On the Blackiron, in the private quarters within the warband's armory, Philon emerged from the shower room with a towel wrapped around his waist, his upper body bare, and droplets of water still trickling down his dark skin. He sat down on the iron-framed bed and picked up a half-read copy of Ancient Terran Jokes: Hot and Cold from the bookshelf.
With his other hand, he reached for a snack on the table beside him—a purple, multi-layered fruit that grew underground. It was crisp, juicy, and quite good. For some reason, the locals said this fruit was harmful to the eyes and had to be cooked before eating.
A nearby servitor picked up a pitcher and filled Philon's steel goblet to the brim with bloodwine. Unfortunately, the bloodwine stocks were running low. Most of the lower-deck slaves had been taken to the planet's surface. To get another taste of human flesh, he'd have to see what he could find in the city-state's prisons.
This wasn't out of any ruler's mercy or the pity of the Forged Steel Angels. The boss had never restricted what they did to mortals. It was simply because the slaves had gone from being a liability to an asset. Even those brainless fools in the Slaaneshi warbands knew that when you wanted to kill a mortal for fun, you didn't kill a fighter pilot, you killed a mortal with no special skills.
Philon was now on the ship with his brothers, out of his armor, sitting on his bed, eating fruit and reading. This made him very happy.
Because the Forged Steel Brotherhood trusted each other. Unlike the harsh and cruel Iron Warriors, they saw each other as brothers, not tools to achieve victory. This was especially true for Philon, because it was obvious he had no blood ties to his brothers.
Back in the Legion, the new recruits of Philon's generation were called the "Unnecessary Sons," simply because the Legion veterans felt their implantation was completely unnecessary. The Battle of Terra and the Iron Cage Campaign were already over, and the Legion was retreating to the Eye of Terror. It was on the way there that the Primarch had ordered this round of implantations.
The Legion had used some of their stocks of Loyalist gene-seed. In fact, the Iron Warriors had a large supply of gene-seed from other Legions, a significant portion of which had been acquired on Isstvan V. In that battle, a son of a god had killed another son of a god. Brother fought brother, kinsman slaughtered kinsman. There was no turning back for the Iron Warriors.
Whatever the reason, the Iron Warriors had used this batch of gene-seed. At an unnecessary time, under unnecessary circumstances, they had used unnecessary gene-seed to create the "Unnecessary Sons."
The other recruits were fine, for the most part. The physical differences were not so great, and even if they were disliked by the veterans, they could form their own cliques. Philon, however, was disliked even among the disliked.
So, some began to call him "Unhappy Philon." Even some of the mortals called him that in private. This led Philon to focus more of his energy on the forge and mechanics. He naturally became a Techmarine, and then a Warpsmith.
It was in the Eye of of Terror that Philon met Sergeant Peter of the Expeditionary Levies. At the time, Peter was bringing new recruits to Philon, the Warpsmith, to learn about equipment maintenance and repair.
Unlike other officers who cruelly punished their subordinates, Peter patiently and repeatedly taught the new recruits, hoping to increase their chances of survival in future wars by even a fraction.
A sixth sense told Philon that this Sergeant Peter was very "un-Iron Warrior," but he preferred people like that. So, when Philon learned that Peter was forming a warband, he was the first to run up and say, "Count me in."
From then on, he was no longer "Unhappy Philon" of the Iron Warriors. He ate, drank, and laughed heartily, teasing his brothers and becoming the Warpsmith of the "Forged Steel Brotherhood," becoming "Happy Philon."
In their later interactions, Philon had expressed his doubts about his own implantation. Why had the Legion used Loyalist gene-seed to create new recruits? And his boss, Peter, had given his own judgment.
At that time, the Legion, warbands, and the Dark Mechanicum were all fleeing into the Eye of Terror. The now-daemon Primarch, the Lord of Iron, had realized the problem of grabbing territory. Whoever had the most warriors, the greatest strength, would be able to find the best locations in the warp.
So, after the Legion had secured its footing in realspace with its superior numbers, the Primarch had encouraged infighting within the Legion to weed out the weak. When they needed more bodies, they would use even Loyalist gene-seed to create them. When they didn't, they would let them kill each other, under the guise of "culling the weak."
It was only after his boss explained this that Philon fully realized they were just tools. The Primarch viewed his sons' lives as tools, and his subordinates naturally followed his example. This led to a lack of trust within the Legion. They slept with their weapons, and never dared to take off their Terminator armor.
As the boss had said, "The father doesn't trust his sons, yet he demands his sons trust each other."
Just as Philon was about to finish his purple fruit, the communicator on the wall buzzed. Philon jutted his chin, and a servitor immediately went to activate it.
A familiar voice came through the vox-grille.
"Philon."
Philon recognized the boss's voice.
"Boss, what are your orders?"
"In a couple of days, Anthony and I are taking the ship out for a trip. You and Vornaby's 2nd squad will stay behind to guard our homeworld."
"What the hell? You're going out to have fun and not taking me?"
"..." On the other end of the line, Peter sometimes really wanted to smash Philon's bald head with a thunder hammer. Unfortunately, he had neither a thunder hammer nor the heart to do it. Among a group of sullen Iron Warriors, Philon was always the weirdo who could liven things up.
"I'm going to get gene-seed. You know about our deal with the Dark Mechanicum. I'm afraid they'll give us shoddy goods or drag their feet. You're the most tech-savvy among us, so keep an eye on things for me. Vornaby will handle the rest."
Understanding the importance of the matter, Philon wasted no more words.
"Alright, boss. The brothers and I will watch the home front."
"Good."
The communication cut off.
Philon sat on his steel-framed bed, chin in hand, thinking. The boss was taking the flagship and would be gone for at least a year or two. Captain Vornaby didn't really manage him, which meant he could do whatever he wanted.
He could go explore the homeworld, taste the local wines, and sample the flavors of the local people and animals. He could go inspect the other two continents, under the guise of surveying the local geography. It sounded like a lot of fun.
Wait a minute! The ship was leaving, so he had to move his own things to the surface... No, that wasn't right. He still had to figure out where to build the fortress-monastery, survey the planetary mines, level the land, set up the agricultural equipment, and inspect the engineering projects.
Holy crap. When he thought about it, it meant he wouldn't have a moment's rest!
No, there was no time to waste. Philon snatched the towel from his waist and threw it in the servitor's face. He grabbed his goblet, drained the bloodwine, and, with his dark ass bare, walked towards his power armor.
There was no time to daydream. He had a lot of work to do.
...
After finalizing the deal with the Dark Mechanicum, Peter handed over the liaison work to Philon, whose greater knowledge made him less likely to be swindled.
At this moment, Peter stood on the command bridge of the Blackiron, ready to take the next step in strengthening the warband.
They lacked everything—weapons, armor, ships, power—but none of these were the most critical. The most important thing was Space Marines; they needed to increase the number of brothers in the warband.
The Dark Mechanicum had already delivered the surgical equipment and had trained Brother Dioscorides to be an Apothecary. But they lacked the most crucial component: "gene-seed." This tissue, extracted from the body of an Astartes, is a mystical gland created by the Emperor, and it is the key to a boy's ascension to becoming a Space Marine.
When an adolescent undergoes the nineteen surgical procedures to become an Astartes, two gene-seeds are implanted in his body. The one in his neck, the cervical progenoid, matures after five years and can be safely removed via surgery. After ten years, the thoracic progenoid in his chest also matures and can be extracted, but no one ever does this.
This is because the gene-seed within the thoracic progenoid gland is one of the sources of a Space Marine's power. It releases hormones that maintain the superhuman body's functions and is closely linked with the other transhuman organs. Throughout a Space Marine's long or short career, it also converts his combat experience into genetic information for preservation.
Forcibly removing the thoracic gene-seed would almost certainly kill the Space Marine. Therefore, only after a Space Marine has fallen in battle will an Apothecary harvest it.
Standing beside Peter were Anthony and Barnabas. The three of them were the commanders of this operation. To this end, they needed to hold a meeting first to clarify their objectives.
Captain Barnabas spoke first.
"We need gene-seed now. The gene-seed in the brothers' necks was harvested by the Legion long ago. We don't have a single spare one. If we can't increase the number of brothers, our warband will always be a minor affair, liable to be wiped out in a single battle."
Barnabas had taken off his helmet, revealing a broad forehead and short brown hair that was almost a buzz cut. His skin was as rough as sandpaper. A long scar ran across his right cheek, deeply wounding his eye. It wasn't a problem, however, as a red bionic eye had taken its place.
Peter replied to the master of his "fleet."
"The Imperial Chapters and the Adeptus Mechanicus have gene-seed, but we don't have the strength to raid them. The Dark Mechanicum certainly has stockpiles, but we no longer have anything that can move them. Other Legions and warbands are also short on seed; they won't trade with us and are likely eyeing the seeds within our own bodies. As for Fabius Bile's Apothecarion, we have no way to contact them."
Anthony sighed. "Then are there any other channels for us to get it?"
Peter answered calmly, "Yes. There is a group of xenos. These xenos hold a significant quantity of gene-seed. They live deep within the Webway and always squeeze the last drop of value from their slaves. When a Space Marine dies in their hands, they will also extract and preserve the gene-seed for trade."
"Captain, are you talking about trading with the Dark Eldar!?" Anthony was shocked by his captain's audacity.
"Of course not. If we went looking for the Dark Eldar with our current strength, it would be like a duck walking into market carrying its own seasoning. We'd be captured and sent to their fighting pits."
Peter looked at his brother. "But there is a group of intermediaries. They possess nearly limitless rights, the courage to trade with xenos and heretics, and, most importantly, a legitimate identity."
Anthony still couldn't guess the answer, but Captain Barnabas, standing beside them, said it first.
"Rogue Traders."
"Correct. Rogue Traders. In fact, I've already made contact with a Rogue Trader from a minor dynasty, but he only accepts in-person pick-up."
"We go to them? Is that reliable?" Anthony was a little worried. He was arrogant, but not stupid. Traveling to a Rogue Trader's territory would put them at a disadvantage; their host could easily destroy them.
Peter shook his head. "I can't guarantee he's absolutely reliable, but he does have a considerable record of trading with xenos and heretics. So far, there have been no reported cases of him double-crossing anyone. Or rather, if it has happened, we don't know about it."
"This Rogue Trader is incredibly bold. He operates in the Segmentum Ultima, holding a Warrant of Trade issued by Roboute Guilliman himself, all while trading with xenos and heretics. A man like that must either have powerful connections, incredible skill, or both."
Faced with this situation, the other two didn't know what to decide. The risk was indeed quite high.
In the end, it was Peter who made the final call.
"Of course there's danger, but we are Astartes. Danger is as common to us as breathing. For the future of the warband, we will go and meet him."
With a single command from the Lord of the Forged Steel, the starship that had been floating in the planet's orbit for nearly half a year began to awaken.
The ship's twenty-six thousand-plus inhabitants sprang into action. Armsmen equipped themselves and stood guard at key points throughout the vessel. The various crew-clans inspected the systems they maintained. The Navigator was awakened from his stasis pod. The psykers in the Gellar Field generator were injected with sedatives, forcing them into a deep sleep.
There were some minor incidents during the Blackiron's preparations for departure. A promethium pipeline in sector C3 sprang a leak, causing a fire that killed 42 people. Two crewmen promoted from the slave ranks got lost due to their unfamiliarity with the ship's layout, wandered into a restricted area, and were shot on sight by armsmen. The two clans responsible for maintaining Macro-cannon Three and Lance Two got into a brawl for unknown reasons, resulting in 12 deaths. All in all, the departure was a very smooth one.
As the engines ignited, the Blackiron slowly began to move, pulling away from the Dark Mechanicum's Lunar-class cruiser and several Cobra-class destroyers. The Blackiron began to break free from the planet's gravitational pull and leave its orbit.
The captain confirmed repeatedly that the Gellar Field was active and waited for the plasma engines to fully charge. Barnabas checked and rechecked everything tirelessly. After all, the warband currently only had this one ship, and most of the battle-brothers were on board. If an accident occurred due to his negligence, it would spell doom for their entire warband.
As the Blackiron headed for the system's Mandeville Point, it plunged into the chaotic Immaterium with its fourteen dangerous passengers, and their journey through the Warp began.
After entering the Warp, all observation windows were sealed. Mortals were forbidden from looking outside, under penalty of summary execution. This was because the Warp was too twisted and terrifying; the minds of most mortals would be corrupted and warped by just a few glances. Of course, Peter and his brothers didn't care about this. They had, after all, once lived on a daemon world, side-by-side with countless daemons.
For a short while after entering the Warp, for some unknown reason, people on the Blackiron found that their belongings had been moved. Some heard whispers or crying coming from within the walls. Others got lost in areas they knew like the back of their hand. But as long as the ship's Gellar Field was running smoothly, the upper decks paid it no mind, attributing the incidents to thieves or people in the next cabin. As for those who got lost, a few lashes would sort them out.
After all, they were in the Warp now. It was best not to delve too deeply into certain matters.
...
The Blackiron spent approximately two months in the Warp, at least according to the ship's internal chronometers.
Barnabas sat enthroned on the command chair of the bridge, diligently overseeing the operation of the flagship. In these two months, he had not slept for more than 20 minutes a day. The mortal crew worked in two shifts, but he simply rested on his throne in a light sleep. The slightest disturbance would jolt him awake.
A mortal would have been crushed by such high-intensity work long ago, but an organ called the neuroglottis had been implanted in the Astartes' brain. It would activate at the first sign of sleep deprivation, allowing the Astartes to meet his needs with only short periods of light sleep. If necessary, he could even go without sleep entirely until he died from metabolic abnormalities, circulatory failure, brain damage, organ failure, and a host of other physical problems.
Peter had appointed him Master of the Fleet, although for now, there was only one ship. But he was indeed the supreme commander of this vessel. According to the rules of the "Forged Steel Brotherhood" warband, even if he were to order Peter to undertake a suicide boarding action, Peter would have to obey.
But he would not lightly give such an order, for they were brothers, and he did not wish for any unnecessary sacrifices. It was for this reason that he wore the relatively outdated Mark II 'Crusade' Armour, giving the better suits to his brothers in the hope that they would survive their battles. The Master of the Fleet was not usually required to engage in boarding or anti-boarding actions. His battlefield was the command bridge, in the void.
Barnabas stared intently at the various data streams on the screen, using them to monitor the ship's condition. Suddenly, he noticed an anomaly. The Master of the Augurs spoke up at the same moment.
"My lord, dissipating plasma detected on the starboard side. Identified as engine residue. Two ships just passed by."
The Master of the Augurs reported hastily. A good Master of the Augurs, Barnabas thought, only a step behind me.
"Their class and firepower?"
"Estimated to be small-to-medium vessels. Their destination may be the same as ours. We need to get closer for more information and further analysis."
This matched Barnabas's own assessment. It was in situations like these that he would train his senior crew. During fleet engagements, he would have no time for such details; his subordinates would have to make their own judgments.
Barnabas stroked the beard on his chin, making mental calculations.
The Blackiron was a Dagger-class frigate. Its firepower might be underwhelming, but it was relatively fast. The other side had only two small ships, too few for a naval fleet, so that was unlikely. And their destination was roughly the same as theirs. A chance encounter. Regardless of whether they were friend or foe, they could fight or flee. The initiative was in their hands.
"Pursue," the captain ordered.
The helmsman below received the order and immediately adjusted their course.
In an uncharted star system, the void of space was rapidly oscillating. Realspace was torn asunder. Two ships emerged from the Warp, a gateway to the Empyrean slowly closing behind them. But just as the Warp was about to dissipate into physical space, another ship shot out after them.
Charter Captain Borislav was in a panic. He had been sailing peacefully through the Warp with an armed freighter and a Vagabond-class freighter when they were inexplicably targeted by another vessel. Borislav had tried to shake them off multiple times, but had failed. He had risked an emergency exit from the Warp, but as they scrambled out, their pursuer had followed.
It was then that Borislav finally identified his pursuer: a Dagger-class frigate, one of the smaller frigates in the Imperial Navy. But even so, it was more than a match for his two freighters.
The communications officer reported, "Captain, we're receiving a communication request."
Borislav's heart sank. He didn't know the situation, but the ship didn't appear to have any Chaos markings, so that could be ruled out.
"Put them through."
At the captain's words, the holoprojector on the bridge activated, displaying a helmeted Astartes.
"Imperial vessel, we are the 'Hand of Forged Steel' Chapter, currently on a mission. I order you to immediately lower your void shields and disengage your weapon locks. We are coming aboard for an inspection."
Captain Borislav looked at the Master of the Augurs, who shook his head.
"My lord, we have no data on your vessel in our database, nor do we know of any Space Marine Chapter operating in this sector."
As a precaution, he signaled for the master-gunner to disengage the weapon locks. Angering them would not end well.
"We are a fleet-based Chapter, currently on a pursuit mission. I now order you to lower your void shields and allow us to board and search."
"My lord, this is against regulations." Borislav panicked. Allowing unknown individuals to board his ship was not a good decision, especially a group of Space Marines.
"Since you refuse, we will use boarding torpedoes."
The other party clearly had no intention of negotiating. They dropped this single line and then cut the communication.
They were going to force their way on board. It was over. Borislav considered fighting back. With their firepower, it was a long shot, but it was possible to shoot down the boarding torpedoes.
But to attack a group of Space Marines? If he dared to do that, he was dead no matter what. Don't fight back? Just let them board his ship like this?
While he hesitated, gritting his teeth, the enemy had already launched their torpedoes.
The master-gunner asked, "Captain, the guns can re-lock on the boarding torpedoes. What are your orders?"
Sweat poured down Borislav's face. What are my orders? He wished he knew. Fighting back meant death. Fleeing was impossible. Was he just to let them board and search, slaughtering his crew?
"Captain, we have two minutes."
The ship had been inspected and was clean. The cargo was legal. But what if there was something in one of the holds? What if some important fugitive was hiding on board? A fugitive being pursued by Space Marines—he didn't dare to imagine what they had done.
"Captain, last chance. Ten, nine, eight, seven... five, four, three, two, one."
The master-gunner spoke in a voice filled with despair as the last window for a counter-attack closed.
It was over. There was no more chance to fight back. With a dull thud that resonated through the hull, the enemy's boarding torpedoes had breached the ship.
Borislav wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. "It's fine. The ship is clean. Inform the armsmen on the other vessel to cooperate with them and assist in their inspection."
It's fine, Borislav thought. My papers are in order, and my cargo is legal. They would come on board, inspect everything, and then leave.
Even if there was a fugitive on board, he would just let them be taken. Maybe a few of his crew would be killed in the process, but as long as they endured it, the Space Marines would leave after they were done.
He had saved up a good amount of money. After this last delivery, he could go back home and get married. As he thought this, Bor-islav instinctively took out a photo locket from around his neck, opened it, and gazed at the young woman inside.
"Vanessa, wait for me to come back."
...
Peter and five battle-brothers sat inside a boarding torpedo, launched from the Blackiron towards the armed freighter. As the torpedo approached the enemy's void shield, it rapidly decelerated, then accelerated again after passing through. This was a common characteristic of void shields and most other Imperial shields: they were effective against fast-moving objects, but not slow ones.
With a violent jolt, the melta cannon at the front of the torpedo fired, melting a hole in the ship's hull. The torpedo plunged through the molten exterior and into the enemy vessel.
Peter was certain they wouldn't dare to open fire. Besides, with the firepower of a merchant vessel like that, even if they did, they would most likely miss.
As the boarding torpedo's ramp lowered, Peter, armed with a boarding shield in one hand and a bolter in the other, jumped out. His five brothers followed close behind. The sound of密集 footsteps echoed around them as a group of armsmen in flak armor ran towards them. They had their weapons slung at their waists or over their shoulders, safeties on, not daring to provoke these angels of death.
The officer at the head of the group stood at attention, his hands crossed over his chest in the sign of the aquila.
"My lords, I—" BANG!
Before the officer could finish, a bolt round blew his head apart. Peter held his boarding shield steady, a wisp of white smoke still curling from the barrel of his bolter. The other brothers also opened fire. Against a group of armsmen with their weapons still slung and safeties on, it was nothing short of a massacre.
The other six brothers, under Anthony's command, had already boarded the Vagabond-class freighter. Both boarding actions were synchronized to take both ships as simultaneously as possible.
After eliminating the enemies at the breach point, Peter's orders came through the internal comms.
"Karen, Gregor, you two are with me. We're taking the bridge. Freddy, you take the other two and secure the engine room."
"Into the forge, forged in steel!"
Peter and his warriors roared their battle cry.
Boarding was a specialized tactical skill, and this was the standard procedure for a merchant vessel. The bridge was the ship's brain, and the engines were its legs. When facing a vessel like this, securing these two locations first was paramount. If they succeeded, whether by killing the command staff or blowing the engines, the ship would be a lamb to the slaughter.
Of course, different tactics were required for other types of ships, such as seizing the armory first, prioritizing the elimination of enemy Space Marines, taking control of automated turrets, or teleporting directly to the bridge.
Whatever the tactic, it was definitely not like those fools in purple armor who would just board a ship and start slaughtering their way through the lower decks, killing tens of thousands.
That would just give the enemy ample time to have their well-trained armsmen prepare heavy weapons and organize a counter-attack, and for Space Marines from other ships to reinforce. In the end, they would get their asses handed to them, and Peter and his squad would have to come in and clean up the mess. Peter was definitely not letting any personal grudges influence his thoughts on this past experience. Damn it!
The two temporary squads split up. Peter's three-man team headed straight for the bridge. In the narrow corridors of a starship, a Space Marine was less an infantryman and more an armored vehicle.
They encountered a few armsmen with lasguns or autoguns along the way, still in a state of confusion. They had heard the gunfire and grabbed their weapons, remaining on alert as per their captain's orders.
Then, suddenly, they heard the sound of heavy footsteps, each one like a giant hammer striking the ground with a dull thud-thud-thud. A massive boarding shield appeared at the end of the corridor, followed by the roar of a few bolter shots. Many of the soldiers were dead before they even knew what was happening.
Gradually, however, the ship's captain finally realized what was happening. These Space Marines were killing everyone on sight, their objectives clearly the bridge and the engine room. They weren't here to capture some fugitive; he had been deceived.
A ship-wide emergency broadcast was issued, ordering all armed personnel to battle stations. The Space Marines on board were enemies; they were authorized to fight back.
But by the time the order was given, it was already too late. Peter was nearing the bridge. As he rounded a corner, a torrent of intense laser fire slammed into his boarding shield.
It was a twin-linked lascannon. The power and rate of fire of this heavy weapon knocked Peter back, and even his boarding shield was now pocked with a dozen shallow craters.
He should have expected it. Even on a merchant vessel, the command bridge was a vital area. It wouldn't be left unguarded.
Retreating back around the corner, Peter saw that the heavy weapon had the corridor locked down and he couldn't advance. He reached for a frag grenade at his waist.
But Karen, at his side, spoke up.
"My lord, shall I?"
Peter looked at the warrior, who was armed with a heavy flamer and had a bolt pistol holstered at his hip. He nodded, stepping aside to let him through.
Karen moved to the corner, extended his flamer in the direction of the twin-linked lascannon, and pulled the trigger. A dragon of burning promethium surged towards the enemy position.
Karen loved flamers. They were highly effective in boarding actions against mortals. Although their range was short, they didn't need a direct hit to be lethal. The intense heat of the flames, the massive consumption of oxygen—the ventilation fans couldn't cycle the air fast enough. In an instant, the mortals manning the lascannon behind their cover collapsed from the extreme heat and hypoxia.
Brother Philon had once told him that a historical text on ancient Terran martial arts stated, "The most potent poison gas is oxygen."
Karen breathed in the cool air inside his power armor with relish. Looking at the mortals who had collapsed from lack of oxygen, his brothers didn't even deign to waste a bolt on them, simply stomping past them with merciless indifference, the sound of breaking bones echoing in their wake.
They finally reached the command bridge door. Peter fired a few bolts at the door to create a weak point, then punched a large hole through it. A few laser shots came through the hole. Peter had already dodged to the side, but a few still hit his pauldron. He paid them no mind.
This time, he pulled the pin on a grenade and tossed it through the hole. With a loud BOOM!, the command bridge was thrown into chaos.
Peter followed up with a kick to the door, and the three of them rushed in. A dozen or so armsmen were still holding their weapons. They were each taken down with a single, precise bolt shot. Karen, holding his heavy flamer in one hand, fired his bolt pistol with the other.
The three of them raised their weapons and faced all the senior crew members. Peter activated his external speaker and looked at the middle-aged man who was clearly the captain.
"Captain, this ship is ours now. You have two choices. Surrender or die."
The short-bearded captain's eyes were wide with fury. He gritted his teeth and roared, "You damned heretic traitors! I will not surrender to you! The Emperor will punish you!"
He reached for the laspistol at his belt.
BANG! Another precise bolt shot. Peter blew the captain's hand clean off.
"A bit stupid, but at least he has some courage," Peter commented dryly.