suspect the First City is in some kind of critical phase right now. If a third party jumps in to muddy the waters, the variables will spiral out of control."
Somnus acknowledged and cut the link. After a moment scrutinizing the Sheba-linked screens, he turned to Curze and issued an order in a tone that brooked no argument:
"You will enter the Coffin. Spiritron Transfer commences in ninety seconds."
"You're just throwing me in headfirst?" Curze snarled, but Somnus seemed to find nothing amiss.
"Were you a Custodian, you would not ask," he said flatly. "Spiritron Transfer preparations are underway because I have determined the Eldar force emerging from the webway is within your capacity to handle. However, the Sheba Lens is detecting Eldar-specific psychic interference, preventing precise observation of their numbers. I therefore cannot provide detailed intelligence, but theoretically, you should still complete this mission. You need only obey."
"—But as you so eloquently stated earlier, there's no chain of command between us," Curze challenged, malice dripping from his words. "What if I refuse?"
"I will report this to the Captain and request deployment to eliminate the threat myself," Somnus replied smoothly, as if he'd anticipated this very scenario. "If you insist on this course of action, I will activate this contingency immediately."
Curze fell silent for several seconds. Whether he felt threatened by this "contingency" or not, whatever his motives—in the end, he still stepped into the Primarch-sized Coffin reserved for him during the final thirty-second countdown.
"I hope those Eldar—no, never mind," he growled inside the Coffin, clearly resolved to vent his fury on the unfortunate xenos. "Ritsuka said to find out why they're here. Good."
I'll make them talk.
He clung to that vicious thought as the dizzying glare of Spiritron Transfer swallowed him whole.
——
"...So this parade happens every day during the nine-day festival?" Fujimaru Ritsuka eyed the bizarrely costumed procession before her and turned to Aelita. "Is there any significance to the route?"
They were already inside the First City, but in the 41st millennium, the definition of "city" had diverged drastically from what Ritsuka remembered. Even on a sparsely populated agri-world, Jastael's unimaginatively named "First City" dwarfed Tokyo in both scale and population.
—This was the planet's administrative hub and interstellar port, necessitating facilities for transient populations beyond its permanent residents. With the Imperial tax fleet in orbit and the entire world celebrating the harvest, the city's temporary, artificial prosperity easily accommodated an influx of outsiders—mostly workers from the farming zones permitted to stay, with a smattering of soldiers and crew allowed shore leave from the tax ships.
This complicated Ritsuka's investigation. If "Blue Ash Disease" was indeed a chronic condition caused by "prolonged pesticide exposure," then logically, this abnormality (or mutation) should be most prevalent among frontline workers in the farming zones.
If she could confirm that urban administrative workers showed significantly lower rates, she could confidently pin the blame on Jastael's special pesticide blend. But the flood of outsiders made it impossible to determine who was a local, let alone track incidence rates.
For better or worse, entering the city had revealed another problem.
"They say the parade starts at the 'Ancient Ruins,' spends nine days circling the city, and returns to the ruins by noon on the final day," Aelita explained around a piece of chocolate Ritsuka had given her, happily watching the locals' amateurish "performance troupes." "Since Technocrat Hessting gives his speech in the ruins' plaza that day, anyone can follow the parade into the inner city then. People think it's worth it just to see the starport up close—but since you came from off-world, can't you go there anytime to return to your ship?"
"...Ahahaha." Ritsuka laughed awkwardly. She hadn't arrived through the port, hadn't set foot in the inner city—her landing had been highly irregular. She quickly changed the subject: "Speaking of which, this is a harvest festival on an agri-world, right? There are stalls everywhere, but why are they all selling handicrafts instead of food?"
"Huh?" Aelita seemed puzzled. "Food... can you just sell food?"
"Jastael is a resource-poor world, milady," Sevatar's mocking voice drifted down from above. "Its only export is grain, and because grain is its only export, the Imperium taxes it heavily. The bureaucrats poring over parchment probably think they're being merciful, but even the lowest Imperial tax rate is too much for a planet prone to disasters. Jastael accrued massive debt until Governor Deville took office and Technocrat Hessting modified orb-wheat genetics to boost yields—culminating in this year's bumper harvest."
Aelita blinked up at "Jagob," uncomprehending, but Ritsuka grasped his meaning immediately:
"I see. So until now, food was a controlled strategic resource, and private trade was banned?"
"Essentially."
Sevatar seemed ready to add more, but Aelita naturally redirected the conversation: "If you're curious what orb-wheat tastes like, I can share my rations back at the depot! Everyone gets extra during the festival, so it's fine to give some away."
This casual kindness inexplicably irritated Sevatar. Even Ritsuka was taken aback: "That's not right, is it? If rations are limited, shouldn't you save any surplus for emergencies?"
"It's fine! The modified orb-wheat yields are so high now, no one will go hungry anymore," Aelita said cheerfully. "Besides, you shared your candy with me. I'm the one who should feel bad only having worker-grade orb-wheat to offer in return."
"...No, a chocolate bar really isn't a big deal to me—"
"But it is to me! I've never had candy this delicious!" Aelita happily held the translucent wrapper up to the light. "And the wrapper's so pretty! I'm keeping it. Now I've got a gift from off-world too!"
Ritsuka suddenly felt the weight of what had been a thoughtless gesture.