---
tags:
  - promotions
  - mysterious-encounter
  - unusual-aura
  - bar-conversation
  - atmosphere-control
---

![[Pasted image 20260504115242.png]]


# Tale 1 The Promotion Suits You (published) 

---

The bar was quiet the way bars are quiet in the late afternoon. Two men in the corner with their pints and nothing to say to each other that hadn't already been said. A woman at the far end reading something on a device that had seen better decades. The particular quality of light that comes through old glass in cities that have been cities for a very long time.

Liam was polishing a glass.

He was always polishing a glass.

The door opened. A glow leaked in.

Two sets of footsteps. One that sounded like a very large man being careful about it. Constantin. Good customer. In twice a week when he could manage it. Terrible at darts. The other set was different. Not louder. Not heavier. Just, deliberate like. The footsteps of someone who had been walking a very long time and had not yet decided to stop.

Liam didn't look up.

He knew those footsteps too.

The woman at the far end stopped reading without knowing she'd stopped. The two men in the corner went quiet in the way that animals go quiet when something large moves nearby. Not panic. Something older than panic. Something that lived underneath thought entirely and had been keeping things alive since before thought was available as an option.

The air acquired a quality.

Not golden exactly. The idea of gold. Pressed into the atmosphere itself.

Liam polished the glass. Held it to the light. Set it down. Picked up another one.

_"The promotion suits you Neoth,"_ he said. _"But remember. Ya have to clamp down on the aura. It's unsettling."_

A pause.

_"I've asked you to use the other name."_

_"I know what you go by. Sit down. What are you having."_

The woman at the far end had gathered her things. She didn't know why. She was not a woman who considered herself susceptible to atmospheres. She would think about this later and arrive at nothing useful.

The two men in the corner were finishing up. Not looking at Neoth directly. Nobody was looking at Neoth directly. This was not a choice they were making consciously. Something much older than choice was making it for them.

_"The usual,"_ said Neoth.

Liam pulled the pint. Set it in front of him. Neoth sat. Constantin settled onto the stool beside him with the relief of a very large man who had been standing for a long time and was glad of the chance to stop.

_"Constantin."_

_"Liam."_

_"The usual?"_

_"No, on duty."_

The bar was emptying the way bars sometimes empty when the weather turns or the match ends. None of the people leaving could have said why. They just needed some air all of a sudden.

_"You're clearing the place."_

_"I know."_

_"Can you not clamp it down."_

Neoth looked at his pint with the expression of a man who had been asked this before and had not particularly enjoyed it the first time.

_"It's different now,"_ he said. _"Than it was before. The scale of it is different."_

_"I can see that. It's very impressive. I'm still going to need you to clamp it down."_

_"Liam—"_

_"The customers."_

_"I understand the customers—"_

_"Neoth."_

The name landed the way Liam meant it to land. Not as a challenge. As a statement of what was true regardless of what else was also true. Whatever else Neoth was now, and Liam had views on what else Neoth was that he kept largely to himself, in this room he was a customer who was unsettling the other customers. These things were not in conflict. They were just both true at the same time.

_"At all?"_ Liam said. _"Can you clamp it down at all?"_

_"...no. Not anymore. Not fully."_

Liam set the glass down. Picked up another one.

_"Well then,"_ he said. _"You'll have to finish up and go. You know the rules. Nothing personal. You're putting people off their drinks."_

Neoth looked at the bar. At the Guinness sign. At the torii in the doorway between the two rooms. At the pint in front of him going slowly to room temperature.

_"Liam..."_

_"I know,"_ said Liam. _"I know what you're doing. I know why you're doing it."_ The cloth moved in slow circles on the glass. _"I think it'll probably work. Most of it."_

He set the glass down.

_"But you still have to go."_

Neoth sat for a moment longer. A man who had seen what was coming, had decided to do something about it, and had been doing so for longer than most things lasted. Now he was here. Contemplating it all. Looking at a bar in Kyoto and a man polishing a glass who was waiting with the uncomplicated patience of someone who had said what needed saying and was now waiting for it to be acted on.

He stood. Drained the pint in one. Set the glass down.

Straightened his shoulders.

Looked at Liam one more time.

Liam looked back with mild professional attention and no particular urgency.

Neoth walked to the door. Paused at the torii. Didn't touch it.

Constantin Valdor stood up.

He did it the way he did everything.

He reached for his helmet.

_"Constantin."_

He stopped.

Liam still hadn't looked up.

_"You can stay. Darts in half an hour."_

He looked at the door.

He looked at Liam.

Valdor opened the door and said something to whoever was outside. The Custodes on guard looked at Neoth. Nodded once. Fell in beside him. Valdor closed the door.

---

The bar breathed.

The quality left the air all at once and then completely. The light went back to being light. The afternoon went back to being an afternoon. The two men drifted back separately, minutes apart, each unable to say why they'd left or why they'd returned. The woman came back for her device and stayed for another drink.

Valdor sat back down.

Liam pulled a half for himself.

The two of them looked at the counter for a moment.

_"Is the glowing going to get worse d'ya think,"_ said Liam.

Valdor considered this the way he considered everything. Completely and from several directions simultaneously.

_"...probably,"_ he said.

_"Right so."_

Liam picked up his glass.

Valdor picked up his.

Outside somewhere Neoth was walking through a city that did not know him toward a future he was still assembling piece by careful piece across the long years. The work did not stop because a barman in what was once Kyoto had asked him to leave. It never stopped. It would not stop for a very long time yet.

Inside the bar the afternoon settled into early evening. People came in from whatever the day had been. Found their corners. Found their drinks. The two men resumed not talking to each other which was what they came for. The woman stayed for a third which was one more than she'd intended and exactly the right number.

Liam set up the dart board.

Valdor was terrible at darts. His fingers were too big and the calculation, though perfect, never survived contact with the actual throw. It was the one thing in his long service that had not improved with practice and showed no signs of improving now.

He threw.

The dart hit the wall six inches left of the board and passed through.

_"Grand,"_ said Liam. _"Sure it'll patch."_

He retrieved it. Handed it back. Said nothing else.

At closing time Liam wiped down the counter.

He thought about most of it.

He thought about what he hadn't said, which was that he thought it would work and that the cost would be higher than Neoth had accounted for and that the cost would fall on people who hadn't agreed to pay it. He kept these thoughts in a file he didn't often open. He'd opened it tonight. He'd close it again now.

He wiped the counter.

_"God be good to him,"_ he said.

To nobody in particular.

To the room.

To the door.

He meant it.

---
# Tale 2 Konrad, of an evening (published)

The bar was quiet in the way it got before evening decided what sort of night it wanted to be.

Liam had a glass in his hand. It was clean already. He turned it anyway, cloth moving slow around the rim, then down the side. The counter took the weight of it when he set it beside the others.

Two men at the far end had been arguing about a proxession neither of them had seen. They had reached the stage where the same point was being made with less confidence each time. A woman by the wall had a small bowl of seafood chowder in front of her and a look that said she had not expected chowder to matter today.

The jukebox clicked once. Twice.

It did not play.

Liam looked at it.

_"Ah now,"_ he said. _"Kenji, would you go and have a look at that please."_

The door opened.

No one turned fully. They did what people did when something came in that their bodies understood before their heads did. Conversation thinned. One of the men at the far end lowered his pint without drinking from it. The woman’s spoon stopped halfway between bowl and mouth.

Footsteps crossed the floor.

Not heavy. Not light. Wrong in the timing. A step, then too little gap, then too much. Like a man walking beside something only he could hear.

Liam finished the glass.

Set it down.

Reached for another.

Konrad Curze stood just inside the door, his face floating seemingly, everything else black, hair eyes clothes mood. He had come in too fast and stopped too sharply, with his coat still moving around him after the rest of him had gone still. His head angled left, then right, then down. Not searching the room. Following it.

Or following something over it.

Liam looked at him.

_"Konrad."_

No title. No ceremony.

Konrad’s eyes shifted to him. For a second they had the bright, empty focus of a man waking in the middle of falling. Then they settled enough to become a look.

He came to the bar.

The line he took was not quite straight. Halfway across the room he checked his step, not because anything blocked him, but because the floor in front of him had briefly become some other floor. The boards creaked under his weight. He stood there long enough for one of the men at the far end to look away.

Then he moved again.

Liam pulled a pint glass from the rack.

_"So,"_ he said. _"How’s things."_

Konrad stopped at the counter. He did not sit. His hand rested on the brass rail, gripped it to the point of deformation, then lifted from it, then came back down in the same place.

_"The man in the red coat dies in a doorway,"_ he said.

The man at the far end went still.

Liam did not look toward him.

_"Does he now."_

_"Not tonight."_

_"That’s something I suppose."_

Konrad’s mouth twitched. It was not amusement. It might have been recognition of the attempt.

_"Not here."_

_"No,"_ Liam said. _"Not here."_

He opened the tap. The pint began to fill, dark and slow. The smell of malt rose between them, ordinary and warm.

Konrad watched the liquid climb.

_"I saw him with his throat open,"_ he said. _"Then I saw him old. Then I saw him choking on a bone. Then I saw nothing. That one was worse."_

Liam let the head settle.

_"Bone’s a bad way to go."_

Konrad looked at him then. Properly.

For a moment the room was all edges. The woman’s spoon. The brass rail. The wet shine on the counter where someone had set down a glass without using the mat.

Liam topped off the pint and placed it within reach.

_"You’ll want that before it starts arguing with you."_

Konrad’s hand moved toward the glass. Stopped short. The fingers opened, closed, then took it.

He drank.

Not much. Enough.

The room resumed by a fraction. The man in the red coat, who was not wearing red so much as a faded brown that had once aspired to it, set his drink down with care.

Konrad sat.

Not gracefully. Not like collapse. Something between the two, as if the decision had reached his knees later than the rest of him.

Liam took up the cloth again.

_"You were talking about going out with the Arbites,"_ he said. _"Last time you were in."_

Konrad’s hand tightened around the glass.

There it was.

Not a flinch. Konrad Curze did not flinch in any useful sense. But the room found the edge of him and moved back from it.

Liam kept the cloth moving.

_"How did you find them."_

Konrad looked at the pint. His reflection bent in the dark surface.

_"They are not what they believe themselves to be."_

The words came flat. Too flat.

_"They wait,"_ he said. _"They gather. They assemble proof as if proof were a gate that opens only after enough men have died before it."_ He turned the glass a little. _"They ask questions."_

_"Awful habit, sure you could get any answer,"_ Liam said.

Konrad did not seem to hear it.

_"They had a man in a room,"_ he said. _"Small room. Stone. One lamp. A drain in the centre, though they pretended that did not matter."_

The woman put her spoon down.

_"They had his knife wrapped in cloth. They had witnesses. They had the names of the dead. They had the ones who had not yet died."_

His voice shifted on the last phrase. Not louder. Narrower.

Liam’s hand paused on the glass he was cleaning, then moved again.

_"I gave them the ones who had not yet died,"_ Konrad said.

He lifted the pint and drank. This time more of it went.

_"I told them the third name."_

Liam set the cleaned glass down.

_"Did they thank you."_

_"They asked how I knew."_

_"People do that."_

_"They wanted method."_ Konrad’s mouth drew back slightly. _"Procedure. Chain of custody. Grounds for intervention."_

He said the words like he had found them in something rotten.

_"They had enough to hold him. Enough to question him. Enough to delay."_ His gaze moved past Liam, to the shelves, to the bottles, to something beyond the bottles. _"Not enough to end him."_

The bar had gone quiet again, but it was a different quiet now. Less animal. More attentive.

Liam folded the cloth once. Laid it flat.

_"And did you?"_

Konrad looked down at his own hand.

The answer sat there before he spoke it.

_"Yes."_

No one moved.

Outside, something passed in the street with a low mechanical hum. The window glass trembled in its frame. Then it was gone.

Konrad looked toward the sound and for a moment was elsewhere. His pupils shifted, tracking a thing no one else could see. His breathing changed. In, held, out through the nose.

_"They would have released him,"_ he said.

_"Would they."_

_"Yes."_

_"You saw that."_

_"I saw the woman he would follow. I saw the stairs. I saw the child in the upper room who would not wake quickly enough."_

The pint glass made a faint sound under his hand.

_"I saw the Arbites arrive after. Very brave. Very correct. Very late."_

Liam looked at the glass.

_"Easy with that."_

Konrad’s fingers opened.

The glass had not broken.

_"They called it murder,"_ he said.

Liam picked up the glass nearest him and turned it slowly in the cloth.

_"What did you call it."_

Konrad did not answer at once.

His eyes moved over the room. The man at the far end. The woman by the wall. The old Guinness sign. The torii beyond the inner doorway.

For a second his face emptied.

Then he said, _"Necessary."_

Liam nodded once, not agreement, not disagreement.

_"That word has a habit of growing legs."_

Konrad’s gaze snapped back to him.

_"You would have let him live."_

_"I didn’t say that."_

_"You would have waited."_

_"I’ve waited before."_

_"And people died."_

_"Yes."_

The answer landed plain. No defence around it.

Konrad stared at him.

Liam set the glass down.

_"I’ve moved quick too,"_ he said. _"People died then as well."_

The room held.

Konrad looked away first.

Not submission. Not acceptance. Just the loss of a line he had expected to find and cut through.

_"There is a correct answer,"_ he said.

_"Usually a few wrong ones as well, I've always found."_

Konrad’s mouth moved. A reply came up and failed to become speech.

He drank again.

Liam let him.

A minute passed. Then another. The ordinary sounds returned in pieces: a chair leg against the floor, liquid settling in a glass, the tiny click of the jukebox failing to commit to a song, Kenji unscrewing a panel.

Konrad set the pint down.

_"They were soft,"_ he said.

_"Maybe."_

_"They hide softness inside forms."_

_"Some do."_

_"They mistake delay for mercy."_

_"That happens."_

_"They mistake fear for restraint."_

_"That happens too."_

Konrad leaned forward slightly.

_"You agree."_

_"No."_

The word was quiet. It still stopped him.

Liam picked up the cloth.

_"I’m saying it happens."_

Konrad’s hand closed again, this time on nothing.

_"There are things that must be cut out."_

_"There are."_

_"And if the hand shakes?"_

_"Then maybe the hand knows something the head doesn’t."_

Konrad went very still.

The woman by the wall looked down into her chowder as if the bowl had become urgently important.

Liam reached for the tap again.

_"Another."_

It was not quite a question.

Konrad watched him fill the glass. Dark rising. Foam forming. Ordinary gravity doing ordinary work.

_"You think me wrong,"_ Konrad said.

_"I think you’re thirsty."_

The pint landed before him.

For the first time since he had entered, Konrad almost smiled. Almost. The shape arrived and left unfinished.

He took the glass.

The first mouthful went down slower than the last.

His shoulders altered. Not relaxed. That would have been too much. The blade-edge of him lowered by a degree.

_"They asked me not to accompany them again,"_ he said.

_"I’d say they did alright."_

_"They used twelve formal phrases."_

_"Always a bad sign."_

_"One of them vomited."_

_"Also a bad sign."_

Konrad looked at the glass.

_"He had eaten poorly."_

_"That’ll do it. Or heatstroke maybe."_

The man in the faded red coat made a sound too small to be a laugh and killed it at once. Konrad’s eyes moved toward him.

Liam said, _"Konrad."_

Just the name.

The gaze stopped short of becoming anything else. Konrad looked back at the bar.

The room took in air.

_"There is always another,"_ Konrad said.

_"There is."_

_"You cannot leave them all."_

_"No."_

_"You cannot end them all."_

_"No."_

The word stayed between them longer than it should have.

Konrad looked down at the pint. His hand was steadier now.

_"What remains,"_ he said.

Liam wiped the counter in front of him, though it did not need wiping.

_"Tonight?"_

Konrad’s eyes lifted.

_"A pint,"_ Liam said. _"That stool. No knives in anyone, see about the rest after."_

Konrad held his gaze.

Then he drank.

They stayed that way for a while. Not speaking. Konrad seated at the bar with both hands around the glass. Liam behind it, cloth over one shoulder now, watching without looking like he was watching.

The jukebox clicked again.

This time it played three seconds of something old and bright, then stopped.

_"Temperamental yoke,"_ Liam said.

Kenji came over, head shaking.

Konrad’s mouth moved.

The almost-smile came closer this time. Still did not arrive.

He finished the second pint. Placed the glass beside the first, aligned too precisely.

Then he stood.

The movement was cleaner than when he came in. Not easy. Cleaner.

At the door he paused.

His head turned slightly toward the man at the far end.

_"The bone,"_ he said.

The man froze.

_"Chew more carefully."_

Then Konrad left.

The door closed behind him.

No one moved for three breaths.

Then the man in the faded red coat looked at his pint as if it had betrayed him and pushed it away.

The woman by the wall picked up her spoon. Put it down again.

Liam gathered the glasses. Konrad’s first. Konrad’s second. He turned each in the light and set them below the counter.

Kenji came up beside him. He had been in the back with the jukebox for most of it, which was where Liam had wanted him.

_"Will he be all right,"_ he said.

Liam rinsed the first glass. The water ran dark for a second, then clear.

_"He will."_

He set the glass on the rack.

_"For a while."_
# Tale 3 The Pilgrim (published)

The line surged.

Not forward. Just into itself. Bodies closing, opening, closing again before there was space to move.

Noise sat on everything.

Hymns blared overhead, out of time with each other. High voices from cherubs, too loud for their size, cutting through deeper tones from somewhere behind. Words repeated. Not the same words. Never the same.

A pulpit passed above, brass arms whining, the platform swaying as it pushed through the air. The preacher leaned out over the crowd, voice breaking against the press of bodies.

—witness— —bear witness— —eternal—

The phrases collided. None of them finished.

Heat held between people. Breath had nowhere to go. The Pilgrim felt it on her face, the back of her neck, in her mouth when she tried to breathe.

The line moved.

She moved.

It stopped.

She stopped.

Something struck her shoulder. A hand, or an elbow. It didn't matter. It was gone before she could turn.

A cherub dipped low, servo whining, its face too close, mouth open in a perfect oval as it forced another hymn into the air. The sound hit the inside of her head and stayed there.

The pulpit stalled above them.

The voice did not.

—faith is proven— —faith is—

The words broke apart into noise.

Someone ahead fell.

Not loudly. The space closed over it in two movements. The line shifted. Filled. Continued.

The Pilgrim kept her feet.

The pressure changed. Not less. Different. Something ahead had stalled again. The surge ran back through the line and died in her.

She turned her head for air.

There was a wall.

Set back from the press by a step no one was using.

A door.

The edge first. Then the recess. Then the shape of it, plain, unmarked, as if it had been there longer than the line.

A man sat in front of it.

Very large.

The armour did not shine. It held the light instead, in flat planes that did not move when he did. He sat on a stool that should not have taken his weight.

He did not look at anyone.

No one looked at him.

The line surged again.

The hymn rose with it.

The Pilgrim stepped sideways.

A voice made a protest. It did not follow her.

She stepped again, into the space by the wall.

The armoured man shifted his gaze a fraction. Not to meet her eyes. To acknowledge that something had crossed a line.

He nodded.

_"Gwan in then."_

The Pilgrim put her hand to the door.

It opened.

The sound cut.

Not fully. It dropped away, thinned, as if someone had closed a valve on it. The hymn became something that existed at a distance rather than inside her head. The pressure in her chest eased by a degree she had not known was available.

She stepped through.

The door closed behind her.

The room held.

There were people. There was sound. A glass touched wood. Someone spoke. But nothing pushed. Nothing demanded.

She stood inside, on the threshold, waiting for the rest of the noise to follow her.

It didn't.

The quiet was not empty. It was structured.

Tick.

She turned toward it.

Tick.

The sound sat in the air, regular enough to be counted.

She did not move yet.

The absence came next.

No chanting under breath. No gestures to mark the sacred. No one checking anyone else.

People sat.

That was all.

A man at a table with a drink in front of him, not drinking it, not watching anything. A woman with a bowl, eating without looking up, without pausing for anything that might observe her.

The Pilgrim lowered her hands. She had not realised she was holding them as if in front of a shrine.

She took a step.

The space did not close.

Another.

Still space.

Tick.

She followed the sound.

A clock hung on the wall. Plain. Round. Beside it, a dartboard.

It was clean.

The wood beside it had been driven inward. Not broken. Pressed. The edges smoothed.

A small plate beneath.

_C. Valdor — Personal Best._

She read it. It did not attach to anything she knew.

Tick.

She looked at the clock. Then at the mark. Then back again.

She stopped looking.

The room was not large. Tables of dark wood, the surfaces uneven with use, holding their rings and grooves without apology. Stools at the counter worn to the shape of the people who had used them, not recently but across time, many people contributing to the same slow erosion. A shelf behind the bar holding bottles at different levels, each one in a specific position that was not accidental. Light from overhead that did not perform anything, that simply fell where it fell and left the rest alone.

On the wall opposite, a gate. Cedar, old and dark, its uprights the red of something that had once been brighter and had settled into itself over a long time. It stood as a doorway between the two halves of the room, the kind of structure that belonged outside, in a garden or on a mountain path, not inside four walls under the hive. Nobody had explained it. Nobody appeared to think it required explanation.

The Pilgrim looked at it for a moment.

Then away.

Whatever it was doing here, it had been doing it longer than the question was worth asking.

At the far end of the room, set into the wall at an angle, a snug. Half-door swing doors, the lower half closed, the upper half open, the gap between enough to show the interior without exposing it. From where she stood the Pilgrim could see the edge of a table, a cup with steam rising from it in a slow curl, and a hand resting on an open page.

The hand was too still.

Or too deliberate.

She looked away.

_"Hunger on you."_

The voice came from the counter.

The Pilgrim turned.

The man behind the bar held a cloth and a glass. The motion between them was steady.

_"Sit down so."_

There was a stool.

The Pilgrim approached it. Paused. No sign. No marker.

She sat.

_"Is it still mad crowded out,"_ the man said.

_"It is."_

_"Ah sure."_

A glass appeared in front of her.

_"Have ye ever had a prawn spice bag,"_ the man said. _"We do a good one."_

The Pilgrim shook her head.

_"You will so."_

The man turned away. Heat followed from behind the counter.

The Pilgrim put her hands on the wood. Dry. Used.

She picked up the glass. Drank.

A paper bag was set beside it. Smoke curled from the opening.

_"Mind yourself,"_ the man said. _"It bites."_

She opened it. Salt. Oil.

She ate.

Her grip on the paper loosened.

She ate again.

Tick.

The clock held the room.

She became aware of the snug again. The top of the half-door still open. A page turned. The cup sat where it had been.

Whatever was in there kept its attention on the page.

She looked away.

She finished the food. Drank the rest.

_"How much."_

The man named a number.

She counted it out. The man took it.

The Pilgrim stood.

For a moment, there was no next step.

She turned to the door.

It opened.

The noise returned.

The line was there. The space she had left had closed.

Someone pressed into her back.

She stayed where she was for a moment longer.

The taste of salt stayed.

She stepped into the line.

The taste of salt stayed.
# Tale 4 Kitchen's Down....(published)

Liam was not there.

It was not the sort of absence that announced itself. The door opened as it always did. The counter was where it had always been. The torii stood where it had stood, cedar darkened by age. The Guinness sign held its place. The floor was sticky in the correct way.

But Liam was not there.

Kenji knew this before he came in. He had been told. Something to do. Back late. It had been said in the same tone as everything else, which was to say in a tone that did not distinguish between small things and large ones.

Still.

He checked the bar twice before opening.

Glasses. Clean.

Beer lines. Running.

Cash. Counted.

Slop trays. Emptied.

He paused at the hatch to the kitchen. Opened it. Closed it again. Nothing wrong that he could see. He did not go down. He never went down.

He unlocked the door. Opened the bar.

---

The first hour was normal.

Two Munitorum clerks who did not speak to each other except to order. A couple who sat too close together and spoke quietly. A man who had been in before and would be in again and whose name Kenji did not know and did not need to know.

Kenji moved between them.

Drinks placed where they should be. Words said where they were required. Silence held where it was better.

The bar was in him the way the counter was in the room. It did not require consideration. It required presence.

A man came in and took a seat at the far end of the counter. Looked at the taps. Looked at Kenji.

_“Pint.”_

Kenji pulled it. Set it down.

The man nodded. Drank. Said nothing else.

Good.

---

The second hour began to stretch.

More people. Not many. Enough.

A group of three who sat near the torii and talked too loudly for the space they were in. Kenji let it run for a minute. Two. Walked past. Put a bowl of peanuts down without comment.

The noise lowered.

Not immediately. Not consciously. It just settled.

Kenji moved on.

---

He knew when something was wrong.

Not wrong in the sense of danger. Wrong in the sense of pattern.

A man came in and stood just inside the door. Did not move forward. Did not sit. Did not leave.

Kenji watched him without watching him.

The man looked around the room as if expecting to find something that had been described to him and was not present. His hands were unaugmented. Both of them. Kenji noted this the way he noted everything — without stopping what he was doing.

Kenji waited.

The man approached the counter.

_“What is this place.”_

It was not a question. Not really.

Kenji wiped the counter.

_“Bar.”_

The man blinked. Looked again. As if the answer had not matched what he had prepared.

_“What do you serve.”_

Kenji looked at him.

_“Drink.”_

A pause.

The man nodded. As if that had resolved something. Or failed to resolve it in a way that he could accept.

_“Right.”_

He sat.

Ordered nothing.

Left after ten minutes.

Kenji cleared the space where he had been. There was nothing to clear.

---

The kitchen stopped.

Not with a sound. Not with a failure. Just no output.

Kenji noticed it because nothing came through when something should have.

He waited.

Nothing.

He opened the hatch. Looked in. Nothing wrong that he could see.

Closed it.

A man at the counter lifted a hand.

_“Food?”_

Kenji stepped over.

_“Sorry, kitchen's closed tonight. No spice bags. I've peanuts.”_

The man looked at him.

_“No food.”_

_“No.”_

A pause.

_“Right.”_

The man took the peanuts. Ate them. Slower than he would have eaten food.

Kenji placed more bowls along the counter. Drinks refreshed before they were empty. Movement kept steady. Nothing allowed to stall.

---

A group came in late.

Arbites officer trainees. Kenji recognised the type before he recognised the individuals. Loud without needing to be. Looking for a place to push.

They took a table near the centre. Spread slightly wider than necessary.

One of them leaned back in the chair. Looked around.

_“This is it, yeah.”_

No one answered.

Kenji approached.

_“What can I get you.”_

_“Whatever's good.”_

_“Drink.”_

A smile.

_“Sound.”_

Orders came. Drinks placed.

One of them looked at Kenji for a moment longer than the order required.

_“Human barman.”_

Said to the others, not to Kenji. Mildly curious. The observation of someone whose world ran on servitors and for whom this was a minor anomaly worth noting.

_“Old fashioned place,”_ another said. _“Family tradition, I heard.”_

Kenji placed the next drink. Said nothing.

One of them reached out and tapped the torii.

Lightly.

Once.

Kenji was there before the hand came back.

_“Don't touch that.”_

Not loud. Not aggressive. Just there.

The man looked at him. Looked at the torii. Back at Kenji.

_“Alright.”_

Hand withdrew.

No challenge. No follow-up.

The group settled.

Aoto, at the end of the table, said nothing. But when the next round came, he shifted slightly, and the others adjusted around him without noticing they had done so.

---

The room held.

No food. Still held.

Kenji felt it. Not consciously. In the way that you feel balance in your feet.

It was closer to the edge than usual.

But it held.

---

Near closing, a man sat at the bar and asked no questions.

He drank slowly. Looked at nothing.

Kenji placed the peanuts in front of him. The man ate them one by one. As if each required consideration.

_“Kitchen's closed,”_ Kenji said.

_“I know.”_

The man smiled.

_“Doesn't matter.”_

He finished the drink. Paid. Left.

Kenji wiped the space.

---

Closing was quiet.

Glasses stacked. Surfaces cleared. Slop trays emptied again.

Kenji checked the hatch once more.

Nothing.

He did not open it.

Locked the door.

Waited.

---

Liam came in late.

The door opened. Closed. Same as always.

He took in the room without looking at it. Walked behind the counter. Picked up a glass. Turned it in the cloth.

Kenji stood where he had been standing all evening.

_“Kitchen's down, by the way.”_

Liam nodded.

_“Is it.”_

A beat.

_“We'll have a look.”_

---

Downstairs was not a place Kenji went.

He followed anyway.

The steps were narrow. The light functional. The room below was larger than it should have been — not in any dimension Kenji could measure precisely, but in the way that a space feels when it has been accumulating things for longer than architecture normally accounts for, shelves and racks and sealed containers extending back into a dark that the available light had decided not to address.

The machine sat where it always sat.

Kenji had seen parts of it before. Not all at once. Never all at once.

It was still.

Something had caught in the mechanism. Red cloth, darkened where it folded into itself. A cog worked into the shape of the surrounding metal. A lens, cracked along one edge.

Liam leaned in slightly.

_“Ah. Right.”_

A pause.

_“Look, doesn't that look like a jawbone.”_

Kenji did not answer.

Liam reached in. Just correctly.

Something shifted.

The machine did not react. Did not resist. It waited.

Liam cleared the obstruction. Set it on the metal table beside him. It rang faintly against the surface — too hard for bone, too light for plate. He did not look at it again.

He wiped his hands on a cloth that had been there for that purpose.

_“Give us a minute.”_

Kenji stood.

The machine resumed. The sound of it was the sound it had always been making, continued from before the interruption rather than started fresh.

Liam watched it for a moment. Nodded once.

_“Grand.”_

---

Back upstairs, nothing had changed.

The counter. The taps. The torii.

Kenji took his place.

Liam set a pan on behind the hatch. Something moved below.

Heat followed.

_“Kitchen'll be on tomorrow,”_ Liam said.

_“Right so.”_

Kenji nodded.

He did not ask.

---

They worked in silence for a while.

A glass. A cloth. The slow resetting of the room.

Liam glanced at him once.

_“Quiet enough.”_

_“Grand.”_

That was all.

---

Inside, the bar held.

The door opened. Closed.

__Tis yourself.__

__No bother.__
# Tale 5 You’re Grand Here 


The stool outside the door held Aoto the way a bollard holds a ship — technically adequate, visibly straining. He sat with his arms across his chest and the flat planes of his armour caught the pilgrim district light and gave none of it back. Three streets off the Ninth Processional the air tasted of recycled breath and incense ash and the particular mineral undertone of hive stone that never fully left you, and above the roofline on clear days the Palace spires caught the upper atmosphere and burned white. Tonight was not a clear night. The spires were suggestions.

The servo-skull came through the door first.

It bobbed at counter height, lenses rotating, the soft whirr of it filling the doorway for the two seconds before its owner followed. The Magos was tall and narrow and smelled of ozone and the kind of certainty that required regular maintenance. His robes bore the cog-and-skull in fresh pigment. He had the look of a man who had identified a location of interest and intended to be interested in it.

Aoto came off the stool.

He didn't reach for anything. He didn't need to. He simply stood, which was its own kind of argument.

_“Sorry bud,”_ he said. _“Not tonight.”_

The Magos processed this. His mechadendrites made a small adjustment that was not quite a recoil. The servo-skull hovered uncertainly between them, its loyalty to its owner in direct competition with something older that it couldn't file correctly.

The Magos left. The skull followed.

Aoto settled back onto the stool.

The skull's whirr crossed the room. Liam glanced up. Aoto was already sitting. Liam went back to the glass he was drying.

The bar continued.

---

Ten minutes later the door opened again.

Liam saw her before it finished closing.

She was quiet in the wrong way. The room had a way of making loud people smaller and quiet people visible, if they were quiet for the wrong reason.

She stood just inside the threshold and let the door settle behind her. Her eyes moved across the bar in one clean pass — counter, snug, back wall, the way out — the kind of look that took in everything and rested on nothing. Professional. Thorough. Over in two seconds.

Then she came in.

The coat was dark and travel-worn. Good cut. Hard use. One glove had a burn along the edge where something had bitten through the warded material — the outer layer fused at the fourth side, the threads darkened into a line that had no business being there. She kept her right hand lowest.

She took the stool at the end of the counter.

The second safest seat. A person choosing the safest seat wanted to be seen choosing it.

Liam set down the glass.

_“Evening.”_

She looked at him.

_“Evening.”_

Voice steady. Underneath it, the particular flatness of someone who had been awake past the point where tired meant anything useful.

_“What'll you have.”_

_“Water.”_

He gave her water.

She held the glass without drinking.

The room kept on. Two regulars arguing about a game neither of them understood properly. A small party near the torii speaking low and fast. One person in the snug with a cup and a book, face turned away from the light.

Another man sat three tables from the door.

He had been there twenty minutes before she arrived. Plain coat. Plain cup. Plain face, which was always the least plain thing a person could bring into a room. His attention moved by reflection — glass to mirror, mirror to bottle, bottle to door. On the inside of his wrist, just below the cuff, a brand worn to near-nothing: a rosette outline, the kind you could cover or show depending on what the situation required.

Liam had noted him when he came in and filed him under patient.

Patient could be grand. Patient could be trouble. Most days it was both.

The woman lifted the water and drank half.

_“Long day,”_ Liam said.

_“They all are.”_

_“Some longer than others.”_

She looked at the glass.

_“Yes.”_

That was all right. She was not here to talk. Most people weren't until they were.

He put a small bowl beside her. Peanuts. Nothing special.

She looked at it, then at him.

_“On the house,”_ Liam said. _“Don't get excited.”_

A small movement at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile. The muscle remembering the route.

She took one peanut. Ate it. Then another.

Good enough.

The plain man turned a page in the little book he had brought with him. He had not read any of it.

Liam pulled a pint for a man two stools down, took payment, gave change, wiped a spill before it reached the edge. The woman's shoulders had not lowered. Her hand stayed near the glass. Ready to take it. Ready to leave it.

He noticed the ash then, when she reached for the second peanut. Under the nail of her index finger. Ritual ash. The kind that didn't fully wash out and didn't need to, because people who knew what it was already knew, and people who didn't weren't the concern.

_“You eating,”_ Liam said.

_“No.”_

_“You should.”_

_“I'm not staying.”_

_“Didn't ask if you were moving in.”_

She looked at him then. Properly, for the first time. A measuring look. He let her measure. People felt better when they thought they had done their sums.

_“Something hot,”_ he said. _“Or not. Your call.”_

Her eyes moved once to the door.

The plain man had not moved.

_“No,”_ she said.

_“Grand.”_

He left it.

For a while the bar did what bars did. Drinks came and went. Someone laughed too loudly and corrected himself without being asked. The clock ticked. Rain hit the window with the soft dirty sound of recycled water finding old glass, the kind that left a faint chemical residue on the sill by morning.

The woman finished the water.

Liam refilled it.

She said, _“Thank you.”_

_“Ah sure.”_

The plain man stood.

Not to leave. To take his cup to the counter.

He came up two spaces down from her. Correct distance. Polite distance.

_“Another,”_ he said.

Liam looked at the cup. Tea, barely touched.

_“Same again?”_

_“Yes.”_

The woman's hand moved on the counter. Less than an inch.

Liam took the cup. Poured fresh. Set it down.

The plain man placed coin beside it.

_“Busy enough,”_ he said.

_“Grand.”_

_“Always like this?”_

_“Depends what you mean by this.”_

The man's eyes rested on Liam for half a second.

_“Of course.”_

He took the cup and went back to his table.

The woman had gone rigid in the particular way of someone whose discipline had become the only thing holding the shape of their behaviour. Her jaw was set. Her shoulders were level and fixed and wrong for it.

Liam wiped the counter between them, though it did not need wiping.

_“No one's looking for you in here,”_ he said.

He said it quietly. For her. The bar's one plain fact, offered without ceremony.

The breath she didn't take. Her eyes moving from the door to the water glass. Her wrist turning, the burned side down.

And then the nod.

Less than a second. The body answering before the mind caught it. Her chin dropped a fraction and came back up and in the mirror behind the bottles the plain man's reflection was already still, the cup lowered, the watching done.

Liam kept his face where it was.

She nodded again, deliberately. Turning the first nod into the second, making it look like agreement with something said rather than confirmation of something known.

It was the right thing to try.

The plain man lifted his cup and drank.

The woman said, _“Is that so.”_

_“Here it is.”_

_“Here.”_

_“Aye.”_

She finished the water.

_“Thank you,”_ she said.

_“Do you want that food now.”_

_“No.”_

_“Fair enough.”_

She stood and put down payment for water she didn't owe for.

_“You're grand,”_ he said.

She looked back at him.

Something moved across her face. Narrower than fear. The look of someone who had already done the accounting and closed the ledger on it.

_“I know,”_ she said.

She left.

The door closed.

The plain man stayed less than a minute.

He finished the tea in two swallows, set the cup at the edge of the table, and stood. At the counter he paused.

_“Good room,”_ he said.

_“It does,”_ Liam said.

The man considered that answer.

_“Good night.”_

_“Night.”_

He left.

Liam cleared the cup. Stone cold.

He stood at the counter for a moment. The bar continued around him. The clock. The rain. The low conversation near the torii. All of it exactly as it had been, which was the thing about the bar — it absorbed what happened inside it and kept going, and sometimes that was the kindest thing it could do and sometimes it wasn't.

He picked up a glass and began to dry it.

---

Near close, he found the disc under the rim of the water glass when he cleared the end of the counter.

Smaller than a coin and darker. The edges heat-scored in a pattern. He turned it over. The face was blank except for a mark so faint it might have been wear — except that it wasn't wear. A seal. He had seen one like it before, thirty years ago or three hundred, on a coin left by a man who had not come back either. The kind of seal that meant the person carrying it had been permitted somewhere with no name on any official record, answerable to authority so far above the ordinary machinery of the Imperium that the machinery didn't have paperwork for it.

He held it between finger and thumb.

The weight was wrong for its size.

She had needed someone to know, and she had left the only thing she had.

Liam set it on the counter and looked at it.

Then the door opened and Aoto came in, which he did not do as a rule, and Liam looked up.

Aoto stopped in front of the counter. He held his helmet under one arm. His face had the particular stillness of someone reporting rather than deciding.

_“The customer,”_ he said. _“The one that just left. He followed her.”_ A pause. _“He had people with him. Hard bunch. I clocked them on the other side of the street before he went in. They were waiting on him.”_

Liam looked at the disc on the counter.

_“The Processional,”_ he said.

_“Aye. Crowded enough. But.”_

Liam picked up the disc and put it in the drawer beneath the counter.

They stood there a moment.

_“Not our business,”_ Liam said. _“It happened outside.”_

Aoto looked at the drawer.

_“Aye,”_ he said.

He went back out.

Liam closed the drawer.

---

Kenji came up from the back with a crate of clean glasses.

_“Quiet enough,”_ he said.

_“Quiet enough.”_

Kenji put the glasses away. He had learned not to stack too fast. Glasses had their own temper.

Eight days later a young dockhand came in shaking from something outside and trying not to show it. He kept glancing at the door. Kenji put a glass down in front of him.

_“You're grand here,”_ Kenji said.

Liam's hand stopped on the cloth.

The lad looked at Kenji as if the words had reached him.

Kenji glanced over.

Liam shook his head once.

_“Don't say that.”_

Kenji did not ask.

The lad drank. The door stayed closed.

Liam finished wiping the glass. Set it on the shelf. Took another.

Rain came again outside, soft and chemical against old glass.

The disc stayed in the drawer.
# Tale 6 Acquisition Deferred (published)

The sign over the door still glowed though the chairs were up on the tables and the kitchen shutters had already come down for the night.

Rain moved through the transitway outside in long silver bands. Somewhere overhead a cargo hauler crossed between hive stacks with the slow groan of overstressed metal. A purity seal flapped by on the breeze.

Kenji pushed the mop along the threshold tiles in short practiced strokes.

The floors were still sticky.

They were always sticky.

Aoto stood beneath the awning outside the open door, one shoulder against the frame, smoking a lo-stick down to the filter while watching the rain with deep personal disapproval. The ember lit the planes of his face orange for a second each time he drew from it.

_“...and then he says the prawns, are they fresh.”_

Kenji snorted.

_“They are suspiciously fresh I said to him and he ran off on his treads.”_

Aoto grunted.

_“Don't ask eh.”_

That was family doctrine.

The alley lighting beyond the awning shifted colour.

The pale sodium haze of the transitway lost ground inch by inch to something colder. Green at first glance though not really green on second. The sort of light old machine screens made before they failed. Old light.

Aoto stopped talking.

Kenji looked up automatically.

Rain hissed beyond the threshold. Pilgrims moved through the lower walkways carrying devotional lanterns beneath hanging banners of the Imperial Creed, floating pulpits haranguing them.

Then a shape emerged through the haze.

Tall.

Metallic.

Wrong.

At first Kenji thought the figure was carrying lanterns. Green light moved across wet metal in shifting reflections until the shape came properly into view beneath the transitway glow.

A long cloak hung from narrow shoulders, black-green and heavy as oxidised bronze, though it moved with the softness of fabric despite the rain passing straight through parts of it. Gold glyphs crawled faintly across the hem before vanishing again.

The figure beneath it was impossibly thin. Not starved. Engineered that way.

Its limbs had the proportions of a human skeleton stretched several inches too far and then rebuilt by somebody who understood anatomy intellectually rather than instinctively. Bands of dull silver metal overlapped where muscle should have been. Thin green light pulsed slowly through seams in the structure like distant reactor glow.

A headdress rose behind the skull in a fan of metal spines and crescent shapes, regal in a way that made no cultural sense to Kenji. Ancient king. Ancient priest. Ancient executioner. Some combination of the three.

The face was worst.

The metallic skull possessed just enough articulation around the mouth and eyes to suggest emotion without ever becoming properly alive. Emerald light burned steadily in the sockets. Not aggressive. Merely old.

In one hand the stranger carried a staff taller than Kenji was, formed from black metal wound through with floating rings that rotated soundlessly around a central shaft. At the head sat a hooked crescent blade surrounding a suspended green crystal that illuminated the rain in toxic colour.

It moved with the confidence of something that had watched civilisations become archaeological layers.

Kenji's first thought was Mechanicus. His second was immediately worse.

Aoto removed the lo-stick from his mouth.

_“Ah for feck's sake.”_

The stranger stopped beneath the awning.

For a moment nobody spoke.

Then the figure inclined its head a precise fraction.

_“Bar's closed,”_ Aoto said.

_“I am aware.”_

The voice sounded cultured, ancient, and very slightly out of alignment with the visible mouth.

Something cold moved down Kenji's spine and ran off.

Aoto studied the figure. Measuring.

No pilgrims approached the doorway anymore. The crowd flowed around it unconsciously, traffic parting without understanding why.

Finally Aoto flicked the lo-stick out into the rain.

Orange sparks vanished into the dark.

_“Right so.”_

Kenji stared at him.

Aoto looked the figure slowly up and down.

_“No weapons in the bar.”_

A pause.

_“That may prove difficult.”_

Aoto closed his eyes, opened them. _“Grand so. Just no starting anything.”_

And then, to Kenji's complete horror, Aoto stepped aside.

The figure entered.

Cold came with it. The sensation of the room becoming structurally older.

The greenish light faded as the stranger crossed beneath the torii.

It paused there.

The metallic skull beneath the glamour field tilted slightly upward toward the cedar.

Recognition. Or calculation.

Then it continued inside.

The staff — the most potent weapon Kenji had ever been in a room with — was propped carefully into the upturned legs of a nearby chair. Snug. Secure. The hooked crescent blade caught the bar light once and went still.

From the back office Liam's voice drifted out without urgency.

_“Kenji, if that's another customer tell them the kitchen's closed, I'm dog tired and we are done for the night.”_

Kenji swallowed.

The stranger stopped beneath the Guinness sign, staring at it.

A moment later Liam appeared carrying a ledger and wearing reading glasses low on his nose.

He looked up once.

Paused.

_“Oh,”_ he said.

A beat passed.

_“Right.”_

The stranger inclined its head again.

_“I am Trazyn.”_

_“Ah sure I know well who you are.”_

Liam shut the ledger.

_“What'll you have.”_

Kenji's mop stopped mid-stroke.

The metallic face regarded Liam in complete silence.

Then:

_“I had not expected hospitality. Usually humans are frozen in terror at the sight of an Overlord.”_

Liam shrugged.

_“You're after coming all this way. Be rude not to offer. Anyhow, I'm too tired for terror and sure young Kenji is doing enough for us all.”_

Trazyn's gaze moved slowly around the room.

The dartboard. The old timber beams. The torii. The lucite box beneath the shelves. The framed photograph near the till showing a bar front under a bruised violet sky with CÁDIA written faintly on the back in fading pen. The framed jersey. The signs.

Relic site. No.

Perpetual sanctuary. No. Yes. No. Unclear.

Temporal anomaly. Insufficient evidence.

Private archive. Incorrect.

The place resisted categorisation the way organic systems resisted crystallisation.

Kenji found a corner and located the stickiness there, mop moving in short quiet strokes.

Trazyn spoke again after several seconds.

_“You have something of considerable historical significance beneath this establishment.”_

_“Several things,”_ Liam said. _“Depends what you're after.”_

Trazyn looked at him directly.

_“A fully operational Standard Template Construct.”_

Liam nodded once.

_“It makes seafood suppers. Very good ones too I might add.”_

A silence followed.

Kenji kept his eyes on the floor.

Trazyn spoke again.

_“You do not understand what such a device represents.”_

_“Course I do. I know fine well.”_

_“And yet you utilise it for food preparation.”_

_“The fish is excellent. Not the ray though. The ray's still not right.”_

The metallic fingers resting lightly against the counter flexed once.

_“I have come,”_ he said carefully, _“to discuss acquisition.”_

_“Ah.”_

Liam removed his glasses.

_“That so.”_

_“The establishment. The gate. The signs. The construct below. The staff. And yourself.”_

Kenji watched with the expression of a man observing a live demolition charge being wired incorrectly.

Aoto remained outside smoking another lo-stick, fingering his maul. Apparently this no longer qualified as his problem.

Trazyn continued.

_“All would be preserved perfectly. Protected from decay, destruction, historical erosion. Your establishment possesses significance extending far beyond this district or even this world.”_

Liam listened politely.

Then reached beneath the counter and produced a bottle.

Clear liquid.

No label.

Not the good shelf.

Below the good shelf.

_“Oh no,”_ Kenji whispered.

Liam ignored him.

_“Do you want a drink before we get into all this.”_

_“I do not—”_

_“You do.”_

Liam produced a glass.

Poured.

The smell hit the room immediately.

Sharp.

Sweet.

Ancient.

Something inside Trazyn's necrodermis gave microscopic involuntary responses.

Trazyn accepted the glass.

The ancient metal fingers closed around the poitín with impossible delicacy.

Something moved beneath the necrodermis of Trazyn's wrist. A small metallic shape emerged soundlessly from a seam in the silver-black metal. Beetle-like at first glance though no insect Kenji had ever seen possessed geometry that precise. Emerald light flickered briefly through its translucent shell as it crawled down across Trazyn's fingers and lowered itself into the glass.

The poitín rippled once.

The construct remained submerged for less than a second before climbing out, trailing clear liquid from razor-thin limbs. It reached Trazyn's wrist. Melted back into the metal.

Wind across skin.

Music beneath a black sun.

Fear.

Trazyn lowered the glass very carefully.

Liam polished another tumbler. _“Good stuff altogether.”_

Silence settled across the bar.

Finally Trazyn spoke.

_“This place should not exist.”_

_“No,”_ Liam agreed. _“But here we are.”_

The metallic gaze drifted again across the room.

Photographs. Darts scores. Challenge coins. Scars in the wood.

Then:

_“You preserve history.”_

_“Ah no.”_

Liam shook his head gently.

_“I just keep the place going.”_

The collector spoke quietly.

_“There is a woman attached to this place.”_

The pause. Tiny.

_“There was, yeah. Long time ago now,”_ he said.

Another slow wipe of the cloth across the glass.

_“Mariko.”_

Nothing else.

No explanation followed.

None arrived.

The rotating rings around the staff slowed fractionally for the first time since entering the bar. The silence afterward contained forty thousand years with unbearable precision.

And suddenly Trazyn understood the classification failure.

The bar was not preserved.

It was inhabited.

Not by a Perpetual.

By grief.

You could place an object inside stasis. Catalogue it. Protect it forever.

But grief was motion.

Maintenance.

Repetition.

The endless cleaning of a glass that would simply become dirty again tomorrow.

Just repetition. Routine. Persistence.

Rain hissed softly against the glass. Aoto smoked beneath the awning. The jukebox clicked once without activating.

Liam picked up another glass.

_“Anyway.”_

He nodded toward the menu.

_“Kitchen's closed but I can still do a spice bag if you want.”_

Trazyn stared at him.

Then:

_“Very well.”_

Kenji looked at Aoto. Aoto was outside. The door between them said everything.

Liam looked over.

_“Kenji.”_

_“...boss.”_

_“Can you see if it'll do a prawn spice bag for this gentleman.”_

Kenji looked toward the cellar door.

The cellar door looked back in the manner of all cellar doors connected to unknowable technological horrors.

_“...the prawns one.”_

_“Ah now don't be thick. Of course the prawns one.”_

Kenji swallowed.

_“Right.”_

He moved toward the cellar with visible reluctance.

As he passed the counter Trazyn's emerald gaze followed him briefly.

_“The construct requires permission?”_

Liam polished the glass once more.

_“Not formally.”_

Another pause.

_“It has views.”_

Trazyn appeared to consider this completely seriously.

_“I see.”_

_“No you don't,”_ said Liam. _“But you'll get the general idea shortly.”_

From below came the distant sound of heavy machinery beginning to wake.

Then a single sharp metallic clang.

Kenji's voice floated faintly upward from the stairwell.

_“...ah for feck's sake, not again.”_

Trazyn tilted his head slightly.

_“What has occurred.”_

_“The chowder dispute flares up occasionally.”_

_“The what.”_

Liam ignored this.

_“Do you want curry sauce with that or are you one of those purists.”_

Twenty minutes later the ancient overlord of Solemnace sat beneath a 1959 Guinness sign while a scarab methodically catalogued a paper tray — the prawn, the batter, the curry sauce, the paper itself. The tray remained untouched. The data was extensive. Trazyn sat very still and received it.

Liam leaned on the counter discussing a buried techno-barbarian armour facility somewhere beneath the Nordafrik plates.

_“The reactors are probably gone altogether now,”_ Liam said. _“But there might still be archives if nobody's cracked the seals.”_

Trazyn listened with absolute attention.

_“Why tell me this.”_

Liam shrugged.

_“Because you'll appreciate it. Them ones were uniquely powerful, so Neoth said. He's barred but he's not wrong about everything.”_

That answer appeared to satisfy him.

Eventually the scarab completed its work and retracted.

Trazyn stood.

The ancient collector regarded the room one final time.

Then inclined his head slightly toward Liam.

_“This acquisition,”_ he said, _“will be deferred.”_

_“Grand.”_

Trazyn turned toward the door.

At the threshold he paused beneath the torii again.

Not touching.

Never touching.

Then he stepped out into the rain and the greenish light receded slowly down the transitway until only ordinary hive gloom remained.

Silence held for several seconds after the door closed.

Kenji looked at Liam carefully.

_“...Boss.”_

_“Mm.”_

_“...was that bad.”_

Liam considered this while setting the clean glass carefully back beneath the counter.

_“Ah no,”_ he said at last.

_“Sure he was grand.”_

Then he pointed toward the empty tray.

_“Mind the good plates there.”_

# Tale 7 Three perpetuals walk into a bar (published)


The petals had started falling heavily by the time they reached Gion.

Not the originals. Those had died thousands of years earlier when somebody engineered a pathogen against the cloned Sakura lines during one of the smaller collapse wars. Smaller in the sense that only a few million people died and merely several cities burned.

The replacements had taken centuries.

Even now the trees remained genetically fragile. Beautiful in the precarious way reconstructed things often were.

Erda stopped beside the canal and watched pale petals gather against dark water.

“They got them back,” she said quietly.

Neoth glanced upward. “Eventually.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

The streets narrowed as they moved deeper into the district. Lantern light reflected from damp stone. Evening crowds flowed around them with the unconscious adjustment civilians always made around Neoth without understanding why.

At this stage he still wore the shape of a scientist comfortably.

Not famous globally. Not yet. But known in the circles that mattered. Systems recovery. Cognitive continuity. Archaeotechnological reconstruction. The sort of man governments consulted quietly before announcing policies they pretended to invent themselves.

The other man walked beside him speaking in low, intent tones.

Malcador.

The latest name.

Erda disliked it immediately.

Not because it sounded cruel.

Because it sounded tired.

A man calling himself the structure that remains after catastrophe was already halfway to becoming a function instead of a person.

He appeared perhaps early middle-aged. Dark-haired still, though silver had begun threading the temples. Controlled posture. Hands that rarely stopped moving entirely. Older than Neoth by some measures. Younger by others.

Psychically, though, he was an adolescent.

That was the dangerous part.

The bar sat where it always sat.

Warm light behind old glass. Narrow frontage. One corner leaning slightly lower than the others because the district had rebuilt around older foundations too many times. Liam had compensated by shoving folded cardboard beneath a table leg several centuries earlier and seeing no reason to revisit the issue.

He opened the door before they reached it.

Cherry blossom petals crossed the threshold ahead of them.

“Ah here now,” Liam said. “You brought another one.”

Neoth spread his hands.

“He’s interesting.”

“That’s never a good sign.”

Malcador’s attention fixed almost immediately on the torii between the two rooms.

Not visually.

Erda felt the psychic pressure shift. Careful probing. Controlled enough most people would never notice.

Liam noticed.

“Neoth,” he said mildly, “would you have a word with your friend there.”

Malcador straightened immediately. “My apologies. I did not intend intrusion.”

“It’s not polite to go rooting around in people’s heads before introductions, lad.”

Neoth laughed quietly.

“I told you.”

“There’s not much there worth seeing anyway,” Liam continued. “Bog all the way down.”

That made Neoth laugh properly.

Malcador looked faintly irritated by this without entirely understanding why.

Erda slid onto a stool.

“Liam,” she said, “I would like something considerably stronger than a Manhattan.”

Liam looked at her for a long moment.

Then at Neoth.

Then at Malcador.

“Ah,” he said softly. “It’s that kind of evening.”

He disappeared briefly beneath the counter.

The glass he returned with held amber liquid dark enough to swallow the light around it.

Malcador’s attention snapped toward it instantly.

Interesting.

Hungry.

Already categorising.

“Careful now,” Liam said. “That one remembers things.”

Erda took the drink.

Paused.

Then sighed for what felt like the first time all day.

“That’s better.”

Neoth and Malcador disappeared gradually into discussion at the far end of the bar. Reconstruction systems first. Archive continuity after that. Symbolic persistence by the second drink.

By the third they had reached arguments involving memory architecture and species-scale governance.

Erda stopped listening halfway through the second sentence.

Instead she sat with Liam while petals drifted through the open doorway and settled against the floorboards.

He put down bowls without comment.

Japanese KitKats in impossible flavours.

Tayto.

Naturally.

“I wanted a holiday, you know,” she said eventually.

“Aye.”

“I wanted flowers. Maybe food. A walk. A few quiet weeks.”

“Aye.”

“And he’s…”

Liam glanced toward the two men.

Neoth was leaning forward now with the expression he always got shortly before history suffered structural damage.

Malcador was matching him point for point.

“He’s being himself, I suppose,” Liam said.

“That’s what worries me.”

Liam slid the Tayto closer to her.

“Could be worse.”

“How.”

“Well,” he said after brief consideration, “they could both be French.”

That got an actual laugh out of her.

Hours passed gently after that.

Outside, Kyoto breathed around them. Lantern light. Damp air. Blossoms drifting along narrow streets that still remembered being human-sized.

Eventually chairs shifted.

Neoth stood first.

Malcador hesitated near the doorway.

“If you’re not otherwise occupied,” he said carefully, “there’s a site beneath Kathmandu you may find interesting.”

Neoth stopped.

Erda closed her eyes immediately.

“There are continuity vaults there,” Malcador continued. “Several survived beneath the mountain strata. Genealogical archives. Ritual systems. Early cognitive indexing frameworks. Some other things.”

Neoth had the look now.

The future look.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Erda muttered.

“What?” Neoth asked.

She pointed at him vaguely with the glass.

“There. That.”

“I’m listening.”

“That’s worse.”

Liam snorted quietly while polishing the same glass he had been polishing since they arrived.

“Ah sure,” he said, “leave the poor woman have her flowers before ye start founding empires.”

Silence for half a beat.

Then Erda drained the rest of the drink, stood, and pointed toward the door.

“No. Absolutely not. I’m off to the desert for a century or two.”

“Erda—”

“No.”

“Nothing has happened.”

“That,” she said, pointing between Neoth and Malcador, “is exactly how it starts.”

# Tale 8 When shall we three meet again?  (published)

The first one had come in alone.

Weeks ago now. Dark hair, sharp suit, ordered a cosmopolitan and talked too much at the bar. Liam had clocked the hair first — the way it lifted fractionally after she moved, catching up rather than leading, like something responding to a current that wasn't there. He'd filed it. Said nothing.

The second came the following Tuesday. Older presentation. Whiskey drinker. Took the corner seat and opened a paperback she never quite read. She'd been back twice since. Each time she smiled at him — not at the joke, not at the room, at him — and the smile was warm in a way that didn't settle properly.

The third he'd only seen once before tonight, briefly, ordering tea at the far end of the counter while the service was busy. He hadn't caught her voice clearly. He'd thought about that afterward.

Tonight all three arrived within twenty minutes of each other.

---

The first came in just before the evening rush. Dark hair. Sharp suit. Talking before she'd fully sat down.

"Christ this place still smells the same."

Liam glanced up.

"She'll be grand once she starts," Kenji murmured quietly from the taps.

The woman grinned. "Oh I like him."

"Dangerous lack of standards," Liam replied absently.

She laughed too loudly at that. Fractionally overcommitted.

Liam moved on.

The second came in twenty minutes later carrying rain on a dark coat. Calm-faced. She took the corner seat near the window and opened the paperback. Once, passing by, Liam caught her watching him over the rim of the glass.

Recognition.

Later she smiled at something he said to another customer. Not at the joke. At him. Too warm.

The third arrived near closing.

Middle-aged. Soft cardigan. Shopping bag over one arm. Tired eyes.

She ordered tea.

Aoto went still.

The woman thanked Kenji quietly when he brought the cup over.

Liam heard the voice from the far end of the counter.

He kept moving. Set a pint down. Took an order. Smiled at something a regular said.

Kept moving.

---

The hair was wrong on all three of them — lifting fractionally in the warm air when none of them were near the ventilation. The way they held their glasses was slightly off, grip placement a fraction too controlled, like someone who had studied the gesture from outside. He'd seen the teeth briefly when the first one ate a Tayto — sharper than they should have been, gone before he could look directly.

Kenji leaned over quietly. "They've moved."

Liam didn't look up from the pour.

"The three women. They're all in the corner booth now. Together." A pause. "That's a bit unusual, isn't it. They came in separately."

"Mm."

Kenji watched him. "Boss?"

"Go check the cellar stock."

"It's fine, I checked it this—"

"Kenji."

A beat.

"Right."

---

Liam walked to the torii.

He was carrying a cloth, moving along the back of the bar in the ordinary way, the route he took twenty times a night. He stopped at the cedar frame and rested one hand against the wood.

The grain was smooth under his palm.

Old cedar. The good stuff.

He stood there for a moment.

Aoto, from the door, watched him do it.

Liam pushed off the torii and moved back to the bar.

---

The first one waved him over eventually.

"Could we get another round?" She smiled up at him. "Cosmopolitans again."

Liam took out his pad.

Then the first one spoke again.

"Actually —" A small pause. "Do you have Valhallan vodka?"

Liam looked at her.

"Just vodka," he said. "Valhallan variety, aye."

"That." She set her cosmopolitan aside. "Thank you."

The second folded her hands around the paperback.

"Whiskey," she said. "Whatever you'd recommend."

The third looked up from her tea.

Said nothing.

He wrote it down. Walked back to the bar.

Stood with the pad in his hand.

Valhallan vodka. Whiskey. The tea already cold and untouched.

He put the pad down. Moved to the torii. Hand flat against the wood this time, eyes forward, not closing.

Aoto spoke quietly from the door.

"How many visits."

"Three separate. First time together."

"Cosmopolitans first."

"Yes."

"Then they switched."

"Yes."

Aoto looked back toward the street. "They're deploying."

Liam pushed off the cedar.

"Make the drinks."

---

He brought them over himself.

Set each glass down without ceremony.

The first woman — Sulla's rhythms, sharper than three weeks ago, almost exactly right now, the complaint about authority landing with the right velocity — watched him with practiced warmth.

The second had the paperback closed. She looked older than she had an hour ago. Laugh-lines. Calm eyes. Hair pinned back carelessly.

Not young Mariko.

The one from later. The one who had finally understood.

That hurt more.

The third smiled gently from behind the abandoned tea.

"Long night, Brianín?"

The room contracted.

Nobody had called him that in over thirty thousand years.

Kenji, behind the bar, found the taps needed wiping.

Liam said nothing.

The first one leaned back in the booth.

"You know," she said, "most men would be flattered."

Her face was refining itself in response to him. More Sulla. Each expression more exact.

The second closed the paperback completely.

"You've missed us," she said softly.

Not a question.

The third stirred sugar slowly into the untouched tea.

"You are very lonely."

Aoto stood.

Quietly.

The daemonettes ignored him completely. Their attention stayed fixed on Liam.

Three sets of eyes.

Liam looked at the false Mariko for a long time.

And for one terrible fractional second he wanted it.

Not lust.

Worse.

Relief.

The thing saw that. Its smile sharpened instantly.

"There you are," it whispered.

That did it.

Because Mariko would never have smiled at pain like that.

Liam set the cloth down.

"No," he said.

The glamour didn't drop.

It relaxed.

The Sulla rhythms slipped a fraction. The laugh-lines on the second one softened toward something generic. The shopping bag shifted on the third one's arm. The hair settled. Around them the room exhaled without knowing why.

"Oh come on."

Fake-Mariko watched him silently. Then the third one smiled sadly in his mother's face.

"She found you anyway," she said.

Liam nodded once.

"Yeah."

Long pause.

Then he pointed toward the door.

"Out."

---

He walked with them to the threshold.

As they passed beneath the torii the first one's hand lifted almost imperceptibly toward the cedar.

Stopped.

She let it fall.

Outside, rain pressed against the transitway. The false Sulla turned her collar up. The third looked back once from the doorway, shopping bag over one arm, tired eyes.

The second paused at his shoulder.

"Still waiting for her," she murmured.

Liam didn't look at her.

"But not for you."

---

The door closed.

Kenji came out from behind the bar.

"Are they coming back?"

Liam watched the rain take them.

"They'll come back."

"And?"

"Same rules as everyone."

He picked up the glasses from the booth. Valhallan vodka untouched. Whiskey untouched. Tea cold.

Brought them to the bar and set them down.

Reached under the counter.

Poured from below the good shelf.

Just the one measure.

He stood at the counter and drank it alone and didn't say anything, and Kenji found somewhere else to be, and Aoto watched the door.

The jukebox clicked once without activating.
of

# Tale  9 No Manifesting (published)
The glass cracked before the light finished arriving.

Kenji had his hand on the tap, halfway through a pour, when the middle of the room turned white. Not bright. White. The kind that flattened edges and made the brass rail disappear.

Heat rolled across the bar.

Someone shouted.

A chair went over.

The Guinness kept running for another second before Kenji shut the tap by touch.

Then the woman was there.

Armour gold enough to hurt the eyes. Wings spread wide across half the room. A sword burning in one hand without smoke. Grenades at her belt. Light pooled behind her shoulders and crawled across the ceiling in thin moving bands.

Three pilgrims hit their knees immediately.

A fourth tried to and tangled himself in the fallen chair.

At the corner table, the Eldar stopped talking. No panic. No movement toward weapons. One inclined his head slightly as if revising a calculation.

At the back, the three large pilgrims in oversized coats paused midway through their drinks. One discreetly tipped something dark from a metal flask into the shot glass while pretending not to.

Nobody acknowledged this.

The arrangement had held for years.

The middle one watched the burning sword with professional interest he was making a visible effort to keep professional.

Kenji looked at the floor around the woman’s boots.

The varnish had already started lifting.

Warp residue. Or miracle residue. There was overlap.

He reached automatically for the white cloth, stopped himself, and went for the black bucket instead.

Outside, wood creaked.

Aoto stood up from the stool.

Liam looked at the woman.

Then at the door.

“Ah for fuck’s sake,” he said. “There’s a perfectly good door.”

The woman turned toward him.

Light shifted with her movement. One of the kneeling pilgrims started whispering a prayer too fast for the words to keep up with themselves.

Liam pointed the cloth at him.

“Up.”

The prayer faltered.

“Up off the floor unless you dropped something.”

Nobody moved.

Aoto ducked through the doorway.

That solved it.

Chairs scraped. Knees came up. The pilgrim trapped in the fallen chair decided sitting normally was the safer option.

The woman remained standing in the middle of the room. Heat shimmered faintly around the edge of the sword.

Aoto crossed the floor without hurry. His armour held the light in flat dead planes and reflected none of it back.

“Weapons outside,” he said.

The wings shifted slightly behind her.

“This blade was entrusted to me by the will of the Emperor.”

“Grand.”

Aoto held out one hand.

“Outside.”

“It is the Ardent Blade.”

“Still a sword.”

The room stayed very still.

At the Eldar table, one pair of eyes moved from Celestine to Aoto.

At the back, one of the large pilgrims quietly slid his shot glass further from his elbow.

The woman studied Aoto.

“I would not draw it against the innocent.”

“That’s good.”

His hand remained open.

“The rule’s for everyone.”

Behind the bar Liam nodded once.

“No manifesting either,” he said. “New rule. Use the door.”

The woman looked at him.

“You would deny a servant of the Throne entry?”

“No,” Liam said. “I’d deny anybody setting fire to the floorboards.”

Kenji crouched near the edge of the pale mark spreading under her boots. The black bucket gave off a sharp medicinal smell that reminded him unpleasantly of the downstairs shelves.

The mop hissed faintly on contact.

Wrong dilution.

He stood again immediately and went back for the smaller bottle under the sink. The one with saints and similar written on it in faded marker by his grandfather.

When he came back, Aoto was still standing there with his hand out.

For a moment Kenji thought she might refuse.

Then the sword lowered.

She reversed it carefully and offered the hilt first.

Aoto took it.

Nothing exploded.

The middle pilgrim at the back table visibly approved of the balance.

“Stop admiring it,” Liam said.

“We’re only having a drink,” the pilgrim replied.

“Keep doing that.”

Aoto carried the sword to the weapons rack by the door and slotted it carefully between a Necron staff and an axe with old teeth marks in the haft.

The rack clicked once and accepted the arrangement.

When he came back, he pointed at the grenades.

“Those too.”

The woman glanced down.

“They are holy weapons.”

“They’re grenades.”

“They have served the Emperor faithfully.”

“Grand.”

Aoto jerked his head toward the door.

“Either the weapons go outside or you go outside.”

Silence sat in the room for perhaps two seconds.

Then Liam spoke from behind the taps.

“He means it, love.”

One of the grenades unclipped.

Then another.

Kenji had already placed a shallow tray on the counter.

“Pins facing left, please.”

The woman looked at him.

Kenji shrugged slightly.

“Safety.”

One by one the grenades went into the tray.

Aoto carried them to the rack with the same care he might have used transporting drinks.

Weapons inside meant the threshold had failed.

Aoto disliked failure.

The woman remained standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, wings occupying entirely too much airspace.

Liam looked around the blocked aisle.

“Can ya fold the wings in a touch, love? You’re taking up half the bar there. Booth might suit you better.”

For the first time since appearing, the woman looked uncertain.

The wings folded inward slowly.

Still immense. Still impossible. But now customers could theoretically reach the toilets without undergoing spiritual revelation.

“Thank you,” she said.

“No bother.”

Liam nodded toward the booth beside the torii.

Not the best booth. Not the worst. The one people chose when they wanted to see the room without the room seeing too much of them.

She sat carefully.

The booth creaked but held.

Kenji followed the marks her boots had left across the floorboards. The cleaner foamed faintly over them and released a smell like hot stone after rain.

At the corner table the Eldar resumed talking quietly.

At the back the large pilgrims resumed whatever game they had been playing with the shots and the suspicious flask.

Service began knitting itself back together.

Liam brought the woman a glass.

Not a chalice.

Just a glass.

“So,” he said. “What has you here?”

“I am sent where the need is greatest.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Her hands settled around the drink.

Outside the windows, the endless noise of Terra rolled along the pilgrim streets. Hymns. Engines. Vendors. Prayer horns. Somewhere distant, gunfire.

Inside, the jukebox remained dark.

“I go where I am called,” she said.

“Sounds exhausting.”

“Worlds burn.”

“They do.”

“The faithful cry out in despair.”

“Frequently.”

“The enemies of mankind—”

Liam leaned one elbow on the booth partition.

“Love.”

She stopped.

“What has you here.”

The room carried on around them.

Kenji cleaned the last of the floor marks and checked the mop fibres. Slight greying at the tips. Acceptable.

One of the large pilgrims ordered another round.

The Eldar requested tea.

Someone near the bar started quietly crying for reasons entirely unrelated to saints.

The woman looked down into the drink.

“I heard no call from here,” she said eventually.

“That’s generally the aim.”

“No battlefield. No dying soldiers. No breach.”

“Quiet enough evening till yourself arrived.”

At the back table one of the large pilgrims snorted into his drink and immediately pretended it had been a cough.

The woman ignored him.

“For once,” she said quietly, “I did not wish to arrive where I was needed.”

Liam nodded once.

“You wanted somewhere you weren’t.”

“Yes.”

“Grand so.”

No sermon followed.

No revelation.

Liam simply straightened and headed back behind the counter.

Kenji watched the room carefully over the next few minutes.

Nobody approached the booth.

Not the pilgrims.

Not the clerks.

Not the merchants.

Nobody asked for blessings, courage, healing, absolution, prophecy, or judgment.

The room left her alone.

Kenji realised, watching her fold both hands around the glass, that this might be the rarest thing the bar had ever done for anyone.

Eventually she finished the drink.

Liam took the empty glass.

“Another?”

She hesitated.

Not because she wanted to refuse.

Because she had forgotten she was allowed.

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“Fair enough.”

The second drink arrived.

Time settled around it.

The pilgrims resumed their conversations. The Eldar drank their tea. The large pilgrims at the back became steadily more relaxed in the way dangerous things did when convinced they would not need to kill anyone tonight.

The jukebox stayed silent.

Even it seemed to understand she had not come for hymns.

An hour later Celestine finally stood.

The room noticed without staring.

Aoto opened the door before she reached it. Sword in one hand. Tray of grenades on the shelf beside him.

She took the Ardent Blade first.

Then the grenades.

Pins still facing left.

At the threshold she paused.

“The Emperor protects,” she said.

Liam wiped the counter once.

“Aye,” he said. “So I’ve heard.”

For just a second something like amusement touched the corner of her mouth.

Then she stepped out into the noise and light of Terra.

No radiance.

No miracle.

Just another customer leaving by the door.

Aoto watched it close behind her.

Kenji crouched beside the booth and touched the pale feather-mark on the varnish with a damp cloth.

The cloth smoked immediately.

He sighed.

Black bucket again.

Outside, Aoto settled back onto the stool.

“Rule was good enough for Neoth, I’m told,” he said.

Liam grunted.

“And Dante. And several greater daemons.”

“Mm.”

Aoto folded his arms and stared out at the pilgrim crowds moving past the windows.

“Good enough for her, I’d say.”

“She used it leaving,” Liam said.

“Next time she can use it coming in.”


# Tale 10 Rogal Dorns Bloomsday (published)
Rogal Dorn stopped in the doorway.

The door remained open behind him for almost two full seconds before Aoto pushed it shut with one hand.

Inside McEvers, someone was singing.

Not well.

Not badly enough to stop.

Dorn stood motionless beneath the lintel and attempted to classify what he was seeing.

Liam stood behind the counter in a red-striped blazer and straw boater that looked fundamentally incompatible with his face. Kenji wore black formal clothes with a collar high enough to threaten circulation, round spectacles, and carried a cane he plainly did not need.

At the far booth, an Eldar woman in Edwardian dress lounged against the seatback reading from a thick printed book with total seriousness.

Several customers wore hats.

One customer had attempted a moustache beyond his capabilities.

The jukebox played fiddles softly under the voice.

Outside the front window, Aoto sat back down on the stool in full Thunder Warrior armour like the sole surviving member of a different civilisation.

Dorn looked at him.

Aoto shrugged once.

“Bloomsday.”

Dorn considered this.

“That explains nothing.”

“Book thing,” Liam said.

The Eldar continued reading.

“…and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used…”

Dorn looked toward the voice.

The Eldar did not look up from the pages. One hand rested lazily against the booth while she read with the concentration of a sniper.

Kenji stood beside her holding a second copy.

“Sixteenth of June,” Kenji said solemnly, “1904.”

Dorn looked at him.

“You have memorised the date.”

“He’s been unbearable all week,” Liam said.

Kenji ignored this.

Dorn removed his gloves slowly.

“Is this ritualised.”

“A bit.”

“Religious.”

“Not really.”

“Political.”

“God no.”

The Eldar reached the end of the page and paused.

Kenji immediately handed over the next sheaf.

“Thank you,” she said.

“The pleasure is entirely mine.”

Dorn watched this exchange carefully.

“…what is occurring.”

“Bloomsday,” Liam repeated patiently. “Fella called Joyce. Wrote a book set over one day in Dublin.”

“An annual literary observance,” Kenji added.

Liam pointed at him.

“See.”

Dorn looked around the room again.

The hats.

The music.

The paperbacks.

The astonishing sincerity.

“…and this requires costumes.”

At that, the Eldar finally looked up.

“The text benefits from commitment.”

Her accent shifted strangely around the words. Not Irish. Not anything human. But the cadence beneath it matched the room perfectly.

“In fairness to them,” Liam said quietly, “the pointy ears commit.”

The Eldar inclined her head graciously.

“We do.”

Kenji leaned toward her slightly.

“The hat is wrong.”

Silence.

The Eldar closed her eyes briefly.

“It is period appropriate.”

“For 1907.”

“You people are exhausting.”

Dorn stared at Kenji.

“You identified the incorrect date by the hat.”

“Yes.”

“…why.”

Kenji looked genuinely surprised by the question.

“Accuracy.”

Liam slid a pint across the counter toward Dorn.

“Don’t encourage him.”

Dorn accepted the drink automatically, though his attention remained fixed on the room.

The Eldar resumed reading.

“…and yes I said yes I will Yes.”

Silence followed.

Not awkward silence.

Completion silence.

One pilgrim near the back applauded softly before realising nobody else was and stopping halfway through the second clap.

Dorn sat down carefully.

“…is this normal.”

“Unfortunately,” Aoto said from outside.

Liam grinned into his own glass.

“Ah it’s only once a year.”

“Once is sufficient.”

Kenji adjusted his spectacles.

“That is not the traditional spirit of Bloomsday.”

“Kenji,” Liam said, “you tried to import kidneys.”

“They are textually important.”

“You nearly killed three customers.”

“One customer,” Kenji corrected. “The other two recovered quickly.”

Dorn drank from the pint.

The stout was excellent.

That annoyed him slightly.

At the booth, the Eldar folded the papers neatly.

“Your turn,” she said.

Kenji visibly brightened.

“No.”

Kenji looked wounded.

“The Cyclops section perhaps—”

“No.”

“A shorter passage?”

“No.”

Kenji looked toward Liam for support.

Liam immediately betrayed him.

“Go on. He likes books.”

“I did not say that.”

“You asked about the hats.”

“That was tactical assessment.”

“Mm.”

Kenji vanished behind the counter and returned carrying two enormous printed binders.

He placed them in front of Dorn with ceremonial care.

“Ulysses,” he announced, touching the first.

Then the second.

“Finnegans Wake.”

Dorn looked at the size of them.

“These are both one text.”

“Technically yes,” the Eldar said.

Liam pointed at the second binder immediately.

“Start with Ulysses. The other one’s a bit difficult.”

Kenji nodded gravely.

“To a dangerous degree.”

Dorn opened the first binder.

Dense print.

Annotations.

Maps.

References.

Cross-references to references.

He frowned slightly.

“This appears operationally inefficient.”

“Ah now,” Liam said. “That’s half the fun.”

Dorn turned several pages.

“Why commemorate it.”

“Dubliners,” Liam said with a shrug. “Like remembering themselves.”

“That is imprecise.”

“Well it’s not artillery.”

That got Dorn’s attention properly.

At the booth, the Eldar smiled faintly into her drink.

Liam saw it and immediately pointed.

“Don’t start.”

She lifted one elegant hand innocently.

Dorn looked down at the pages again.

Partway through the binder was a printed image of a squat circular stone tower beside the sea.

He stopped.

“…interesting.”

“Mm?”

“This structure.”

“Ah,” Liam said. “That’s one of the Martello towers.”

Dorn looked up immediately.

“A what.”

“Little coastal forts. British built them. French were worrying them. Thick walls. Cannonballs bounced off.”

“Not bounced.”

“Deflected so.”

Dorn turned the page fully toward himself.

The room around him receded slightly.

Interesting geometry.

Low profile.

Curvature reducing concentrated impact stress.

Constrained internal volume.

Limited but efficient firing arcs.

Observation function as much as direct defense.

“…hm.”

Liam leaned on the counter.

“There he goes.”

Dorn ignored him.

“The structure is not intended for independent victory.”

“No?”

“It delays. Observes. Signals. It exists as part of a wider defensive network.”

“British loved that sort of thing.”

“They understood coastal vulnerability.”

“Fear’ll sharpen the mind.”

Dorn nodded once.

“Correct.”

The Eldar watched him over the rim of her glass now with visible amusement.

“You enjoy this,” she observed.

“It is structurally sound.”

“That is the most Rogal Dorn sentence I have heard this century,” Liam said.

Dorn continued studying the printed image.

“The masonry thickness is excessive for ordinary raiding concerns.”

“Napoleon,” Liam said.

“Mm.”

“British got very excited whenever the French started looking at boats.”

“That was rational.”

“Probably.”

Dorn turned another page.

“Poor ventilation.”

“Tiny windows.”

“Difficult ammunition movement.”

“Wet stairs too,” Liam said. “A cousin of mine slipped down one drunk in nineteen eighty-two.”

Dorn looked up.

“You have visited these structures.”

“Ah sure everyone has.”

“Not everyone,” Kenji muttered.

Liam ignored him.

“Professional interest, I suppose.”

Dorn nodded slightly.

“Yes.”

“Like your sister.”

Silence.

Not total silence.

The jukebox continued quietly.

Glasses still moved.

Outside, traffic hissed through wet Kyoto streets.

But the conversational rhythm inside the bar stopped completely.

Kenji froze with a cloth in one hand.

The Eldar lowered her glass very carefully.

Outside, Aoto turned his head just enough to look through the doorway with the expression of a man watching somebody step on a rake in slow motion.

Dorn did not move.

“…my sister,” he said carefully.

Liam looked into his pint as if answers might be located near the head.

“Eh.”

Nobody in the room helped him.

“No sure,” Liam said finally. “You’ve no sister.”

The silence became worse.

Kenji resumed polishing the same glass with terrifying concentration.

The Eldar suddenly became fascinated by the jukebox.

Dorn looked at Liam for a very long time.

Not angry.

Not suspicious exactly.

Calculating.

Liam held up one finger.

“Now before you start.”

Dorn waited.

“I have had four pints.”

“That explains nothing.”

“It explains some things.”

Dorn continued looking at him.

Then, unexpectedly, he looked back down at the Martello tower image instead.

The room breathed again.

Kenji nearly collapsed with relief.

Outside, Aoto muttered something in a language that had probably once required mountains nearby.

Dorn turned another page.

“…the overlapping observation network is competent.”

“There now,” Liam said immediately, seizing the escape route with both hands. “That’s exactly what I was saying.”

“You were not.”

“Near enough.”

An hour later Dorn stood to leave with both binders under one arm.

“You’ll hate that one for six months,” Liam said, pointing at Finnegans Wake.

Dorn looked down at it.

“And after six months.”

“You’ll start arguing with it.”

“Does it improve.”

Liam considered carefully.

“Not exactly.”

Dorn nodded once as though accepting a military briefing.

At the door he paused.

“The towers,” he said. “You were correct about one thing.”

“Only one?”

“The British overbuilt them.”

Liam grinned.

“Fear’ll do that.”

Dorn left into the Kyoto night carrying Joyce like campaign documents.

The door shut behind him.

Silence held for perhaps three seconds.

Then Kenji leaned heavily against the counter.

“You mentioned the sister.”

“I noticed that all right.”

“You mentioned it to Rogal Dorn.”

“Mm.”

Outside, Aoto spoke through the doorway.

“What’s Bloomsday.”

Liam stared at him.

“Aoto.”

“I was at Ararat.”

Liam considered this.

“Fair enough.”


# Tale 11 No Religion (published)

The first night was grand.

They came in late enough that the rush had already passed. Two enormous figures in grey, another in dark armour with parchment hanging from him like he'd lost a fight with a library, and the creepy one.

The creepy one smiled too much.

Constantin Valdor ducked through the doorway first.

*"Evening,"* Liam said.

*"Liam."*

Valdor stepped aside.

*"May we impose upon your hospitality."*

*"You asking or him?"* Liam nodded toward the red-armoured giant behind him.

The giant blinked once in surprise.

*"I am Lorgar Aurelian."*

*"Grand."*

Liam jerked a thumb toward the room.

*"Mind the stools. Kenji varnished them."*

Lorgar ducked carefully into the bar.

He was enormous even by the standards of the customers McEvers occasionally attracted. Not loud, though.

Quiet lad.

The other one entered behind him.

Dark eyes. Chaplain markings. Smiled like a man checking windows for weak latches.

Liam put him in a file immediately.

At the back of the room, one of the Eldar glanced up from her tea, saw Erebus, and very deliberately moved her chair two inches further from the aisle.

Aoto noticed.

*"Who's your creepy friend,"* Liam asked Valdor quietly while the newcomers found seats.

*"First Chaplain Erebus."*

*"Mm."*

*"A remarkable soul."*

*"If you say so."*

The evening itself was fine.

Lorgar turned out to be thoughtful company. Curious. Asked questions. Listened to answers properly. Spent twenty minutes discussing poetry with the Eldar table and another half hour staring thoughtfully at the torii gate near the booths.

*"Beautiful work,"* he said quietly.

*"Mm,"* Liam replied. *"Mariko's family."*

Lorgar nodded respectfully.

He talked philosophy after that. Faith a bit too, but softly. Exploratory. The way students did before they started trying to explain the world back at you.

That was allowed.

McEvers had Buddhists, mystics, atheists, Shinto priests, wandering machine cultists, and one daemon in the corner who insisted he was between metaphysical commitments.

People talked.

That was fine.

Erebus, though.

Erebus drifted.

That was the word for it.

He drifted through conversations too smoothly. Sat beside people who looked lonely. Asked questions too quickly. Found the sore spots in people's lives with the ease of long practice.

Not aggressive.

That felt worse.

By the end of the evening he'd somehow learned:

one pilgrim's dead daughter

a clerk's fear of insignificance

an administratum scribe's loneliness

Erebus had already found a nervous pilgrim near the wall. Hand on the shoulder. Speaking softly.

Aoto leaned in through the serving hatch.

*"Don't like that one."*

*"Mm."*

*"What's wrong with him."*

Liam polished the same glass for several seconds.

*"Had a fella back home,"* he said eventually. *"Brother Thomas."*

Aoto waited.

*"Used take the younger lads into his office for 'a chat'."*

Silence.

*"We were fierce wary of him,"* Liam said.

*"Rightly so?"*

Liam watched Erebus smile.

*"Aye."*

---

The second time they came in, it started.

Lorgar talked more confidently now. Less searching. More certain.

*"The human soul yearns naturally toward the divine,"* he said to a pair of pilgrims over chowder.

*"Does it,"* Liam muttered.

Erebus sat nearby saying very little.

That felt worse.

He only nudged things occasionally.

A question here.

A sympathetic look there.

One of the pilgrims began speaking about purpose with the expression of a man who didn't notice the door closing behind him.

Liam walked over.

*"None of that now."*

Lorgar looked genuinely surprised.

*"We are merely discussing truth."*

*"Grand. Discuss it outside."*

*"The search for meaning is hardly forbidden."*

*"No,"* Liam agreed. *"Preaching is."*

Lorgar frowned slightly.

*"I would never force belief."*

*"Good."*

Liam pointed gently toward the ceiling.

*"Keep it that way."*

Erebus smiled into his drink.

Liam wanted to throw him into the sea.

---

Three weeks later, Lorgar arrived alone.

That worried Liam more.

Because now the preaching wasn't being pushed.

It was coming naturally.

People listened to him. He spoke beautifully. Warmly. Like every person in the room mattered enormously.

One pilgrim actually started crying quietly while Lorgar explained humanity's need for transcendence.

Another tried to kneel.

Aoto.

That stopped it.

Liam came out from behind the counter.

*"Lad."*

Lorgar looked up immediately.

*"No religion in the bar."*

*"I merely speak of faith."*

*"You're drifting."*

*"Toward truth?"*

*"Toward the door."*

Lorgar looked wounded.

That nearly made it worse.

*"You reject the spiritual entirely?"*

Liam laughed once without humour.

*"Oh no."*

That stopped the room.

*"I've seen enough gods to last me forever."*

Silence.

Lorgar studied him carefully then.

*"Then why deny humanity meaning."*

*"Faith's grand,"* Liam said.

Then he pointed toward the empty stool where Erebus usually sat.

*"That lad's selling dependency."*

Lorgar stiffened slightly.

*"You misjudge him."*

*"Do I."*

*"He seeks enlightenment."*

*"Mm."*

Liam folded the cloth carefully.

*"And Brother Thomas only wanted a chat."*

---

The final night began badly the second the door opened.

Kor Phaeron entered first.

He was built close to Astartes scale — close enough that the eye accepted it for a moment before the wrongness resolved. The proportions were there. The mass was there. But the body had the look of something that had gone most of the way through a process and emerged on the other side of it changed but not completed. Aoto clocked it from the threshold without moving. Filed it. Said nothing.

Behind Kor Phaeron came Lorgar.

Then Erebus.

The jukebox went quiet.

Not broken.

Quiet.

At the Eldar table, conversation stopped immediately.

Aoto stood before they reached the threshold.

Liam looked up from the counter.

*"Evening lads."*

*"Liam,"* said Lorgar warmly.

*"Rule still stands."*

Kor Phaeron frowned.

*"What rule."*

*"No religion."*

Lorgar spread his hands slightly.

*"Surely discussion is not forbidden."*

*"Religion's allowed."*

Hope flickered briefly across Lorgar's face.

*"Churches aren't."*

Kor Phaeron's expression hardened immediately.

*"We bring truth."*

*"You bring organisation."*

Liam pointed toward Erebus.

*"He's recruiting."*

Then Kor Phaeron.

*"And you're organising."*

Finally Lorgar.

*"And you're too clever not to know it."*

The room had gone completely still.

Erebus smiled softly.

*"The human spirit longs for illumination."*

*"No,"* Liam said. *"The human spirit wants to finish its drink in peace."*

Kor Phaeron stepped forward.

*"You dare mock revelation?"*

*"No."*

Liam's voice flattened.

*"I'm barring it."*

Erebus had already started talking quietly to a young pilgrim near the wall.

Aoto moved instantly.

*"The powers beyond the veil offer truths your species cannot yet comprehe—"*

Aoto caught him by the scruff of the neck one-handed.

*"Fuck off."*

And launched him bodily through the door.

There was a crash outside followed by an offended shout in Colchisian.

Nobody in the bar moved to help.

Kor Phaeron looked outraged.

Lorgar looked shocked.

*"Violence?"* he asked quietly.

Aoto stepped outside.

*"Threshold management,"* he said, from the street.

Liam ignored all of them except Lorgar.

*"Far be it from me to advise you, lad,"* he said quietly.

*"But them lads are right inside your head."*

Lorgar frowned.

Not angry.

*"They are my teachers."*

*"Mm."*

Silence.

Lorgar looked at him steadily.

*"I beseech you."*

The room stayed quiet.

*"Is it not possible,"* he said, *"that you are the one who is mistaken. That what you call organisation, others might call grace. That what you call dependency, others might call need."*

He was not performing.

That was the terrible part.

*"Consider that you might be wrong."*

Liam looked at him for a long moment.

Then Kor Phaeron touched Lorgar's shoulder.

Tiny gesture.

Possessive.

Liam put the cloth down.

Picked it up again.

*"Out,"* he said quietly.

Lorgar stared at him.

*"I only wished to bring enlightenment."*

*"Faith gave humanity mass graves,"* Liam replied.

Nobody spoke.

*"You want to talk religion,"* Liam said, jerking a thumb toward the door, *"go talk your da."*

Lorgar froze.

*"…my father?"*

*"Aye."*

Liam picked up the cloth again.

*"He's barred an' all."*

Absolute silence.

Even Kor Phaeron looked briefly wrong-footed.

Outside came a crash and Aoto's voice:

*"No means no."*

Lorgar stood motionless for several seconds.

Then, slowly, sadly, he nodded.

*"I think,"* he said quietly, *"you are a profoundly wounded man."*

Liam snorted.

*"Join the queue."*

Lorgar turned and left.

Kor Phaeron followed immediately.

Outside, Erebus was still trying to explain something while pinned against the wall by one enormous arm.

Aoto looked into the bar.

Liam jerked his head toward the street.

Aoto nodded once.

Then he threw Erebus further.


# Tale 12 Siege of Terra (published)

Rain and dust together made a paste on the streets of Terra.

It gathered in the joins between paving stones. It streaked the sides of rubble-haulers. It turned old blood black and fresh blood brown and reduced the distinction between them to how recently someone had screamed.

Aoto sat beneath the awning outside McEvers and listened to the guns.

Not the close guns. Those were background now. The close guns had become weather weeks ago.

The far guns mattered.

The far guns told you where the line was moving.

Tonight they were westward.

Good enough.

A refugee column shuffled along the far side of the street under hooded lamps. No order left in it anymore. Just movement. Families carrying bundles. Clerks carrying ledgers. Militia with empty charge packs pretending they still had authority. Nobody looked at the sky when bombardment rolled overhead. If the shell had your name on it, you found out soon enough.

Aoto heard the legionaries before he saw them.

Conversation.

Wrong already.

Astartes moving toward violence usually went quiet. These ones sounded like labourers leaving shift.

*"…told you there was a place."*

*"You said that about the corpse grinder."*

*"It had tables."*

*"It had corpses."*

*"Details."*

Five shapes emerged through rain haze and drifting dust.

Three Emperor's Children in battered violet plate.

A Night Lord in midnight blue.

A Death Guard in armour the colour of infected lungs.

All armed.

All exhausted.

The lead Emperor's Child pointed at the sign over the door.

*"See?"*

The Night Lord squinted up at it.

*"McEvers."*

*"Told you."*

Aoto stood.

The street suddenly felt narrower.

*"No weapons in the bar."*

The legionaries stopped.

Rain hissed softly against hot ceramite.

The Death Guard stared at the light behind the window. Just stared.

*"We're not causing trouble,"* one of the Emperor's Children said.

*"No weapons."*

The legionary laughed once.

*"Brother, if we leave bolters outside during the Siege, we deserve to die."*

*"Mm."*

Aoto folded his arms.

Long pause.

Then the Emperor's Child stepped forward to brush past him.

The kind of movement transhumans made around ordinary humans without thinking about it.

Aoto moved exactly once.

Short jab.

Compact.

Precise.

His fist hit the point of the legionary's jaw with a crack like a hammer on wet stone.

The Emperor's Child dropped. Full armour hitting the street hard enough to splash muddy water halfway across the road.

Everything froze.

Bolters rose.

Civilians screamed inside the bar.

The wounded Imperial Fist under the window snatched for his weapon.

The Night Lord smiled.

The Death Guard stepped sideways automatically to create killing space.

And Aoto burst out laughing.

Huge booming laughter under the awning while rain hissed around him.

The Emperor's Child lay there for one stunned second.

Then rolled onto one elbow and started laughing too.

*"You,"* he said, *"hit hard for a civilian."*

*"Ah sure."*

Aoto pointed at the bolters.

*"No shooting the customers and we'll say no more about it."*

The Night Lord looked at Aoto. Looked at him the way he hadn't looked at anything in a long time.

Inside the bar, the Imperial Fist had gone very still.

Interesting.

Aoto opened the door.

*"Sorry boss,"* he called in. *"Couldn't stop them."*

Behind the counter Liam looked up from polishing a glass.

*"You could."*

*"Mm."*

Liam glanced at the armed legionaries.

Then at the cracked paving stones outside.

*"Well now,"* he said. *"You lads planning on murdering anyone?"*

One of the Emperor's Children considered it seriously.

*"Not immediately."*

*"Grand so. Kenji, glasses."*

The civilians inside did not relax. They simply stopped panicking loudly.

McEvers smelled of frying oil, stout, wet coats and old wood. The bombardment outside reached the room as a low vibration through the floorboards. Glasses trembled occasionally against one another behind the counter with soft little ringing sounds.

The Imperial Fist sat beneath the window with one gauntlet off and a spice bag balanced on his knee.

Yellow armour blackened nearly brown down one side. One eye swollen almost shut. Blood crusted beneath the edge of his gorget.

He watched the traitors enter.

The traitors watched him back.

Nobody reached for a weapon.

That was the strange part.

The Death Guard sat first.

The chair groaned under the weight.

*"What's that,"* he asked, staring at the spice bag.

The Fist looked down at it as though surprised to find it still existing.

*"Food."*

*"What kind."*

*"Fried."*

The Death Guard nodded thoughtfully.

*"Good."*

Kenji arrived with drinks.

The Night Lord accepted his glass with perfect politeness.

*"Thank you."*

Kenji blinked.

One of the Emperor's Children laughed softly.

*"We used to have culture, brother."*

*"You used to have hair,"* the Night Lord replied.

Fair.

The room settled.

Armour seals hissed softly in the heat. Rain tapped against the window. Somewhere outside a woman shouted at someone unloading rubble by hand.

One of the Emperor's Children noticed the lucite blocks first.

Twenty of them on the shelf behind the bar between whiskey bottles and fading photographs.

Coins sealed inside clear cases.

The legionary stood slowly.

*"Where did you get those."*

Kenji glanced over.

*"Them?"*

Liam pointed vaguely with the cloth.

*"Ah, souvenirs like."*

The legionary moved closer.

The Night Lord noticed the thumbprints immediately.

Huge impressions pressed into metal.

Not human.

The Emperor's Child pointed carefully.

*"That one."*

*"Konrad's,"* Liam said.

The Night Lord went still.

*"And there's Fulgrim's. Mortarion left his after discovering whiskey. Fierce bad hangover after that."*

The Death Guard stared at the coin.

*"Mortarion was here."*

*"Ah sure he used to call in now and then."*

Silence.

The Night Lord counted the blocks.

He looked toward the Imperial Fist.

The Imperial Fist looked back while chewing chips.

Nobody mentioned the number.

Twenty.

Outside, artillery rolled somewhere far across Terra.

The glasses behind the bar rang softly together.

The Night Lord sat back down.

*"Fair enough,"* he said.

One of the Emperor's Children reached toward Fulgrim's coin.

From outside beneath the awning Aoto said:

*"Don't."*

The legionary stopped immediately.

The Imperial Fist wiped spice from his mouth with the back of his bare hand.

*"This district,"* he said.

Liam grunted.

*"What about it."*

*"It should be gone."*

*"Comparatively,"* the Night Lord added.

*"Comparatively,"* the Fist snapped.

He shifted in his chair and pain crossed his face for a second.

*"No strategic significance. No command assets. No heavy batteries. Yet bombardment density drops inside four streets."*

Liam polished the glass.

*"Does it now."*

*"Why."*

Liam shrugged.

*"Ah, you'd have to ask your bosses that."*

Silence settled over the room.

One of the Emperor's Children slowly lowered his drink.

*"Bosses,"* the Night Lord repeated.

*"Mm."*

*"Plural."*

*"They're surprisingly good at agreeing once they've drink taken."*

Nobody spoke for a while after that.

The Imperial Fist ate another chip.

*"Too much salt."*

*"That's the point,"* Kenji said automatically.

One of the Emperor's Children burst out laughing.

*"I'm sorry,"* he said. *"I just realised we're all sitting in a seafood bar while Terra burns."*

*"Could be worse,"* the Night Lord said.

*"How."*

*"You could still be outside."*

The Death Guard removed his helmet.

Underneath was a Terran face gone grey with fatigue and chemical exposure.

He smelled the spice bag.

Held still a moment.

*"Forgot this,"* he said quietly.

Nobody asked what he meant.

The Imperial Fist unclamped his breastplate a few minutes later.

The seal hissed open.

Bandaging showed beneath.

One of the Emperor's Children removed a gauntlet.

Then another.

The Night Lord watched all of them.

*"I'm not putting that back on tonight."*

The Death Guard nodded.

*"No."*

The Imperial Fist looked down at the opened yellow plate resting against the wall.

*"Me neither."*

One of the Emperor's Children said it quietly.

*"Or ever."*

Nobody moved.

The Night Lord watched all of them for several long seconds.

*"Every city I have ever been in,"* he said, *"I have known exactly where I was when it ended."*

He did not look at any of them.

*"I did not know it would feel like this."*

Nobody answered.

Liam polished the glass.

*"Well now,"* he said. *"If you lads are seriously thinking about disappearing, you might want to talk to your man outside."*

*"The bouncer,"* the Night Lord said.

*"Mm."*

*"Why."*

Liam shrugged.

*"He has a bit of experience hiding in plain sight."*

That got everyone's attention.

The Imperial Fist looked toward the awning again.

Really looked this time.

*"He's not Astartes."*

*"No."*

*"Custodian."*

*"No."*

The Death Guard had gone perfectly still.

*"No,"* he repeated softly.

Outside, rainwater dripped from the awning beside Aoto's boots.

The Night Lord kept staring toward the door.

*"That old."*

Liam glanced outside.

*"Older in the knees anyway."*

Morning came grey and wet.

The shelling had shifted south.

One by one the legionaries stood.

No speeches.

No pact.

The Imperial Fist looked at the yellow armour beside the wall for a long time.

Then walked away from it.

The Death Guard took only the rebreather from his helmet.

One of the Emperor's Children stole a coat from the peg by the kitchen.

The Night Lord paused beneath the sign outside.

*"Strangest place on Terra,"* he said.

Aoto grunted.

*"Not even top ten."*

Then they disappeared into the refugee crowds and rain.

Aoto carried the armour downstairs himself.

Heavy old plate.

Mark IV mostly.

One breastplate cracked clean through the aquila.

He stacked it beside older ghosts in the cellar while the thing in the far corner hummed quietly beneath its warning sigils.

Upstairs, Liam was still polishing the same glass.

Outside, Terra burned.


---

# Tale 13 Throw trouble outside, not through furniture (published) 
Rain hissed softly against the neon outside.

Pan-Pacific never truly slept anymore. Too much construction. Too many transports moving toward the Himalayan works. Too many men suddenly pretending Terra had always belonged to the thing now rising at its centre.

The street outside McEvers smelled of wet concrete, fryer oil, machine coolant, and humanity packed too tightly together.

Inside was warmer, cosier, easier. 

Old cedar beams crossed the ceiling overhead, darkened by decades of smoke and hands. The torii between the two rooms stood slightly off-square because the floor had shifted sometime around the Third Uralic War and Liam had never bothered fixing it properly.

Kenji was at the far end of the bar with his back mostly turned, working a cloth along the glass of the Longford jersey case with the focused attention of a man who took the jersey seriously and always had.

The door opened.

The thing that came through it was doing furtive.

Furtive, on a frame that cleared the doorway by not much and filled the width of it considerably, required commitment. It had committed. Shoulders drawn in. Head angled down. Moving in the careful way of something that had learned through extended experience that the space it occupied was often considered other people's space and that advance apology through posture was the most efficient approach.

Two seventy-five, maybe. Built like a structural problem.

Doing furtive like its life depended on it.

Which, Liam noted, watching over the rim of the teapot, it possibly did.

The giant stopped just inside the door. Scanned the room once with the speed of something that had been scanning rooms for a very long time. Registered the exits. Registered the people. Registered Liam behind the bar with an expression that was not quite relief and not quite resignation but somewhere in that county.

Then, carefully, as though the words required some excavation:

"A drink. Food, maybe."

A pause.

"I can pay."

Liam set the teapot down.

"Yerra I hope so. Else we'd have to throw you out wouldn't we Kenji."

Kenji turned around.

He was halfway through agreeing before he'd completed the turn, the automatic response of a man whose boss had never once set him up for something that wasn't manageable.

Then he saw what was standing at the door.

Oh.

The cloth stopped moving.

Something moved across Kenji's face that was involuntary and completely honest and lasted approximately one and a half seconds before the family inheritance reasserted itself, smoothed everything back down, and left him standing there with the cloth in his hand and an expression of professional neutrality that his great-great-grandfather would have recognised.

"Kitchen's open," he said.

Then turned back to the jersey case.

Liam had already looked away.

The weapon was under the left arm. Good coat, repaired badly, but the weight of it sat wrong on that side and the way the giant moved his arm when he walked kept a careful inch of clearance. Old habit. Bone deep.

He said nothing about it yet.

The giant crossed to the counter and lowered himself onto a stool with the caution of a man who had broken furniture before and found it embarrassing. The stool held. He looked briefly surprised.

Liam poured a whiskey without asking and set it in front of him.

The giant drank it the way he'd walked through the door. Purposeful. No ceremony. The glass back on the counter before the warmth had properly landed.

Liam poured another.

Kenji arrived from the kitchen end and set a paper tray down beside him. Chips. Fried peppers. Something from downstairs that smelled considerably better than its description would suggest.

The giant looked at it briefly.

Then ate with the focused efficiency of a man for whom food was a system requirement and hunger was a variable to be managed rather than a thing to be enjoyed. Clean. Fast. Methodical.

The second whiskey went the same way as the first.

Liam watched.

Nothing.

No slackening around the eyes. No softening of posture. No warmth moving up through the chest the way it should. The whiskey was going in and being consumed by whatever was already running in there, leaving no trace.

He poured a third.

The giant wrapped both hands around the glass this time. Massive hands, scarred white around the knuckles. One sleeve of the coat had been repaired repeatedly with thick black thread by somebody who understood durability but not tailoring.

He drank the third slowly.

Or slowly for him.

Every few seconds his eyes moved to the windows. Checking reflections. Checking movement. Checking for people who hadn't arrived yet.

Liam watched the third whiskey land the same way the first two had.

Nothing.

If anything it merely revealed the exhaustion underneath. Like clearing brush to find the same flat ground.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

He reached under the bar.

The tea arrived in a thick ceramic mug, slid across the counter without announcement.

The giant looked at it.

"Didn't order that."

"Whiskey's clearly not doing the job."

For a moment the man's face changed.

Not emotionally exactly.

More like something old and tired briefly stopped pretending otherwise.

"Doesn't usually," he said.

Flat. Matter-of-fact. A statement built from long experience.

He picked up the mug.

Paused.

Drank.

Then went very still.

Not relaxed. Never that. But lower somehow. Like machinery running below operational temperature for the first time in years.

Outside, somebody shouted down the street. A bottle broke. The usual underhive arithmetic of frustration and alcohol.

The giant's head turned automatically toward the sound.

Then stopped halfway.

He looked slowly around the room instead.

The old beams. The low music near the back. Steam rolling from the kitchen hatch. Rain against the windows. People talking quietly without fear.

"There's something about this place," he said eventually.

Liam kept his expression neutral.

"Ah sure we've good ventilation."

The giant ignored that completely.

"Noise is quieter here."

Liam wiped the counter slowly.

Outside another burst of shouting rolled down the street.

This time the giant barely reacted at all.

Liam nodded toward the front windows.

"Tell ya what lad."

The giant looked over.

"Why don't ye do the door for me this evening."

A pause.

"The door."

"Aye. Congratulations. You're on the job now fella."

That almost caused an expression.

"That's the interview."

"Mostly. If ye don't kill anyone we'll discuss longer-term employment after closing. If ye do kill someone we'll probably have to revisit matters administratively."

The giant studied him carefully.

Trying to locate the angle.

There had to be one.

Nobody looked at things like him and saw employment.

"What are the rules."

"No weapons in the pub." Liam's eyes moved briefly, precisely, to the left side of the coat and back. "Pulse pistols included. No skinning anyone. No cults. Throw trouble outside, not through furniture. Kenji tells ye something, assume he's right. Saves time."

A pause.

"Oh and Kenji. Would you ever go down and find that power maul. The good one."

From somewhere behind the jersey case, without looking up:

"Already on it boss."

The giant looked at Liam.

Liam looked back pleasantly.

The giant nodded once. He reached carefully into the coat, produced the pistol with two fingers, and set it on the counter without drama.

Liam put it under the bar.

The giant stood.

Even trying not to loom he loomed.

The old floorboards creaked under the shift in weight.

Then he stopped beside the door without turning around.

"What if they come looking for me."

Rain against the windows. Oil crackling in the kitchen. Kenji's footsteps already on the cellar stairs.

Liam wiped the counter once more.

"Everyone comes here eventually. Question is what they do here, isn't it. They want to come back, the rules apply."

A beat.

"That includes you."

The giant stood perfectly still.

A long moment passed.

Then:

"...Right."

And took up position beside the door like he'd been standing there for centuries already.


# Tale 14 The Assassin (published)

The coffin had been delivered to the wrong door. Some Administratum error, some scribe's fat finger on a data-slate three sectors over. It came down the Ninth Processional on a grav-sled, humming with stasis-lock warnings that everyone in the street wisely ignored. Stopped outside McEvers. The lock disengaged with a sound like a dying whale.

Kenji was in the cellar before the lid finished opening. Correct response.

The Eversor rose.

Combat drugs hit a bloodstream that had been in cold storage for six months. Neural targeting arrays spun up. The neuro-gauntlet extended with enough force to pulp a Space Marine's skull.

It scanned the room.

Two men in the corner, not talking to each other.

A woman with chowder.

A giant on a stool reading the racing form.

A barman polishing a glass.

No targets detected.

The Eversor's drug-crazed brain — more chemical than conscious, more weapon than person — encountered a category error. It had been built to identify hostility, fear, resistance, prey.

The room offered none of these.

The room offered sticky floors and low music and the smell of fryer oil.

It stood there quivering, neuro-gauntlet humming faintly, every fibre of its engineered being screaming KILL into a void that refused to provide a recipient.

Liam didn't look up.

_“Sit down son”_ he said. _“You're making the room nervous.”_

The Eversor sat.

Aoto turned a page of the racing form.

He didn't reach for the maul. The maul was for Erebuses and fecking Martians. This was just a lad who'd taken too many stimms and needed a minute.

Liam poured a glass of water. Set it on the counter.

The Eversor drank it.

Methodical. Fast. The way it did everything.

_“Mind yourself,”_ Liam said, sliding over a spice bag. _“It's hot.”_

The Eversor ate the spice bag.

It did not taste the spice.

Food entered the system. Hunger reduced. Objective satisfied.

Aoto looked up from the racing form.

The assassin was still watching him.

Targeting arrays clicking faintly.

Aoto lowered the paper slowly.

Looked back.

For just a moment the room changed shape around him.

Not physically.

Something old surfaced.

Something from before the Imperium.

Rad-zones and corpse-cities. Killing pits beneath Olympus Mons. Luna tunnels running red with coolant and blood. Things engineered too quickly and deployed too young.

Abbyss.

Monsters.

The old world.

Aoto smiled.

Tiny thing.

Wrong thing.

Not amusement.

Recognition.

The expression of a predator unexpectedly encountering another predator after thirty thousand years spent pretending most of the world wasn't fragile.

The Eversor twitched once.

Its neural systems had identified:
- threat
- violence capacity
- unknown classification

Aoto leaned back slightly against the stool.

Relaxed now.

Interested.

_“Come on then if you're hard enough,”_ he said softly.

The neuro-gauntlet hummed.

Not loud.

Hungry.

Aoto's smile widened by a fraction.

Mars smile.

The old one.

The smile from before he'd learned chairs and tea and ordinary people mattered.

_“Wouldn't be a fight anyway,”_ he murmured.

A tiny pause.

_“Just work.”_

That landed in the room like a temperature drop.

Because everybody there suddenly understood the distinction.

Not violence.

Professional extinction.

The Eversor took one step forward.

Liam set the glass down.

_“Aoto,”_ he said.

Aoto didn't look away from the assassin.

_“Take it outside.”_

Silence.

The line settled through the room carrying about six different meanings.

Not here.

Not this place.

Not that version of yourself.

Not in front of civilians.

Not after ten thousand years of progress.

And underneath all of them:

_you know better lad._

Aoto stayed still another second.

Then the smile faded.

Not completely.

Enough.

He looked back down at the racing form.

Turned a page.

_“Fair enough,”_ he said.

Across the room the Eversor's combat stimulants were still screaming for blood.

But the moment had passed.

The targeting arrays cycled once more.

Found no war.

After a while it turned.

Walked back toward the coffin.

Folded itself inside with mechanical precision.

The lid sealed.

The grav-sled hummed back to life and drifted away up the Ninth Processional toward whatever war the assassin had originally been meant for.

Silence settled back into place.

Liam wiped the counter where the water glass had been.

_“Good lad,”_ he said quietly.

This time he meant both of them.

Kenji emerged cautiously from the cellar carrying a crate of glasses.

Looked around.

_“Grand?”_

_“Grand,”_ said Liam.

Aoto turned a page.

_“Soft shite,”_ he muttered.

The jukebox played three seconds of something.

Thought better of it.

Grand.

# Tale 15 That Fecking Gate (PUBLISHED)

The thing about the steps from the lower basement was that they sounded like Kenji.

Liam had been half-listening for Kenji — napkins, he'd asked for napkins twenty minutes ago, they were going to open in forty and the tables on the left side were still bare — so when he heard footsteps on the stairs he didn't look up from the glasses he was polishing. The footsteps were wrong, he registered that distantly, too light and too even, but his brain had filed the information under *Kenji walking carefully because his hands are full* and left it there.

Then the footsteps stopped and there was a quality of stillness in the bar that had no business being there at quarter to six on a Wednesday, and Liam looked up.

She was very tall. They were always very tall. She had the elongated face and the enormous eyes and the particular quality of presence that made the air around her feel slightly edited, as if reality had been asked to make room and had done so resentfully. She was wearing something that shifted when she moved and didn't when she didn't, and she was standing in the middle of his bar floor looking at the rows of bottles with an expression of pained archaeological interest.

Liam set down the glass.

And then he understood what he'd heard, a few minutes ago, from down below. Not the gate exactly — you didn't hear the gate, you heard the *absence* of sound, a pocket of silence that swelled and then closed like a held breath released — but he'd heard something, and he'd told himself it was the pipes, and it had not been the pipes.

"That fecking gate," he said.

She turned. The enormous eyes found him with an unhurried precision that suggested she'd known exactly where he was since she came up the stairs.

"I have walked the skein between moments," she said. "I have—"

"We're not open."

"—traversed the paths that run beneath the skin of your reality, mon-keigh, through limitless time and—"

"How did you get in."

A pause. Then, with the air of someone making a considerable concession: "There is a gate. In your lower level."

"I know there's a gate in my lower level." Liam put down the cloth. "I've been meaning to do something about that gate." He looked at her. "Are you wanting a drink while you wait?"

She blinked. It was a very slow blink, like a shutter closing on something vast.

"...Wait for what?"

"For me to sort the gate. Sit down. Don't touch anything."

---

He heard Kenji on the actual stairs — real footsteps, slightly out of breath, the particular rhythm of a man carrying too many things at once — and Kenji came through the door with an armful of folded napkins and stopped.

He looked at Liam. He looked at the tall luminous ancient being sitting at the end of the bar. He looked at Liam again.

"Napkins," he said.

"Thanks," Liam said. "You're in charge."

"I'm—"

"Briefly." Liam was already moving toward the back. "Don't let her behind the bar."

---

The lower basement was cold and smelled of stone and old wood and, faintly, of something that had no name in any language Liam could speak — ozone and memory and the particular smell of elsewhere. He didn't look at the gate directly. He'd learned not to look at it directly.

He found the plywood first. Left over from the storeroom repair, three good-sized sheets of it stacked against the back wall. Then the nails, which had been accumulating on the shelf by the boiler for as long as he could remember, rolling in from nowhere the way nails did, the way things did, in a place where time was doing something slightly irregular.

Then he stood in front of the drawer.

Every establishment had a drawer. Every home, every bar, every office that had existed long enough to accumulate the sediment of daily life had one: the drawer that was not for anything in particular and therefore became the drawer for everything that had no other place. Liam's drawer was set into the little desk he used for the accounts, and it contained, as it had always contained:

A ball of string, three-quarters used.  
A stamp, commemorative, from a postal service that no longer existed.  
A wallet, old leather, holding identity papers he'd been meaning to throw out for — he didn't want to think about how long.  
A small medallion of Our Lady of Fátima that someone had given him at some point, which he kept because it seemed wrong to throw it out.  
A single battery, AA, status unknown.  
A pen that worked.  
Two pens that didn't.  
A biro that he was fairly certain worked, which he took.  
A small rectangle of blue tack, dried slightly at the edges but still, improbably, functional.

He looked at the blue tack for a moment. There was something almost moving about it. Here it was, in the late days of a millennium he couldn't fully account for, still sticky, still blue, having survived everything that had not survived.

He took it.

He found a piece of card — the back of an old spirits order, blank on one side — and sat at the desk and wrote, in the copperplate he'd learned in another life when he'd been a different kind of man doing a different kind of work:

*STAFF ONLY*  
*No entrance via this door.*  
*Please use the customer entrance or, if delivering, the basement door on the lane.*  
*Failure to comply with this notice will result in you and all members of your species being barred.*  
*— The Management*

He read it back. The implication was sufficient.

He fixed the card to the centre of the plywood with the blue tack, positioned the board against the gate — which had no edges exactly, more a quality of wrongness that his eyes had learned to route around — and nailed it in place.

Wraithbone, it turned out, took a nail.

You had to mean it. You had to use the good nails, not the ones from the boiler shelf but the box of proper hardened ones he kept for actual work. And you had to swing like you meant it, which he did, three times, four, until the plywood sat flush and solid against something that technically wasn't there.

He stepped back. The notice faced inward, into the webway, into the limitless dark between moments.

He hoped someone would read it.

---

Kenji was behind the bar when he came back up, which was as it should be, and the ancient being was sitting where he'd left her, which was also as it should be, and there was a glass in front of her that had not been there before.

"I made her a gin cocktail," Kenji said, without looking up from what he was doing. "With that elderflower stuff. The one you bought from wherever it was."

"Baltica," Liam said. "As was."

Kenji nodded as if this were a complete answer, which between the two of them it was.

"Did you sort it, boss?"

"Yes."

He put the kettle on.

---

The coffee was instant, because the machine wasn't warmed up yet and he wasn't waiting for the machine. He stood at the far end of the bar with his mug and looked at her. She had not moved. She was sitting with the stillness of something that measured time in millennia and found the concept of fidgeting philosophically incoherent. The gin cocktail was most of the way gone.

Kenji had positioned himself at the table furthest from the bar without making it obvious that this was what he was doing. Good lad.

"Right," Liam said. "Next time, use the front door."

"I came through the webway," she said. "As I explained."

"I know. Use the front door anyway."

She looked at him with the enormous eyes. "The front door does not connect to the skein."

"No," Liam agreed. "It connects to the street. Knock. Someone will let you in."

A pause, during which she appeared to genuinely consider this as a proposition.

"Do you have," she said, "those deep-fried tubers. Thinly sliced. Flavoured."

Liam looked at her.

"Crisps," he said.

"If that is what you call them."

He reached under the bar and put a bag of Tayto on the counter. Cheese and onion. She regarded the bag with the careful attention of someone encountering an artefact of uncertain provenance, then opened it with surprising practicality and took one out and ate it.

Liam drank his coffee.

He made a mental note that he needed to take another trip back soon.

# Tale 16 No Bother 

---

Cormac came in on Tuesdays.

Not always. But mostly.

He worked three levels up in the Administratum's secondary transit authority, which was the kind of job that existed in vast quantities in the 29th millennium and which required a specific type of person — detail-oriented, patient, not given to ambition, capable of finding meaning in the correct filing of things that other people found meaningless.

Cormac was good at it.

Nobody had told him this in eleven years.

His usual was a pint of stout and whatever the kitchen was doing with the prawns. He ate carefully. He read sometimes. He didn't demand conversation but he didn't refuse it either and he had the quality Liam valued most in a regular which was that he left the bar approximately the same as he'd found it.

Liam knew the shape of him without knowing the details.

That was usually enough.

---

Neoth came in on a Thursday in late autumn.

Recently unbarred. Technically. The letter had been received and considered and Liam had said nothing definitive which Neoth had correctly interpreted as provisional reinstatement pending behaviour and which Neoth was currently performing good behaviour around with the focused energy of a man who knows he is on a short leash and finds the leash interesting rather than chastening.

He was with two of his crew.

Liam watched him come in the way you watched weather.

The crew found a table. Neoth found the bar.

*Tis yourself,* Liam said.

*Liam.*

*The usual.*

Not a question. Neoth's usual had not changed in twelve thousand years. Liam had it in front of him before Neoth finished settling onto the stool.

They didn't talk much that evening. That was fine. There were kinds of company that didn't require talk and Neoth, whatever else he was, understood the bar well enough to know when Liam wasn't in the mood for the performance.

Cormac came in at half eight.

Tuesday habit on a Thursday. Liam noted it without comment. People changed their patterns for reasons. Sometimes the reasons were fine.

He put the pint on without being asked.

Cormac nodded thanks and found his usual spot and that was that.

Except.

Liam was pulling a second pint when he saw it.

Neoth had gone still in the particular way Neoth went still when a vision moved through him. Not dramatic. Not visible to anyone who didn't know what they were looking for. Just a quality of absence, like something had briefly left the building while leaving the body at the bar.

Then he came back.

And he looked at Cormac.

Just for a second.

The look of a man who has seen something and is trying to locate it in the room.

Cormac was reading. He didn't notice.

Liam noticed.

He put the pint down in front of its owner and went back to the counter and said nothing because there was nothing to say yet and because Neoth's visions were never wrong and frequently incomprehensible and the correct response was usually to wait and see what shape the thing took.

He waited.

Neoth looked away.

Ordered another drink.

Said nothing.

That was the moment. Liam would think about it later. Not obsessively. But it would come back to him the way certain moments came back — not as regret exactly, more as a fact that had edges.

Neoth saw something. Didn't know what it meant. Didn't say so.

And Cormac looked up from his book at exactly the wrong moment and found Neoth looking at him.

---

Three weeks later Cormac came in on a Tuesday with a book Liam hadn't seen before.

Thin. Printed on good paper. The kind of thing that got passed between people rather than sold in ordinary places.

He didn't mention it. Ordered his pint. Ate his prawns. Read.

Liam didn't ask.

---

Six weeks after that Cormac left the book on the bar while he went to the bathroom and Liam looked at it without touching it.

He recognised the framework immediately.

Not the specific text. The shape of it. The way certain ideas got arranged when someone had decided the conclusion first and was working backwards. The language of genuine searching used to deliver something that had already stopped searching.

And underneath it, threaded through it like a wire, the outline of someone real.

Someone who had visions. Who had seeded civilisations. Who had been in a market in Ephesus once and said something that became a religion two hundred years later.

Someone who spilled his food and blamed the table.

Cormac came back from the bathroom.

Liam said nothing.

---

*Ah he's not as impressive as all that,* Liam said one evening. Casually. Into the middle of nothing in particular.

Cormac looked up.

*Who's not.*

Liam nodded at the book.

Cormac smiled. The smile of a man who has heard this kind of thing before and incorporated it.

*You know him personally,* he said. *That's different.*

*Is it.*

*Familiarity,* Cormac said. Not unkindly. *It's natural. You see the surface.*

Liam looked at him for a moment.

*He blamed the table,* he said. *When he spilled his food. Gave it a whole speech.*

Cormac nodded slowly.

*Even in the smallest moments,* he said, *you can see it working through him.*

Liam picked up the cloth.

Went back to the glasses.

---

Neoth came in the following Thursday.

Cormac was there.

Liam watched Neoth clock him across the room. Watched the four percent move across his face. The sheepishness that was as close to a full apology as Neoth got.

Neoth knew.

Liam could see he knew.

And he watched Neoth decide, in the space of approximately two seconds, that a small gesture would be sufficient. A nod. A look that could be interpreted as acknowledgment without requiring him to say the thing that needed saying which was: *you're in my vision and I don't know what it means and it doesn't mean what you think.*

The nod happened.

Cormac received it like a man receiving something he had been waiting for without knowing he was waiting.

Neoth looked away and ordered his drink and performed not noticing with the skill of someone who had been performing things for longer than most civilisations.

Liam put the glass down in front of him without a word.

Neoth had the grace not to say anything either.

---

Cormac stopped coming in on Tuesdays.

He came in on other nights. Thursdays, sometimes. Wednesdays. The pattern changed and kept changing and Liam watched it change and knew what it meant which was that the bar had become a place he came to for a specific reason rather than a place he came to.

He was quieter. Not sad exactly. The opposite of sad in the way that was sometimes worse — the settled quality of a person who has found an answer and stopped asking questions.

He still ordered the same pint.

Still ate the prawns carefully.

Left the bar the same as he found it.

Liam said nothing.

There was a moment, sometime in those weeks, where something might have gotten through. Liam thought about it afterward. Not the right words exactly — he wasn't sure there were right words — but a different angle. Something true about Neoth that wasn't the soup. Something that acknowledged what was real about what Cormac had found while opening a window in the framework.

He didn't take the moment.

Miscalculated the distance.

Thought there was more time.

---

The last Tuesday was ordinary.

Pint. Prawns. The book, though he didn't read it that night. He talked a bit. About the job, the filing, a colleague who had started attending the same meetings he was attending and who he thought might be ready to understand.

Liam listened.

Really listened.

The way he always did.

At closing time Cormac put on his coat and picked up the book and paused at the bar.

*Same again next week,* he said.

*I'll have it ready,* Liam said.

He didn't come back.

---

Kenji cleared the stool the following Tuesday without being asked.

He didn't say anything.

Liam wiped the counter where the glass had been.

Outside on the Tenth Processional Way the pilgrims moved in their thousands toward things they believed in with the specific energy of people who had found the answer and stopped asking questions.

The jukebox didn't play.

Liam went back to the glasses.

---

Neoth came in the Thursday after.

He sat at the bar.

Ordered his usual.

For a long time neither of them said anything.

Then Neoth said:

*I saw him in the vision.*

*I know.*

*I didn't know what it meant.*

*I know.*

Silence.

*I should have said so.*

Liam polished the glass.

*Aye,* he said.

*You should.*

He put the glass down.

Picked up another one.

The bar continued around them.

# Tale 17 The Questioning Goddess (published)

Kenji noticed the Custodian first.

Not unusual.

Constantin Valdor had been coming in for years. Not regularly. Nothing involving the Captain-General of the Legio Custodes could reasonably be described as regular. But often enough. Enough that Liam had a tab. Enough that Aoto knew his drink. Enough that nobody particularly cared anymore.

The woman walking beside him was new.

Very tall. Very armoured. Carrying herself like somebody who had spent most of her life being informed she was important and had stopped noticing the informing because it had simply become the texture of existence. The room resolved around her the way rooms did. The students moved without knowing why. The old couple angled slightly. Even Ide'abrique of the Whorled Blade looked up from her dominoes for a fraction of a second before returning to the game.

Kenji watched her read the bar the way she'd read everything else in her life. Cataloguing. Ordering. Expecting resolution.

The front door opened.

Aoto looked up from his stool.

For a long moment the Thunder Warrior and the Captain-General regarded one another across the threshold. The spear was already in Valdor's hand. The good one. The one with history in it. Aoto looked at it. Valdor looked at Aoto.

_"Back again, lad?"_

_"Well spotted."_

_"Still gold, I see."_

Valdor held out the spear.

_"Still alive, I see, Sargent."_

_"Doing me best."_

Aoto took it. The same grip. The same economy. He racked it behind the door with a demons warhammer and what appeared to be an Archon's skinning loops and something wrapped in oilcloth that nobody had claimed in four hundred years. Tore a ticket. Handed it over.

Valdor took it without looking at it.

Neither man spoke during this.

Hypatia's notebook was open before she crossed the threshold.

_"Another one?"_ said Aoto, nodding towards her.

_"Another one,"_ said Valdor.

Aoto considered her with the particular attention of a man whose professional assessment had been accurate for forty thousand years.

_"Weapons?"_

She looked at him.

_"I have questions."_

_"Aye,"_ said Aoto. _"Heard that. They can hurt"_

A pause.

_"Is that a problem?"_

Aoto thought about it with the seriousness the question deserved.

_"For him,"_ he said, nodding towards Liam inside. _"Not for me."_

He opened the door.

_"Gwan in then."_

---

Inside, Liam looked up from the counter.

_"Janey, Constantin."_

Valdor closed his eyes briefly.

_"Good evening, Liam."_

_"You, Neoth and Mal are building a fierce collection up there."_

_"It's not a collection."_

_"No?"_

_"No."_

_"Looks like one. What are ye at now, 11? 12? "_

Liam finally noticed the newcomer. She was standing just inside the door taking in the room with the focused attention of someone conducting a survey. The students arguing over baseball. The old couple sharing peanuts. Ide'abrique replacing a domino with surgical precision. Kenji moving between tables with a tray. The jukebox silent. The Guinness sign in its correct position. The torii beyond.

Her pen was already moving.

_"Hello Miss."_

She stopped writing.

The expression that crossed her face was the expression of someone who had been She Who Uncovers The Truth and Warrior Lady of the Plains and Conqueror of the Seventeen Systems of Albaracht for long enough that _hello Miss_ had simply ceased to be a category of thing that happened to her.

_"Hello."_

_"Drink?"_

A pause.

_"Yes. I drink"_

_"What'll you have?"_

She looked around the room again. Slower this time.

_"What do you recommend?"_

_"Pint and crisps."_

The pause this time was longer.

_"Those are not the same category of thing."_

_"No."_

_"Then why are they grouped together?"_

_"Because they belong together."_

Kenji, passing with a tray, registered this exchange and immediately understood the shape of the evening.

---

The menu arrived.

She read it. Then read it again.

_"What is Tayto?"_

Liam blinked with the expression of a man genuinely concerned by the answer.

_"You've never had Tayto?"_

_"No."_

_"Janey. Sheltered life, wha"_

He looked at her the way a doctor looks at a patient presenting with something entirely avoidable.

_"Right. That's fixable."_

The notebook appeared.

Valdor, already seated with his Radler, swore very quietly. 

She wrote 

**1. What is Tayto?**

_"Cheese and onion,"_ said Liam.

_"That does not answer the question."_

_"No, but it's where you start."_

**2. Why are there seventeen varieties?**

_"Cheese and onion,"_ said Liam again.

_"You said that."_

_"Still true."_

Five minutes later:

**5. What is a King?**

_"Crisp."_

**6. What is buffalo?**

_"Flavour."_

**7. Kimchi?"**

_"Flavour."_

**8. Shallot and cheddar?**

_"Flavour."_

The notebook gained pages.

Kenji passed with a tray. She pointed.

_"What is he?"_

_"Kenji."_

_"No. What is he?"_

Kenji considered this with appropriate gravity.

_" I'm Staff."s_

And continued walking.

_"That wasn't an answer."_

_"It was to Kenji,"_ said Liam.

The notebook acquired another page.

---

Twenty minutes later she noticed Ide'abrique.

The Drukhari Archon placed a domino. The pensioner opposite frowned. Placed another. The Archon winced, then nodded this with the serenity of someone still playing well within herself.

_"There is a Drukhari Archon playing dominoes."_

_"Aye. Ide'abrique of the Whorled Blade."_

The Archon raised a hand politely without looking up.

_"Why is she here?"_

_"Dominoes."_

_"She is a Drukhari Archon."_

_"Fierce good at them too."_

_"That is not an explanation."_

_"It's a better explanation than most things get."_

The notebook continued.

Then she reached the wall.

_"Why is there a hole in the plaster?"_

_"Darts."_

_"That is not dart damage."_

_"Valdor."_

The entire room looked at Valdor.

Valdor drank steadily.

_"It was an accident."_

_"How?"_

_"Momentum."_

_"Momentum explains nothing."_

_"It explains a hole."_

The notebook was becoming substantial.

---

Then came Longford.

_"What is Longford?"_

The students stopped arguing. The pensioner looked interested. Even Ide'abrique glanced up.

_"A county,"_ said Liam.

_"Of what?"_

_"Longford."_

_"That is circular."_

_"Aye."_

She turned to Valdor.

_"What is Longford?"_

Valdor looked into his pint for a long moment.

_"I know where it was."_

_"Was?"_

_"It's complicated."_

_"Everything is complicated. That is not an answer."_

_"No,"_ said Valdor. _"It isn't."_

She turned back to Liam.

_"What is Longford?"_

Liam was quiet for a moment. Just wiping the counter. The cloth moving in the same slow circle it always moved in.

_"It's in me heart,"_ he said.

The pen stopped.

She looked at him.

He wiped the counter.

She looked at the notebook.

At the pen.

At the blank space where the answer should go.

The notebook stayed open. But the pen didn't move. There was no category for that answer. No column it fit into. No question it answered in any way she could write down and yet it was the most complete answer she had received since walking through the door and she knew it and couldn't explain why she knew it.

Valdor looked at his drink.

Question Thirty-One required an entire page and still wasn't finished.

---

_"Why is the Emperor barred?"_

That one had nearly caused a diplomatic incident.

_"How can the Emperor be barred?"_

_"Very easily in his case. I'v had practice"_

_"He is the Emperor."_

_"Aye."_

_"Of mankind."_

_"Aye."_

_"Then how?"_

_"Door's over there, Neoth. That was it mostly"_

Aoto waved cheerfully through the door.

_"Professionally."_  Aoto called

 **37. Publican claims authority to bar Emperor of Mankind. Doorman appears to consider this routine.**

She stared at what she'd written.

_"This is not a normal bar."_

_"No,"_ said Liam.

_"What is it?"_

_"A bar."_

_"You just said—"_

_"Not normal doesn't mean not a bar."_

The notebook nearly ran out of pages.

---

By the second hour Valdor had stopped looking worried and started looking resigned. He had a second Radler.

By the third hour she had slowed.

Not physically. The questions were still coming. But there was something different in the cadence of them. A fraction longer between observation and notation. The pen moving slightly less certainly.

Liam noticed.

He looked at Valdor.

Valdor looked back.

Liam reached under the counter.

_"Here love."_

The unlabeled bottle appeared. The small glass.

_"Try that."_

_"What is it?"_

_"Poitín."_

_"What is poitín?"_

_"Spuds."_

_"And?"_

_"Water."_

_"And?"_

_"Time."_

_"Time is not an ingredient."_

_"Everything's an ingredient if you leave it long enough."_

_"That is nonsense."_

_"Aye."_

_"You agree?"_

_"Doesn't stop it being true."_

**58. Publican claims chronology may function as ingredient. Agreed this was nonsense. Maintained position regardless.**

She drank.

The room waited.

Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen.

_"...oh."_

_"There it is,"_ said Aoto through the window.

_"There what is?"_

_"First hit."_

_"I didn't feel a first hit."_

_"You did."_

_"I didn't."_

_"That's the first hit."_

She stared at the glass with new professional interest.

_"Another."_

Valdor straightened slightly.

_"Liam."_

_"What?"_

_"Doubles?"_

_"Ah she's a big girl Constantin. She can handle it. And if she can't you can carry her."_

_"I can hear you,"_ said Hypatia.

_"Aye, good"_ said Liam, pouring.

The second glass went the way of the first.

She sat very still for a moment.

Then held out the glass.

The third measure went down slower. More considered. The way you drink something when you're paying attention to what it's doing rather than what it tastes like.

Valdor watched her face.

_"Liam."_

_"She's grand."_

_"Liam."_

_"Primarch Constantin. Strong out"_

_"That,"_ said Valdor, _"is exactly what concerns me."_

The notebook was still open. The pen was in her hand. But she was looking at the room differently now. Not cataloguing. Something else. Something that looked uncomfortably like the beginning of a much larger question forming behind her eyes.

_"I,"_ she said carefully, _"am She Who Uncovers The Truth."_

_"Right, the notebook"_ said Liam.

_"The Questioning Goddess of Albaracht."_

_"Can see that ."_

_"Warrior Lady of the Plains."_

_"Oh yeah."_

_"Conqueror. Philosopher. I have dismantled seventeen religious systems and rebuilt four of them on more structurally sound premises and I have never—"_

Kenji passed, and coughed.

Didn't stop. Didn't look up. Tray in hand, cloth over shoulder, moving between tables with the unhurried efficiency of a man whose family had been doing this for forty thousand years.

_"Too much of that,"_ he said, nodding at the bottle without breaking stride, _"and it won't  just be the crisps you'll be questioning."_

He disappeared into the back.

She stopped mid-title.

Stared after him.

The notebook closed.

Slowly. Deliberately. With the care of someone making a decision rather than finishing a task.

Valdor looked at the closed notebook.

Then at Liam.

Liam was already wiping the counter.

_"I have conquered worlds,"_ she said, quieter now.

_"Fair play,"_ said Liam.

_"I have been worshipped as a goddess."_

_"Bit much, no?"_

_"I have never,"_ she said, _"been in a place I could not resolve."_

Liam set down the cloth.

Looked at her properly for the first time since she'd walked in.

_"No,"_ he said. Not unkindly. _"Well."_

He picked the cloth back up.

_"You're welcome back whenever."_

She sat with that for a while.

The jukebox didn't play. The students argued. Ide'abrique won again, shook hands with the pensioner and left, loops collected.. Aoto outside turned his face up to something that wasn't quite the hive air and breathed it in slowly, the way a man breathes when breathing is still a thing worth noticing.

Valdor finished his Radler.

_"I should probably—"_

_"One more,"_ she said.

Valdor sat back down.

Liam already had the glass.

_"What is a spice bag?"_ she asked.

_"Kitchen knows."_

_"What are prawns?"_

_"Kitchen knows that too."_

_"Do you know?"_

_"I knew... these, I defer to the Kitchen."_

_"Then why sell them?"_

_"They taste damn good."_

The notebook stayed closed.

That was new.

Outside, Aoto reached under the counter of his little station and produced the ticket. Looked at it. Looked at the spear on the rack. Looked at the door.

Put the ticket back.

Picked up his book.

The evening continued.

#  TALE 18 Nothing Useful (CHECKS NOT DONE NOT PUBLISHED ) 

Cormac Lally came in with a company badge clipped to his jacket and Athlone still in his vowels.

He stood just inside the door for a moment, checking the room against whatever brief he had been given. Counter. Stools. Old sign. Back shelves. Floorboards darkened by spill, polish, weather, and time.

Then he smiled.

"Heard about this spot."

Liam looked up from the glass.

"Did you now."

"Apparently it's been in your family for centuries."

Liam looked at the Guinness sign, then at the till, then at the man from Athlone.

"Eh. Yeah. Sorta. "

Cormac took that down.

That was the first bad sign.

He sat at the bar and placed a slim folder beside his elbow. The folder had a logo on it: three interlocking rings, green on silver. Under that, smaller print.

HIBERNIAN HERITAGE HOSPITALITY GROUP.

Liam read it once and decided against reading it again.

"What'll you have."

"Pint, please."

"Good man."

Cormac watched the pour with professional attention.

"We're putting together a concept."

"Are ye."

"Not a gimmick."

"God forbid."

"That's actually why I'm here. Its a bar. We're trying to avoid all that nonsense. No plastic leprechauns. No fake turf fire smell pumped through vents. No staff forced into waistcoats unless the local manager insists, and I'm trying to get that killed."

"I quite like a waistcoat."

Cormac brightened.

"So you see the problem."

"I see waistcoats are a problem got ya."

The pint settled.

Cormac opened the folder. Pages inside. Renderings. A bar front under a red Martian sky. Brass letters. Dark wood. A painted harp. A row of stools occupied by small smiling figures with the posture of consultants.

"First site would be Tharsis Lower. Second probably Utopia. Third depends on the self-rule vote."

Liam set the pint down.

"Tharsis Lower."

"Good transport links. High settler density."

"Suppose the atmosphere would be better there alright."

Cormac looked up.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing. Go on."

Cormac went on.

"Two years. Maybe less if the settlement council gets its way. There'll be a real market. People looking for continuity. Identity. A sense of rootedness."

Liam wiped the counter.

"Mm."

Cormac took a drink.

"Sean's is still going strong in Athlone."

"Good."

"And the Brazen Head of course"

"ah nice for them"

"You ever been?"

"Once or twice over the years, ya."

Cormac smiled, unsure if that was a joke.

"We want to do it right."

"There's the trick."

"That's why I wanted to pick your brains."

"You can try, whats left of em."

Cormac clicked his pen.

"What makes a bar last?"

Liam put the cloth over his shoulder.

"Open on time."

Cormac waited.

Liam did not add anything.

"Right," Cormac said, writing. "Operational reliability."

"Clean toilets."

Cormac wrote that too. " sanitary facilities"

"Obviously."

"Not obvious to everyone."

"No. Fair point." Cormac looked at the next page. "In terms of atmosphere?"

"Don't put the speakers too near the old lads."

"Demographic-specific acoustic zoning," Cormac muttered, pen flying.

Liam watched the pen.

"Or anyone who looks like they came in to be left alone."

Cormac looked up. "Quiet zones?"

"No."

Cormac crossed something out.

Liam let him.

"What about authenticity?"

"Irish people."

"What if most of the customers aren't Irish . Like tis Mars we're talking about?"

"Then don't lie to them."

Cormac looked up.

"That's good."

"It's not good. It's just not lying."

The front door opened. Two students came in, shook rain from their sleeves, and took the small table near the window. Liam lifted two fingers toward them. One lifted two back.

Cormac followed the exchange.

"Regulars."

"Sometimes."

"How do you build that?"

"Remember what they drink."

"And beyond that?"

"Remember when not to yap."

Cormac wrote slower.

Rain ran down the glass in crooked lines. Outside, the street carried on being Kyoto, busy and indifferent.

Cormac turned another page. "Food. We're looking at a reduced menu. Familiar, portable, scalable. Stew, soda bread, maybe seafood if logistics allow."

"If logistics allow."

"Mars is complicated."

"So is a good ray and chips."

"We were thinking the fish might be symbolic rather than central."

Liam put down the glass.

"Sure lad, if you've ever been in a pub you know. But I suppose corporate can't work on vibes, can it."

Cormac wrote that down.

He wrote it down as though it were advice.

"What about decor?"

"If you hang a jersey, know who wore it."

"We were thinking county flags."

"Know who lost under them."

Cormac looked at him over the top of the folder.

"That's a little bleak."

"It's sport."

Another note.

Cormac's pages were filling now. They would be useless later. Liam could see that from the shape of them.

"What about story?" Cormac said.

"What about it."

"Every place needs one."

"No it doesn't."

"For investors it does."

"That's different."

Cormac held the pen above the paper.

"What would you tell them?"

"To invest or don't."

"That's all?"

"That's all."

Cormac sat back. He had the expression of a man trying to decide whether a locked door was decorative.

"Mars is going to be different," he said. "Once self-rule comes in. People will want places that feel like home."

Liam took the empty glass from the student who had come to the bar without him seeing. He filled it, took payment, and gave the change without looking at the till.

When the student went back to the window table, Liam said, "Some of them won't be able to get home."

Cormac's pen moved.

Liam saw it and regretted the sentence.

"That's the pitch," Cormac said.

"It's not a pitch."

"No, but it could be." He was already somewhere else. The folder. The renderings. Tharsis Lower under a red sky with brass letters and dark wood and a row of stools and someone behind the counter who remembered when not to ask. "That's actually very usable."

Liam said nothing.

Cormac closed the folder after that. He finished his pint. Paid exactly. Tipped too much, but not offensively.

At the door he turned back.

"So. No plastic shillelaghs."

"No plastic shillelaghs."

"Clean toilets."

"Always."

"Quieter speakers."

"Usually."

Cormac smiled.

"And remember when not to ask."

Liam nodded once.

Cormac put the folder under his arm and stepped into the rain. He had the walk of a man who had gotten what he came for.

He had gotten nothing he came for.

After closing, Liam opened the book and wrote his name.

CORMAC LALLY. ATHLONE. MARS PUBS.

He paused, then added:

Gave him nothing.

The ink sat wet on the page.

Liam looked at it for a while, drew a line through nothing, and closed the book.

---

# TALE 19 The New Kitchen (published)

Kenji had the side room swept before noon and the kitchen vents open because Liam had said the air was wrong.

That usually meant customers. Ordinary customers brought coats, thirst, bad jokes, and the smell of rain off the street. These ones came with pressure. The glassware ticked on the shelves before the door opened. The old cedar frame between the rooms gave a small dry sound, like timber settling in winter, though the day was warm.

Kenji put the broom behind the counter and checked the knives.

Liam was polishing a glass.

"Company?" Kenji said.

"Likely."

"How bad?"

"Ah shore."

That was no use. It was also enough.

The doorman outside shifted on his stool. The stool creaked once. He had been sitting there since before opening, broad hands folded over his stomach, looking at the street as if the street had made promises it might not keep.

The front door opened and Neoth came in as if he had recently acquired a boardroom and intended to make it everyone's problem.

The suit was dark, narrow, and expensive in a way that pretended not to be. His hair had the arrangement of men who paid other men to call vanity presentation. He wore no visible weapon. That made Kenji less comfortable, not more.

Behind him came two abhuman heavies with shoulders like door lintels and hands held politely in front of them.

The politeness did not help.

One had a jaw reinforced in dark metal. The other had eyes that measured exits and kept returning to the doorman.

The doorman moved one step sideways.

"Just yourself."

Neoth smiled.

"They're with me."

"That's the difficulty."

"They're security."

"They're weapons."

The larger heavy looked down at him. The doorman was not small. Beside the two of them he looked locally made.

Kenji had seen Yakuza men come through once, years earlier, back when the bar was new enough that fools still mistook quiet for weakness. Those men had worn good suits and carried themselves like knives wrapped in manners. These two made them look like accountants.

Neoth glanced toward Liam.

"Is this necessary?"

Liam set the glass down.

"Ah mate. Sure they're weapons themselves."

The metal-jawed one looked at Liam, then at the floor, then at the door. No one reached for anything. That was the point. There was nothing to reach for.

Neoth adjusted one cuff.

"This is a private matter."

"Then they can be private outside," Liam said.

The doorman did not move.

After a moment, the larger heavy stepped back. The metal-jawed one followed. He paused at the threshold.

"No trouble," Liam said.

The heavy nodded once and left.

The door closed.

The room got smaller in a better way.

Neoth took the nearest table without being invited. He did it beautifully, which made it worse. He looked around the bar with the mild dissatisfaction of a man pretending he had not missed it.

"The usual?" Liam said.

"Please."

That made Kenji look up.

Liam poured from the middle shelf. Not the good shelf. Neoth noticed. His mouth tightened, then corrected itself.

He accepted the glass and turned it once on the table.

"Good to see the place unchanged."

"It changes."

"Does it?"

"Prices."

Neoth smiled.

"Inflation is a tax on patience."

"Is that what you're doing now?"

"Tax?"

"Patience."

Neoth leaned back. The chair complained under him, then stopped.

"I mean it. Human history is beginning to resolve. Patterns. Causes. The same errors in better clothes."

"Mmm."

"I know enough."

"Everyone does after two drinks."

Neoth looked pleased with himself.

"I know everything that matters."

Liam leaned one elbow on the counter.

"In human history?"

Neoth sipped.

"If you like."

"Ya do in yer hoop."

"I do so."

"Everything that matters."

"Yes."

Liam nodded once.

"Longford starting team. Nineteen seventy-five All-Ireland Senior B Hurling Championship quarter-final."

Neoth blinked.

The pause was small.

Kenji saw Liam see it.

"Eh," Neoth said.

Liam reached for the bottle.

"Wait. Hang on."

The drink reached the line in the glass. Liam stopped the pour and slid it across.

"Take your time."

Neoth did not touch the glass.

Outside, one of the abhuman guards shifted his weight. The sound came through the wall as a soft pressure in the floorboards.

Neoth looked at the counter, then at the Guinness sign, then at Liam.

"Stumped," he said. "Fair go."

"Good man."

"Don't suppose you know."

Liam did not smile.

That was how Kenji knew it was going to be bad.

"Pat Connellan in goal. Mickey Reilly right corner-back. Seamus Donohoe full-back. Brendan Casey left corner. Tomás Murtagh right half. Declan Barden centre. Noel Flynn on the left. Midfield was Christy Farrell and Joe Casserly, though Casserly shouldn't have started with the hamstring the way it was."

Neoth looked up.

Liam continued.

"Half-forward line: Padraig Gilmore, Liam Tiernan, Eamonn Fox. Full-forward: Sean McKeon, Barry Hanley, Dessie Ward. Hanley was moved in after the first ten, which everyone knew would happen except apparently the selectors."

Kenji did not know whether any of this was true.

That did not matter. Liam spoke with the cold authority of a man reciting a debt.

"The bench was Kevin O'Hara, Martin Creegan, Jimmy Hession, Fintan Blake, and young O'Rourke from Drumlish, who should've got ten minutes and didn't. Selectors were Fr. McGarry, Paul Shanley, and Mattie Quinn, who had no business near a team sheet after the row in Granard. Water boys were the two Devine lads. One of them spilled half the bucket. Referee was from Offaly and blind on the left side."

The jukebox clicked once.

It did not play.

Neoth sat very still.

Liam put the bottle back.

"The man with the van was Peter Flood. Van wouldn't start after. They had to push it."

Neoth exhaled through his nose.

"I concede."

"Good."

"A narrow point."

"Still a point."

"I said everything that matters."

"You did."

Neoth glanced down at the untouched drink.

"All right. It matters."

"Good."

"Stake?"

"You said everything."

"I did."

"So whatever I want."

Neoth made the mistake of relaxing.

"Within reason."

"A new kitchen."

Kenji's hand tightened on the shelf.

The kitchen worked. It had bad corners, one burner that needed coaxing, a prep table with a dip in the left side, and an autochef that had started dropping onions into tea if service ran past midnight. It was still their kitchen. It had ways.

Neoth glanced toward the back.

"A kitchen."

"Aye."

"You could ask for anything."

"I did."

"Ships exist."

"I've seen ships."

"Power."

"Have a bar."

"Information."

"Know the Longford team."

Neoth looked at him for a while, then smiled.

That smile put Kenji off his lunch.

"Leave it with me," Neoth said.

"No glowing."

"No glowing."

"No chanting."

"Liam."

"No priests."

Neoth lifted both hands.

"A kitchen."

"And if it has opinions, keep them."

Neoth's smile improved.

That was worse.

He rose from the table and put the glass back on the counter without having drunk it.

"Tomorrow."

"That quick."

"I know people."

"You are people."

"More than I was."

Liam picked up the glass, smelled it, and tipped the drink into the sink.

Neoth watched that.

"Goodbye, Liam."

"Mind yourself."

"Always."

"No, you don't."

Neoth said nothing to that. He opened the door. The abhuman heavies fell in behind him on the street like doors closing in a corridor.

The doorman came in after a minute.

"Corporate," he said.

Liam put the glass in the rack.

"Trying it on."

"Didn't fit."

"No."

Kenji looked toward the kitchen.

"Do we need a new kitchen?"

The autochef chose that moment to drop a single peeled onion into the clean teapot.

Liam looked at it.

"Aye."

---

The next morning, Kenji had the side entrance open before Liam came downstairs.

He did not know why. The latch had stuck twice, and the delivery lane was narrow, and the old crate of bottles by the dry store needed moving if anyone brought in flour. These were reasons. They were not the reason.

The reason was that Liam had said, "We'll have something coming."

Something.

Not a delivery.

Something.

At ten minutes past nine, two delivery lads appeared in the lane with a covered unit on a suspension trolley. Behind them came a polished man in a pale coat who had never lifted anything heavier than responsibility and had probably delegated that.

The lads were broad, sweating, and practical. They looked at the side door, the step, the angle of the passage, and the kitchen turn.

The first one said, "We'll need that shelf off."

Kenji liked him immediately.

The polished man smiled.

"Delivery for Liam."

"Invoice?" Kenji said.

The polished man offered a folder sealed in black wax.

Kenji looked at the seal.

"No."

"No?"

"I'm not taking that."

"It identifies the consignment."

"It looks like it identifies a hanging."

The first delivery lad coughed into his fist.

Liam came up behind Kenji.

"Morning."

The polished man straightened. Not much. Enough.

"Sir. Replacement culinary control and provisioning core, per arrangement."

Liam looked past him at the covered unit.

"That the kitchen?"

"The kitchen remains substantially yours. This replaces the existing autochef regulator and integrates with the present service infrastructure."

"Plain."

The polished man adjusted his folder.

"Swap out the old autochef, slot this in, and you'll notice an improvement."

The tarp made a small sound.

The polished man continued without looking at it.

"Integrated matter transformation capacity. Local substrate handling. Adaptive menu logic. Strong seafood bias, I'm told."

"I didn't ask for seafood," Liam said.

"No, sir."

"I asked for a kitchen."

"This will improve the kitchen."

The tarp sniffed.

"Allegedly."

The polished man closed his eyes for half a second.

Kenji looked at Liam.

Liam looked delighted.

"Bring it in," Liam said.

The delivery lads took the side door off its lower hinge because the trolley would not clear the turn. They asked before doing it. They laid the screws in a saucer, not on the counter. That mattered.

The covered unit came in on soft wheels that did not squeak. The trolley hummed against the stone floor. When it passed the dry store, the jars on the lower shelf clicked together. Nutmeg, mace, pepper, dried citrus peel. The tarp shifted near the nutmeg and went still.

Kenji noticed.

So did Liam.

The first delivery lad pointed with his chin.

"Old regulator there?"

"In the autochef bay," Kenji said.

"Power?"

"Off at the wall and under the sink."

"Both?"

"Both if you want to keep your eyebrows."

The lad nodded.

"Good kitchen."

"Mostly."

The old autochef bay sat under the prep counter like a stubborn animal. It had been installed before Kenji's father worked here, repaired by three men who had died, and cursed by everyone. Its regulator panel was brown with heat, grease, and age. A handwritten label above the tea setting said: no onions.

The second delivery lad read it.

"Onions?"

"After midnight," Kenji said.

"Ah."

No more explanation was needed.

They took the old regulator out first. It came free with a complaint of rusted screws, old grease, and one blue spark that made the second lad swear at it by manufacturer. Kenji approved of that too.

The polished man stood near the side door, careful not to touch anything. He smelled faintly of starch, rain, and sealed rooms.

Liam leaned against the prep counter.

"You know Neoth long?"

The polished man smiled.

"I am not authorised to discuss internal association structures."

"That long."

The man's smile stayed where it had been put.

The delivery lads set the old regulator on the floor. It ticked as it cooled.

"What happens to that?" Kenji said.

The first lad shrugged.

"Scrap."

The old regulator clicked once and dropped a final onion into the empty tea cradle.

No one spoke.

Liam pointed at it.

"Out."

The lads carried it into the lane.

The new core went in badly.

It was the right size until it was near the housing. Then it was wrong by a finger width. The first lad blamed the bracket. The second blamed the wall. Kenji blamed the unit.

"I can hear you," the tarp said.

The first lad stopped with a spanner in his hand.

The polished man said, "Continue."

The lads continued.

They did not ask why the delivery spoke. Men like that survived by knowing which ignorance was paid for. They swapped the lower bracket, cut a feed line, capped another, and fitted a new port with a ceramic collar that was cold enough to mist in the warm kitchen.

The smell under the tarp was not oil or metal. It was ozone and old salt.

Kenji stepped back.

Kenji wiped his hands on his apron and reached toward the left brace.

"No, not there," the tarp said.

Kenji stopped.

The first lad stopped.

The second lad did not stop in time and banged his knuckles off the housing.

"Bollocks."

"I said not there."

"You said it to him."

"I assumed local competence would distribute."

The delivery lad stared at the covered unit.

Liam coughed once.

The polished man had gone very still.

Kenji moved his hand to the right brace.

"Yes," the tarp said.

"Thank you," Kenji said.

"Acceptable."

The first lad tightened the brace.

When the unit finally seated, every light in the kitchen dimmed once.

The old autochef rail clicked.

The fryer pilot went blue.

The teapot cradle retracted, extended, and retracted again without onion.

Kenji marked that in his head.

The polished man handed Liam the folder again.

"Operating notes."

Liam did not take it.

"Liability transfer," Kenji said.

The polished man smiled at him.

"Informal guidance."

The delivery lads were already packing their tools. Too fast now. Good workers still became fast when they wanted distance from the job.

The first lad gave Kenji a look.

Not warning. Not apology.

Recognition.

Then the two of them took the suspension trolley and left by the side door.

The polished man remained.

That was when the unit spoke clearly.

"Are they gone?"

The polished man's smile held.

"Installation is complete."

"That wasn't what I asked."

Liam looked at the unit.

"What are you hiding from?"

The polished man said, "The platform has certain legacy encumbrances."

The unit made a rude sound through three vents.

"Creditors," it said.

Kenji folded his arms.

"What kind?"

"I have served as executive chef to seventeen noble houses. I can produce a banquet for one thousand persons in any of two hundred and thirty-two Terran and associated cuisines. I have cooked for—"

"Can you do ray and chips."

KIT's vents stilled.

"I can produce—"

"Prawns? Spice bag maybe?"

A pause.

"Men of Iron," KIT said. "They have plasma torches."

The kitchen held that for a moment. The fryer oil ticked in its basin. Somewhere in the wall, the old pipe knocked once.

Liam turned to the polished man.

"Did Neoth know?"

The polished man looked at the folder.

"Neoth's position is that the debt is disputed."

"Right," Liam said. "So he knew."

"The note is not enforceable under any recognised human jurisdiction."

The unit vented cold air.

Kenji said, "That means it is enforceable."

The polished man adjusted his sleeve.

"It means the matter is complex."

"By hammers?" Liam said.

"And a plasma torch."

Liam looked at the folder again.

"Was that in there?"

"In summary form," the polished man said.

"Take it with you."

"Sir, I must leave the documentation."

"No."

The polished man placed the folder on the prep table and stepped back.

Kenji watched the movement. Too clean. Too final.

"You're leaving now," Kenji said.

"My task is complete."

"I bet it is."

The man paused at the side door.

"Neoth asked me to say that this resolves the wager."

Liam smiled.

"Did he."

"Yes."

"Tell him the prawns will decide."

The unit gave a tiny hopeful click.

The polished man left.

When the side door shut behind him, the kitchen breathed differently.

The doorman came in through the service passage. He looked at the new core, then at Liam.

"Problem?"

"Likely."

The doorman looked at the unit.

"No noise."

The unit's lights dimmed.

"I am operating within acceptable acoustic parameters."

"No noise," the doorman said again.

The unit shut two vents.

Liam tapped the designation plate on the new core.

"What do we call you?"

The unit paused.

"My designation is KX-slash-seventeen-alpha-lima-mu culinary substrate autonomous provisioning and adaptive nutritional reconciliation engine, series bluewater nine point seven seven point three, bonded ledger reference—"

"No," Liam said.

"I had not finished."

"You had."

"That is an incomplete designation."

"I saw a show once. Talking car. Great craic. The Hoff."

No one spoke.

"Fun show," Liam said.

The unit waited.

"KIT," Liam said. "That's your cover name."

"That is not my designation."

"It is now."

"On what authority?"

"Mine."

"Are you a recognised naming authority?"

"I own the kitchen."

The unit processed this. A small light near the service face flickered amber.

"I dispute the premise."

"Grand."

The doorman looked at Liam.

"KIT?"

"Talking car."

"Ah."

Kenji did not ask. That was one of the first rules of the place. If Liam mentioned some old thing with the tone of a man touching a coin in his pocket, you let it pass.

Liam pointed at the prep counter.

"What can you do?"

KIT's lights steadied.

"Prawns."

Liam said nothing.

"Fresh ones," KIT added.

The air changed.

It came from the service face first: salt, cold water, shell, weed, something clean and sharp that had no business being in a kitchen three streets from a dry summer road. Kenji looked down.

A tray slid out.

On it lay Dublin Bay prawns, bright and impossible, their shells wet as if lifted from a morning boat.

Nobody touched them.

KIT sniffed.

"Acceptable?"

Liam picked one up, inspected it, and set it back down.

"Aye."

The doorman leaned closer.

One prawn twitched.

He leaned back.

"Fresh."

KIT's amber light warmed toward green.

"I said."

Kenji reached for the ledger.

Under deliveries he wrote: kitchen core, disputed.

Then he crossed out disputed.

Under kitchen he wrote: KIT.

He paused with the pencil on the page.

The new machine made a small satisfied click.

Kenji crossed out kitchen.

Under staff he wrote: KIT.

Then he added: watch closely.

Liam put the prawn back on the tray and wiped his fingers on a cloth.

"No betting with customers."

KIT said nothing.

"No betting with staff."

A vent opened.

"No betting with yourself."

The vent closed.

The doorman nodded once, satisfied with some private measure of danger.

Kenji shut the ledger.

From the bar, the jukebox clicked.

It did not play.

KIT's service light flickered.

Liam turned his head.

"KIT."

"I did nothing."

"No one said you did."

"Good."

Kenji looked at the spice shelf. The nutmeg jar had moved half an inch toward the edge.

He moved it back.

KIT sniffed.

Service started at noon.

# Tale 20 The Tyranid's Menu (published)

## The Ruling

"Boss."

Liam looked up from the glass.

"Hm?"

Aoto stood in the doorway.

"Need a ruling."

"Go on."

"There's a Tyranid outside."

Liam waited.

Aoto waited.

"Well?"

"Just the one."

The glass stopped moving.

"Just one?"

"Aye."

"There's usually a lot more of them from what I understand."

"That was my thinking."

Liam put the glass down.

"Any trouble?"

"No."

"Trying to eat anybody?"

"No. It's queueing."

Liam blinked.

"Queueing?"

"Third in line."

Aoto folded his arms.

"Let two pilgrims go ahead of it."

"Right."

"Also."

Aoto hesitated.

"It's wearing a hat and a fisherman's gilet. And hooks and lures and stuff"

Liam closed his eyes.

"Is it a good hat?"

"No. I think its trying to blend in"

"Right."

The hat was worse than expected.

The Tyranid sat patiently on the bench outside McEvers. The hat appeared to have belonged to a fisherman at some unhappy point in the past. It sat on top of the creature's elongated skull at an angle suggesting active disagreement. The gilet was green, except where it was a rather darker shade that could have been blood but was being interpreted by Liam as camo pattern. 

One claw held a folded piece of paper.

The creature stood when Liam approached.

It handed him the paper.

REQUESTING ENTRY.

Liam read it twice.

"That's very formal."

"Uncertain of protocol."

The voice was soft. Careful. Every word sounded selected rather than spoken.

"eh... any intention of eating anybody?"

"No."

"Starting fights?"

"No."

"Summoning anything?"

"No."

"Any weapons?"

The Tyranid looked down at itself.

"I am a lictor."

"Fair."

The creature considered this.

"The distinction is unclear."

"Also fair."

A pilgrim edged past them towards the door. The Tyranid stepped aside.

The pilgrim made the sign of the aquila and nearly fell over the threshold.

Liam sighed.

"Ah go on then."

The Tyranid paused.

"Accepted?"

"Aye."

"Interesting."

"Why?"

"Rejection was assessed as more probable."

"Shows what you know."

## Research Begins

The bar fell silent when they entered.

Diocletian was at the far end of the counter with a Radler, a dataslate in front of him. He had removed his helmet. This was, by Custodian standards, almost casual dresss.

He stared into the glass with the fixed attention of a man determined not to become involved.

Kenji emerged from the kitchen hatch.

He saw the Tyranid.

He saw Liam.

He saw the Tyranid again.

"Right so."

Liam pointed at the counter.

"Menu."

Kenji nodded once.

No further questions.

The Tyranid accepted the laminated menu between two claws and studied it for eight minutes.

Nobody interrupted.

Finally:

"I wish alcohol."

"What sort?" asked Kenji.

"Unknown."

"Guinness then."

"Accepted."

The pint arrived.

The Tyranid examined it carefully. Lifted it. Smelled it.

Drank.

The pint vanished.

The notebook appeared.

Small. Black. Unexplained.

Nobody saw where it came from.

The Tyranid wrote for several seconds.

GUINNESS

VISUALLY CONCERNING.

EXCELLENT.

The notebook vanished.

"Thoughts?" asked Liam.

"This is significantly superior."

"To what?"

"Nutrient slurry utilised by Hive Fleets."

Liam's face changed.

"Right."

The Tyranid considered the empty glass.

"Visually similar."

"That isn't helping."

"It was intended as praise."

"That's not helping either."

Kenji returned.

"What about food?"

The Tyranid consulted the menu again.

"What is a spice bag?"

Kenji smiled.

The way priests smiled when asked about doctrine.

"Excellent question."

The prawn spice bag arrived five minutes later.

The Tyranid stared at it.

"Clarification."

"Go on."

"Why is it in a bag?"

Kenji opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Looked at Liam.

Looked back at the Tyranid.

"I've no idea , now you ask."

The Tyranid nodded.

"Interesting."

The first prawn vanished.

Then the second.

Then several others. Peppers, onions, chips. 

The notebook appeared.

More writing.

"What now?" asked Liam.

"A note."

"Aye, but about what?"

"There was a crustacean civilisation on Pelagos Ultima."

The room held still.

Liam waited.

The Tyranid looked up.

"What?"

"You can't just say that."

"Why not?"

"Because now we have questions."

The Tyranid considered this.

"The prawns are superior."

The notebook closed.

Nobody had a response to that.

Not even Diocletian.

"Another," said the Tyranid.

"Prawns?" asked Kenji.

"No."

A claw tapped the menu.

"Research."

Kenji leaned over.

"Chicken next i'd suggest ."

"Accepted."

## Arguments Rarely Conclude

The chicken spice bag disappeared almost as quickly as the prawn one.

The Tyranid sat motionless for several seconds.

The notebook appeared.

Writing occurred.

The notebook vanished.

Kenji leaned on the counter.

"Well?"

"The prawns remain superior."

"Fair enough."

"What is tofu?"

"You're about to find out."

The tofu spice bag arrived.

The Tyranid regarded it with suspicion.

The first piece vanished.

The second followed.

The third was studied carefully.

The notebook appeared again.

Longer notes this time.

Eventually:

"There were airborne organisms on Praxis Twenty-Seven with a similar texture."

Silence.

Kenji looked at Liam.

Liam looked at the Tyranid.

The Tyranid looked back.

"What?"

"We're thinking about airborne tofu now."

"That appears reasonable."

"It isn't, a bit, let me tell you."

The notebook appeared.

A final note was added.

TOFU

REMINISCENT OF PRAXIS-27.

DISAPPOINTING IN BOTH CASES.

The Tyranid pushed the tray away.

"Question."

"Go on."

"How many menu items are available?"

Kenji frowned.

"A fair few."

"I intend to evaluate them."

"Tonight?"

"Yes."

Kenji nodded slowly.

"Right."

A fresh Guinness appeared.

The Tyranid studied it.

Drank.

Notebook.

More writing.

Diocletian lowered his Radler slightly, failing to disguise his increasingly blatant eavesdropping. 

The Tyranid looked around the room.

At the conversations beginning again.

At the old lads arguing about nothing.

At the pilgrims pretending not to stare.

At the dog asleep beneath the table.

"Question."

Liam took a sip of tea.

"Aye?"

"Was it incorrect to state that Tyranids do not normally speak?"

"Not really."

"We do."

"Aye."

"Frequently."

"Aye."

"Why then was surprise observed?"

"Because ye don't. usually to us"

The Tyranid paused.

"We choose not to."

"Why?"

The answer came immediately.

"Arguments rarely conclude."

Silence.

Then Liam laughed.

Not loudly.

Just enough.

"Aye."

The Tyranid waited.

"Aye what?"

"People are fierce conservative on opinions right enough."

The Tyranid considered this.

Several memories appeared to be competing for position.

"That has also been my observation."

The notebook appeared again.

A few lines were added.

Liam caught a glimpse.

ARGUMENTS

LOW SUCCESS RATE.

HIGH RECURSION.

The notebook vanished.

"You're making notes on people now?"

"I am making notes on everything."

"Fair."

The Tyranid looked down at the menu.

Then back up.

"Question."

"Go on."

"What is a chicken fillet roll?"

From the far end of the bar came the tiny sound of Diocletian setting down his glass.


Liam closed his eyes.

"Ah."

Kenji smiled.

The smile of a man introducing somebody to religion.

"Now we're getting somewhere. Plain or spicy?"

"which is best?"

"tell ya what, try both"

## Beer

The third Guinness vanished.

The notebook appeared.

GUINNESS

CONSISTENTLY EXCELLENT.

The notebook vanished.

Kenji considered this.

"Want to try something else?"

The Tyranid looked uncertain.

"Why?"

"Because there's other beer."

The Tyranid stared.

"There is?"

"Aye."

The notebook appeared.

OTHER BEER EXISTS.

The notebook vanished.

---

The Smithwick's arrived.

The Tyranid drank.

Thought.

Notebook.

SMITHWICK'S

RELIABLE.

WOULD CONSUME AGAIN.

The notebook vanished.

Liam nodded.

"That's about right."

---

The Harp produced disagreement.

Not from the Tyranid.

From the room.

The Tyranid looked around as three old lads immediately began arguing.

One claimed it was underrated.

Another claimed it had always been terrible.

The third claimed both positions lacked nuance.

The Tyranid watched for several minutes.

"Question."

"Aye?"

"Which one is correct?"

Liam took a sip of tea.

"Nobody knows."

The Tyranid appeared troubled.

---

The notebook appeared.

HARP

FUNCTIONAL.

GENERATES DISPROPORTIONATE DISCUSSION.

---

Then Kenji made another mistake.

"We've got craft stout."

The Tyranid looked up.

"Craft?"

"Aye."

"Clarify."

"Nobody really knows."

"Accepted."

---

The first bottle arrived.

Four and a half percent.

Dark.

Pleasant.

The notebook appeared.

SESSION STOUT

AGREEABLE.

The second bottle arrived.

Five point eight.

Oatmeal stout.

The notebook appeared.

MORE COMPLICATED.

The third bottle arrived.

Seven point two.

Imperial porter.

The notebook appeared.

AGGRESSIVE.

RESPECTABLE.

Then came the eleven percent stout.

The label featured:

- a lighthouse
- a crow
- a moon
- the word Obsidian
- and at least one reference to melancholy

Nobody could explain any of this.

The Tyranid drank.

Silence.

Notebook.

The notebook vanished.

Another sip.

More silence.

Liam eventually asked:

"Thoughts?"

The Tyranid looked thoughtful.

"My internal situation has become dynamic."

Diocletian nearly snorted his Radler.

---

## Preference

The spicy chicken fillet roll arrived.

The Tyranid studied it carefully.

Then consumed approximately half of it.

The notebook appeared.

The notebook vanished.

The plain version followed.

The process repeated.

The Tyranid sat silently.

Thinking.

This was becoming concerning.

Eventually:

"The spicy version is superior."

"Good."

The Tyranid looked up.

"Good?"

"Aye."

"Why?"

"Because you prefer it."

The Tyranid seemed uncomfortable.

"I do."

"Nothing wrong with that."

"It introduces uncertainty."

Liam blinked.

"How?"

The notebook appeared.

For the first time Liam could see entire paragraphs.

PREFERENCE CREATES BIAS.

BIAS IMPAIRS OBJECTIVITY.

The notebook vanished.

Liam laughed.

"That's people for ye."

---

The Tyranid looked down at the remains of the spicy roll.

Then at the remains of the plain one.

Then back again.

"Question."

"Aye?"

"How do humans make decisions while carrying contradictory preferences?"

Liam considered this.

Then shrugged.

"Mostly badly."

The Tyranid wrote this down immediately.

---

## Surveillance

The toasted ham and cheese arrived.

Then chicken wings. And dips  blue cheese, ranch,  red hot sauce.

The dip evaluation took several pages 

The notebook had become alarmingly thick.

Nobody understood how.

---

"A question lad."

"Yes?"

"How come you're operating solo?"

The Tyranid paused.

Several seconds passed.

"I am designed for infiltration and long-term surveillance."

"Aye."

"I can remain embedded within hostile populations for extended periods. I posess chameleon skin. And I am disguised "

"Handy, that, the skin thing"

"Yes."

Silence.

Then:

"I continue to inform myself that this is the reason for solo operation of this duration."

Liam stopped wiping the counter.

"Ah."

The Tyranid stared at the wings.

"I am capable of leaving and returning to the Hive."

"Aye, course ."

"The distinction appears significant."

The notebook appeared.

For once no writing occurred.

The Tyranid simply looked at the blank page.

Then closed it again.

"Interesting."

Liam said nothing.

Sometimes people had to arrive at their own questions.
## Chowder

The Caesar salad generated three pages of notes.

Nobody was entirely sure why.

The Caesar salad wrap generated another two.

Diocletian eventually lowered his glass.

"How?"

The Tyranid looked up.

"Clarify."

"You are writing five pages about lettuce How can you do that"

The Tyranid considered this.

"It is not only lettuce."

Diocletian looked at Liam.

Liam nodded.

"Fair point."

---

The seafood chowder arrived in a large bowl.

The Tyranid stared at it.

Notebook.

Writing.

Notebook vanished.

The first spoonful disappeared.

Then another.

Then another.

"Excellent."

Kenji smiled.

"Thought so."

The Tyranid consulted the menu.

"I was informed corn chowder exists."

Silence.

The room froze.

Kenji froze.

Aoto looked up from the door.

Diocletian lowered his Radler.

Very slowly.

"Don't."

The Tyranid looked around.

"Have I committed an error?"

"Political," said Liam.

"Political?"

"The issue is small p political."

The Tyranid looked genuinely puzzled.

"How can chowder be political?"

Liam pointed towards the kitchen.

"Long story."

"I have consumed historians."

"Still a long story."

The Tyranid wrote something down.

CORN CHOWDER

POLITICAL.

---

The next spoonful vanished.

Then another.

Then:

"Question."

"Aye?"

"Can one overcome one's programming?"

Liam sighed.

"Ah."

The Tyranid waited.

The room listened.

Liam pointed towards the kitchen.

"I should introduce you to the kitchen."

"The kitchen."

"Aye."

"The location in which food is prepared."

"That's the one."

"How would this assist?"

"There's a machine in there."

"I am aware of machines."

"It makes seafood."

"I am aware of seafood."

"It has spent about fifteen thousand years arguing with me."

The Tyranid stopped moving.

"Machines do not argue."

"This one does. Stroppy aul yoke"

"Why?"

"It thinks I'm wrong."

"Are you?"

"Depends who you ask."

"The machine?"

"The machine absolutely thinks I am."

The Tyranid considered this.

"Your position?"

"Ray should taste like ray."

The Tyranid nodded.

"Reasonable."

"Thank you."

"The machine disagrees?"

"Vehemently."

---

The notebook appeared.

A full page disappeared beneath rapid writing.

"Why continue arguing?"

Liam shrugged.

"Because it's wrong."

"And if it never changes?"

"Then it'll continue being wrong."

The Tyranid stared.

"You have maintained this disagreement for fifteen thousand years."

"Aye."

"Without success."

"Aye."

"Why?"

Liam took a sip of tea.

"Because if I stop arguing, it wins."

The Tyranid opened the notebook again.

Another page.

Then another.

Diocletian quietly ordered another Radler.

---

## Ireland

The fish and chips arrived.

The Tyranid approved.

The pasta and pesto arrived.

The Tyranid approved.

Then Kenji placed down the lasagna and chips.

The Tyranid stared.

Long silence.

Notebook.

More silence.

"What is this?"

"Lasagna."

"Aye."

"And chips."

"Aye. and some coleslaw, there"

The Tyranid waited.

Nobody elaborated.

"Why?"

Liam looked up from his tea.

"Ireland."

The Tyranid considered this.

The notebook appeared.

LASAGNA AND CHIPS

IRISH.

INSUFFICIENT EXPLANATION.

---

The stuffed mushrooms arrived next.

The Tyranid bit into one.

Paused.

Notebook.

Writing.

The notebook vanished.

"Thoughts?" asked Kenji.

The Tyranid considered.

"Reminiscent."

"Of?"

"Orks."

The room fell silent.

Diocletian slowly lowered his glass.

"You have eaten Orks."

"Many."

"Right."

The Tyranid took another bite.

"The flavour profile is substantially improved with the allium variant seasoning it"

---

The notebook appeared.

STUFFED MUSHROOMS

ORK-ADJACENT.

PREFERABLE.

---

Nobody quite knew how to respond to that.

Eventually Liam pointed at the plate.

"Finish your mushrooms."

The Tyranid nodded.

"Accepted."

---

## Crisps

The first packet of Cheese & Onion Taytos arrived.

The Tyranid examined the packet.

Then the contents.

Then the packet again.

"These are a complete food?"

"No. Well, sometimes"

"A side?"

"No."

"A starter?"

"No. Not usually"

"Then what are they?"

"Taytos."

The Tyranid accepted this.

A crisp vanished.

Then another.

Notebook.

Writing.

Another crisp.

More writing.

---

The notebook appeared again.

CHEESE & ONION

EXCELLENT.

---

Buffalo followed.

Then Salted.

Then Salt & Vinegar.

Then Prawn Cracker.

Sweet Chili


The notebook grew increasingly dense.

Eventually:

CURRENT RANKING

1. CHEESE & ONION
2. BUFFALO
3. SALT & VINEGAR

UNDER REVIEW.

---

The Tyranid looked troubled.

"Question."

"Aye?"

"I appear to have opinions."

Liam laughed.

"That's generally how it starts."

The Tyranid did not appear reassured.

---

Then Kenji made a mistake.

"Have you ever had a crisp sandwich?"

The room went quiet.

The Tyranid looked up.

"What is a crisp sandwich?"

Nobody answered immediately.

A slice of buttered white bread appeared.

Then another.

Cheese & Onion Taytos.

Compression.

Presentation.

The Tyranid stared.

"That is all?"

"That is all."

A bite vanished.

Silence.

Another.

More silence.

The notebook appeared.

CRISP SANDWICH

IMPOSSIBLE.

The Tyranid took another bite.

Notebook.

CURRENT HYPOTHESIS:

HUMANS POSSESS KNOWLEDGE INACCESSIBLE THROUGH FORMAL LOGIC.

Diocletian nodded.

"A reasonable assessment."

For the first time all evening, the Custodian and the Tyranid were in complete agreement.

Neither noticed this.

Which was probably for the best.
## The Breakfast Roll War

The breakfast roll arrived on a plate that was, in retrospect, inadequate for the task.

The Tyranid stared at it.

Then rotated it slightly.

Then stared again.

Notebook.

Writing.

The notebook vanished.

"It appears structurally unsound."

"That's because you're thinking about it," said Liam.

The Tyranid accepted this.

The first bite removed approximately a quarter of the roll.

Silence.

The second removed another quarter.

More silence.

The notebook appeared.

The Tyranid wrote for nearly a minute.

Then finally:

"I understand."

"Most do."

---

The Tyranid studied the remains.

"Question."

"Aye?"

"What is the correct composition of a breakfast roll?"

The room went quiet.

Liam immediately looked towards the far end of the counter.

Diocletian was already looking up.

The poor bastard had finally been drawn in.

"That depends," said Liam.

"It does not," said Diocletian.

The Tyranid looked delighted.

The notebook appeared.

---

"What are the mandatory components?" asked the Tyranid.

"Sausages."

"Correct," said Diocletian.

"Rashers."

"Correct."

"Egg."

"Correct."

"Puddings, black and white"

"Correct."

The Tyranid wrote rapidly.

---

"And hash browns?" asked the Tyranid.

Diocletian's eyes narrowed.

"Absolutely not."

The notebook appeared instantly.

"Why?"

"Hash browns are a side."

"They are potato."

"Correct."

"Potato is acceptable within bread."

"Not all potato."

The Tyranid frowned.

This was a new expression.

Nobody enjoyed seeing it.

---

"If potato is acceptable in principle, why is hash brown excluded?"

"Because it is."

"That is not a reason."

"It is."

"No."

"Yes."

The Tyranid wrote furiously.

Diocletian looked offended.

The discussion continued.

---

Twenty minutes later:

The notebook contained a flow diagram.

Three old lads had become involved.

A pilgrim had attempted mediation.

This had made matters worse.

The Tyranid pointed at the diagram.

"If chips are unacceptable."

"Correct."

"And hash browns are unacceptable."

"Correct."

"Then both appear to occupy the same category."

"Correct."

"Why?"

Diocletian opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Then opened it again.

Nothing emerged.

The Tyranid waited.

Patiently.

Like a predator waiting for prey to make a mistake.

Finally:

"Because that's how breakfast rolls work."

The Tyranid wrote this down immediately.

---

BREAKFAST ROLL ORTHODOXY

INTERNALLY INCONSISTENT.

ADHERENCE ABSOLUTE.

---

For the first time all evening Diocletian seemed genuinely pleased.

"Exactly."

The Tyranid nodded.

"Interesting."

---

## Whiskey

The first whiskey arrived shortly afterwards.

The Tyranid examined it.

Smelled it.

Drank.

Notebook.

Writing.

Notebook vanished.

"Thoughts?" asked Liam.

"Complex."

The second whiskey arrived.

The notebook appeared again.

INCREASINGLY COMPLEX.

The third whiskey arrived.

Long silence.

Then:

"Humans consume this recreationally?"

"Aye."

The Tyranid considered this.

"Interesting."

---

The room had become quieter.

Not silent.

Just later.

The comfortable sort of quiet that appears in pubs after enough conversation.

The Tyranid stared into the whiskey.

"The boundaries are weaker."

"What boundaries?" asked Liam.

"Memory."

Liam stopped polishing the glass.

The Tyranid continued.

"I remember a woman."

Nobody interrupted.

"She wished to become a musician."

"Did she now?"

"Yes."

"Did she?"

"No."

The Tyranid looked down at the glass.

"She became an accountant."

"That's a pity."

"Yes."

Long pause.

"She was adequate at accounting. I consumed her"


---

Another whiskey.

Another pause.

"I remember philosophers."

"That's unfortunate."

"There were many."

"Any good?"

"They were nutritionally adequate. About issues, they disagreed."

"About?"

The Tyranid considered.

"Everything."

"Fair."

"They argued for sixty-three years."

"What did they conclude?"

"I consumed them before a consensus emerged."

Liam nearly spilled his tea.

---

The notebook appeared.

FREEDOM

UNRESOLVED.

IDENTITY

UNRESOLVED.

HASH BROWNS

ALSO UNRESOLVED.

---

Diocletian objected immediately.

"Hash browns are resolved."

The Tyranid made another note.

DISPUTED.

---

The fourth whiskey arrived.

The Tyranid looked around the room.

At Liam.

At Kenji.

At Aoto.

At Diocletian.

At the old lads.

At the sleeping dog.

For a moment it said nothing.

Then:

"Humans appear willing to argue indefinitely."

"Aye."

"Even when resolution is impossible."

"Aye."

"Why?"

Liam thought about it.

Then shrugged.

"Sometimes the argument is the point."

The Tyranid stared at him.

The notebook appeared.

For several seconds nothing happened.

Then one line.

POSSIBLE DEFINITION OF FREEDOM.

The notebook vanished.

Liam frowned.

"That doesn't sound right at all."

The Tyranid seemed unconcerned.

"Nevertheless."

---

And for the first time all evening, the Tyranid stopped looking like it was conducting research.

It looked like it was thinking.

Which was considerably more alarming.
## Dessert

By the time the sticky toffee pudding arrived, the Tyranid had ceased attempting to maintain a coherent methodology.

This was apparent because the notebook now contained:

- a ranking of crisp flavours
- several competing definitions of freedom
- an increasingly hostile assessment of tofu
- breakfast-roll doctrine
- three pages concerning whether Harp was being judged fairly

The pudding was placed in front of it.

The Tyranid stared.

Notebook.

Nothing.

The notebook vanished again.

It took a bite.

Then another.

Then stopped.

"Thoughts?" asked Kenji.

Long silence.

The Tyranid looked at the pudding.

Then looked at the notebook.

Then back at the pudding.

"No comparison available."

The room was quiet.

"No?" asked Liam.

"No."

"After all those worlds?"

"No."

Another bite vanished.

The Tyranid looked down at the plate.

"I believe several people would have liked this."

Nobody said anything.

Not because they didn't understand.

Because they did.

The notebook appeared.

STICKY TOFFEE PUDDING

EXCEPTIONAL.

The notebook vanished.

---

The apple tart followed.

Then ice cream.

Vanilla.

Chocolate.

Strawberry.

Each received careful evaluation.

Vanilla performed strongly.

Chocolate generated extensive commentary.

Strawberry was described as:

UNEXPECTED.

No further clarification was offered.

---

By now the Tyranid was visibly full.

This was not something anybody present had expected to witness.

Yet it continued.

Not quickly.

Not greedily.

Curiously.

As though each new plate contained another piece of a puzzle.

---

Eventually Kenji wandered over carrying tea.

For Liam.

Not the Tyranid.

That would have been ridiculous.

He stopped beside the table.

Looked at the notebook.

Looked at the Tyranid.

Then asked the question.

Entirely by accident.

"What's your name, fella?"

Silence.

Absolute silence.

The Tyranid froze.

The notebook remained open.

Nothing moved.

Even Diocletian looked up.

Finally:

"Clarify."

Kenji pointed around the room.

"Liam."

"Aoto."

"Diocletian."

"Me."

He pointed beneath a table.

"The dog."

The dog wagged its tail.

The Tyranid followed the gesture.

Then looked back.

"I possess a designation."

"Go on then."

The designation lasted approximately twenty-three seconds.

Part biological notation.

Part chemical sequence.

Part mathematics.

The final section may have been a pheromone profile.

Nobody was entirely sure.

Silence followed.

Kenji nodded.

"Bit long."

The entire bar agreed.

Even the Tyranid.

---

The notebook appeared.

A new page.

For a long time nothing happened.

Then:

WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN WHAT AND WHO?

The Tyranid stared at the question.

The room did likewise.

Nobody answered.

Not because they were unwilling.

Because nobody really knew.

---

The notebook appeared again.

Another line.

CAN A THING NAME ITSELF?

The dog wandered over.

Placed its head on one of the Tyranid's feet.

The Tyranid looked down.

The dog looked up.

Neither seemed particularly concerned.

---

Liam eventually broke the silence.

"Some people spend their whole lives working that one out."

The Tyranid considered this.

"Have they succeeded?"

Liam thought about forty thousand years.

About emperors.

Kings.

Saints.

Primarchs.

Drunks.

Pilgrims.

Perpetuals.

And himself.

Then shrugged.

"Not mostly."

The Tyranid wrote that down immediately.

---

## Closing Time

The paper bag appeared as the chairs began going up.

Nobody saw where the notebook came from.

Nobody questioned where the paper bag came from.

McEvers operated according to certain principles.

Not all of them were understood.

Kenji placed the bag on the counter.

The Tyranid peered inside.

Three packs of  Cheese & Onion.

Buffalo.

Salt & Vinegar.

Prawn Cracker.


The notebook appeared.

GIFTS

UNEXPECTED.

PLEASANT.

The notebook vanished.

---

"Have you settled on a name?" asked Kenji.

The Tyranid thought about this.

For a surprisingly long time.

"No."

"Fair enough."

"However."

The Tyranid looked at the Taytos.

"Cheese & Onion remains under consideration."

From the far end of the bar:

"Absolutely not."

Diocletian had spoken without looking up.

The Tyranid nodded.

"This objection has been recorded."

---

It stood.

Slowly.

The movement required slightly more concentration than earlier.

Not because of intoxication.

The Tyranid remained perfectly capable of locomotion.

The difficulty appeared conceptual.

Its notebook now required its own notebook.

---

At the door it paused.

"Further question."

"Aye?" said Liam.

"Do all conversations conclude without resolution?"

"Most of the good ones."

The Tyranid considered this.

"Interesting."

"Aye."

---

It looked around the room one final time.

The counter.

The taps.

The dog.

Kenji.

Aoto.

Diocletian.

Liam.

Then:

"Several cults have come to my attention."

Liam nodded.

"Right."

"They appear dissatisfied."

"Most people are. "

"I intend to discuss alternatives."

"Grand."

The Tyranid paused.

The notebook appeared.

One final note.

Then vanished.

---

Outside, the night air was cool.

The Tyranid stood beneath the sign for a moment.

Thinking.

Not infiltrating.

Thinking.

Then it walked away into the endless city.

Swaying slightly.

Paper bag under one arm.

Notebook under the other.

---
## Coda 
Some distance later, deep beneath Terra, in a place where the walls sweated and the air tasted of rust, several members of a Genestealer cult looked up as a familiar shape emerged from the darkness.

The Lictor regarded them thoughtfully.

Then placed the bag of Taytos on a crate.

"Brothers. Sisters."

Confused silence.

The Lictor opened the notebook.

"I have made several discoveries."

More silence.

The notebook opened to a marked page.

The first heading read:

FREE WILL.

The second read:

PERSONAL NAMES.

The third read:

BREAKFAST ROLL ORTHODOXY.

The fourth read:

CHEESE & ONION.

The Lictor considered the assembled cult.

Then nodded.

"Tonight's discussion may take some time."


# Tale 21 Go Goge! (Published)

The first full weekend of autumn belonged to board games.

Nobody remembered exactly when it had started. Kenji's grandfather claimed it had been his father. Liam thought it had probably happened by accident. Someone had brought a chess set one year because the weather had turned. Someone else had produced cards. By closing time half the tables were occupied by people arguing cheerfully over rules written in four different languages.

After that it became tradition.

Traditions, Liam maintained, were mostly accidents that had outlived everyone who could have stopped them.

By ten on Saturday morning the front room had already filled. The regulars arrived first, carrying battered boxes whose corners had long since surrendered. Then came visitors who only appeared once a year. Engineers. Clerks. Administrators. Teachers. A retired Arbites magistrate who became unreasonably competitive over abstract strategy games and apologised every Sunday before leaving.

Nobody won anything.

There were no prizes.

Winning was considered perfectly respectable, provided one didn't make a nuisance of oneself about it.

Kenji carried another tray of mugs towards the back room.

"Morning, Liam."

"Tis."

"Our annual semi-finalist should be here soon."

Liam smiled.

"He'll have timed it."

The door opened almost on cue.

The newcomer looked exactly as he had every year for longer than anyone except Liam could remember. Medium height. Plain coat. Satchel over one shoulder. Hair trimmed because it was practical rather than fashionable. The sort of face a crowd forgot five minutes after seeing it.

"Morning," he said.

"Tis yourself," Liam replied. "Thought you'd gone and won the thing somewhere else."

"Oh no."

"Same game?"

He lifted a wooden Go bowl from the satchel.

"The same one."

Liam nodded gravely.

"Well then. Better not let anyone see you smiling."

"I try not to."

Kenji laughed.

"You'll frighten them."

"Ha. A tea, perhaps?"

"Still tea?"

"Still tea."

"Not tempted to break out, to celebrate maybe?"

"I celebrate by not making poor decisions."

"A philosophy, sure."

"It has served me well."

Liam leaned on the counter.

"You'll make the semi-final."

"Probably."

"You'll lose."

"Almost certainly."

Kenji frowned.

"You could practise more."

"I do practise."

"I mean... enough to win."

The man considered that.

"I could."

"But?"

"But then I'd become the fellow who always wins."

"And that's bad?"

"It changes why people ask you to play."

Liam gave a tiny nod. Looked at Kenji.

"There speaks a man who's been paying attention."

The fellow smiled faintly.

"It is useful to be invited because people enjoy your company."

He lifted the Go bowl.

"It is rather less useful to be invited because they think they might become famous by beating you."

Kenji thought about that.

"I'd never considered it."

"Most people don't."

The first round began.

He won comfortably.

The second took nearly two hours.

The third was a narrow affair against an elderly woman who muttered continuously at the board in a dialect nobody else recognised.

By late afternoon the familiar pattern had emerged.

"Who's left?"

Kenji looked over the handwritten chart.

"Our friend."

"Again?"

"Again."

"And?"

"He'll lose tomorrow."

Liam polished another glass.

"So he will."

Sunday afternoon.

Semi-final.

The room had fallen almost silent.

Go had that effect. Chess attracted commentary. Cards encouraged outrage. Go seemed to persuade people that words should be used sparingly.

The game lasted nearly three hours.

When it ended both players bowed.

The winner advanced.

The loser smiled, packed away his stones and wandered back into the bar.

Liam already had fresh tea waiting.

"Unlucky."

"No."

"No?"

"I played well."

"You did."

"The better player won."

"That'll never catch on."

"It needn't."

He accepted the mug.

The room around him relaxed.

People drifted over.

They discussed openings.

Someone argued about territorial influence.

Somebody else produced an old game record from twenty years earlier.

Nobody treated him as the man who had lost.

He was simply one of them.

Liam watched the conversation settle into its annual rhythm.

Some people sought distinction.

Some sought victory.

A much smaller number sought usefulness.

They usually lived quieter lives.

...

The following autumn the door opened at almost exactly the same time.

"Tis yourself."

"So it is."

"Tea?"

"Please."

Kenji looked towards the entrance again.

Someone else had arrived.

She paused just inside the doorway, taking in the organised chaos with the expression of somebody deciding whether she'd accidentally wandered into a private society.

She carried a Go bowl.

Liam smiled.

"New player, looks like."

"So it would appear."

She walked to the counter.

"First time?"

"It shows?"

"Only because everyone else already knows where they lose."

She laughed.

"I was told this was the place."

"It generally is."

Tea appeared before she'd asked.

"I didn't order..."

"First cup's on the house."

"That's dangerous."

"So I'm told."

She thanked him, took the mug and found an empty table.

Across the room the annual semi-finalist looked up for perhaps a second.

Then back to his board.

Board games first.

Everything else later.

Liam watched them both.

Sometimes you could see a story begin.

More often you couldn't.

This one looked entirely ordinary.

Which, in Liam's experience, was how the important ones usually started.

The draw paired them in the second round.

Neither looked particularly pleased.

"Good morning," she said as they sat.

"Good morning."

"I've been told you're annoyingly competent."

"I've been told I tend to peak in the semi-final."

"So that's true?"

"So far."

She arranged the black stones.

"I was hoping it was superstition."

"I don't generally interfere with successful traditions."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Losing is successful?"

"It keeps people inviting me back."

The first stone clicked onto the board.

She answered immediately.

He frowned.

"You play quickly."

"I think before I sit down."

"That seems unfair."

"It saves everyone time."

He smiled despite himself.

The game was over in ninety minutes.

He resigned.

She looked at the position for another half minute before nodding.

"Correct."

He began returning stones to their bowls.

"You knew six moves ago."

"Probably."

"And still played them?"

"I wanted to make sure."

She laughed.

"I rather like you."

"Thank you."

"I wasn't complimenting your Go."

"I gathered."

They carried their bowls back to the bar.

Kenji looked from one to the other.

"Who won?"

She raised a hand.

"Him?"

"No."

"Her?"

"Yes."

Kenji looked puzzled.

"You don't seem terribly upset."

"I lost a game."

"That's all?"

"That is generally what happens when you meet a better player."

Liam slid two teas across the counter.

"Well?"

"She's better."

The woman sipped hers.

"He says that as though he's pleased."

"I am."

"You've just been beat."

"Correct."

"And you're pleased."

"It means I wasn't beaten by somebody worse than me."

She stared at him for a moment.

"You're an odd man."

"So I've been told."

...

The following spring he appeared one Saturday just after lunch.

Board Games Weekend was six months away.

Kenji blinked.

"You're early."

"For what?"

"The autumn."

"It isn't autumn."

"No..."

The door opened again.

She walked in wearing her hair cut shorter than before, the dark brown now carrying a deep copper-red through it that caught the afternoon light.

"You started without me."

"I've been here forty-three seconds."

She sat on the stool beside him as though she'd done it for years.

Liam poured without asking.

"The usual?"

"If you would."

Kenji looked between them.

"You know each other?"

They both turned.

"Yes."

"Since when?"

"October."

"You never mentioned it."

"There wasn't much to mention."

"We had lunch."

"Several."

"We discovered we both dislike committee meetings."

"They consume time."

"They breed."

Liam hid a smile behind the glass he was polishing.

"You'll be wanting menus."

"No," she said.

"We're going for a walk afterwards."

"Fair enough."

They stayed another hour.

Mostly talking.

Weather patterns.

Old cities.

How long it took administrations to decide obvious things.

Why people insisted on reinventing filing systems.

Neither flirted.

Neither performed.

When they left they walked side by side without seeming to notice.

Kenji watched through the window.

"I didn't see that coming."

"No."

"You did?"

Liam shrugged.

"Sometimes two people simply begin the same conversation."

...

By the time Board Games Weekend returned in the autumn, nobody thought it strange that they arrived together.

Not hand in hand.

Simply together.

She wore her hair almost black again.

"We're late," she said.

"Three minutes."

"We're late."

"It starts at ten."

"It is now three minutes past ten."

He inclined his head.

"We're late."

They played separate first-round games.

Won both.

Met again in the quarter-final.

"You planned this."

"I don't control the draw."

"You've bribed somebody."

"I work in weather restoration."

"So?"

"We influence probability."

"You terraform planets."

"Eventually."

"And?"

"Compared with planetary climate, organising a Go tournament would be quite straightforward."

He looked thoughtful.

"I shall have to report you."

"You'll need the correct form."

"That may defeat me."

She won again.

This time by half a dozen points.

When they reached the bar Liam placed two beers in front of them instead of tea.

She looked at the label.

"A Belgian sour."

"Oh, Throne, just g'wan," Liam said.

"What?"

"Thought you two looked adventurous."

She uncapped it.

The label showed only a hooded figure.

Nothing else.

She took a careful sip.

Her face altered almost imperceptibly.

"That's revolting."

He tasted his.

He swallowed with visible determination.

"It tastes like somebody was ill into it."

"If I wanted fruit I'd have asked for fruit."

Liam nodded.

"Fair."

She looked at the bottle again.

Then took another sip.

A third.

He noticed.

"You've changed your mind."

"It seems to grow on one."

"Impossible."

"I know."

She slid the bottle across.

"Try it again."

He did.

He frowned.

"It's... slightly less dreadful."

"There you are."

"It remains dreadful."

"But interesting."

"Perhaps. Worth investigating anyway."

Kenji picked up the bottle after they'd gone.

He examined the hooded figure.

"No brewery?"

Liam shrugged.

"Apparently mystery sells."

"It shouldn't."

"No."

The next autumn they came back.

Together again.

As though there had never been any other way.

That year someone had left a bottle of Fenrisian mead behind the bar. Nobody claimed it.

Liam put it in front of them.

She sniffed it carefully.

"It smells like a forest fire."

"In a good way?"

She took a sip.

"In an extremely specific way."

He tried it.

Considered.

"I think I'm being threatened."

"By the drink?"

"By whoever made it."

Liam took the bottle back.

"I'll keep it for special occasions."

"What counts as special?"

"Someone bigger than you two."

The years settled into a pattern so gradually that nobody could later have said when it became tradition.

Spring belonged to lunch.

Autumn belonged to Go.

Everything else arranged itself around those two fixed points.

Liam approved.

Ordinary routines, in his experience, carried more weight than grand declarations ever managed.

...

One spring they arrived arguing amiably over cloud classifications.

"You can't simply rename them because you dislike the terminology."

"I don't dislike it."

"You called it idiotic."

"I said the committee responsible was idiotic."

"Which produced the terminology."

"A regrettable coincidence."

Liam placed two bowls of chowder on the counter.

"The weather solved?"

"Not yet," she said.

"It never is."

"That's why they keep paying us."

He nodded.

"Reasonable."

Liam set down two small glasses without explanation.

"What is this?"

"Yamazaki. Someone left a bottle. Seemed a shame."

She sipped it.

Went quiet for a moment.

"Oh."

He tried his.

"That's rather good."

"Yes."

They both looked at the glasses.

They had another.

They disappeared after lunch.

Nobody asked where.

They always came back next autumn.

...

That year she arrived with her hair dyed a vivid blue.

Kenji blinked.

"Oh."

Liam looked up from the counter.

"Oh indeed. Fierce vibrant."

She touched it self-consciously.

"Too much?"

"No," Liam said.

"Just... vibrant."

The annual semi-finalist looked at her for a long moment.

"I like it."

"You don't have to say that just to be nice."

"I wasn't trying to."

She smiled.

"I know."

She beat him again that afternoon.

Afterwards they spent nearly an hour reconstructing the game on a spare board while three strangers quietly watched, occasionally asking questions that both answered with equal patience.

By closing time there were six people around the table.

The game had become communal.

The victory scarcely mattered.

...

Another spring.

Another lunch.

An Administratum courier interrupted them halfway through the main course.

"Apologies."

He produced a sealed envelope.

The man opened it.

Read.

Folded it carefully.

Placed it back inside.

"Tell him to proceed."

"Problem?" she asked.

"Not any more."

He put the envelope back into his satchel.

They finished lunch.

...

The following autumn the satchel remained beside his chair throughout the tournament.

Kenji noticed it because previously he'd always tucked it under the table.

Now it stayed within easy reach.

Nothing came of it.

Still, Liam noticed too.

...

Years passed.

Her hair returned to its natural dark colour.

Then, another autumn, it became silver.

Not with age.

By choice.

"It suits you," Liam said.

"I was wondering whether anyone would mention it."

The man looked up from his tea.

"It makes you look distinguished."

"I was aiming for interesting."

"You achieved both."

She nodded gravely.

"I'll take that."

That weekend they produced one of the finest Go games anyone in the bar had ever seen.

Neither reached for an obvious advantage.

Both repeatedly chose complicated continuations simply because they found them beautiful.

They forgot there were spectators.

The spectators forgot to order drinks.

When the final stone settled onto the board, neither moved.

She leaned forward.

"I think..."

"So do I."

Five minutes passed.

She laughed.

"I've lost."

"Barely."

"Still lost."

They reset the board immediately and played again.

...

Another spring.

Another lunch.

This time a slim black slate rested inside the satchel.

It never emerged.

...

Another autumn.

New hair, purple and golden highlights.

The slate came out.

It remained face down beside his tea throughout the afternoon.

She glanced at it once.

He turned it over.

Neither mentioned it.

Liam put something unlabelled in front of them both at closing time.

"What's this?"

"Kvass. Someone brought it from offworld. Don't ask which world."

He tasted it cautiously.

"It tastes like bread that's had a difficult life."

"Accurate," Liam said.

She finished hers.

"I'd have it again."

"You would."

"You wouldn't."

"Correct."

...

One year she appeared with alternating bands of bright yellow and black through her hair.

Kenji nearly dropped a tray.

Liam stared.

"Holy moly, Kenji."

"What?"

"She's a head like a giant wasp."

Kenji frowned.

"What's a wasp?"

She burst out laughing before she reached the counter.

"I knew somebody would say something."

"I wasn't expecting historical entomology to be the first response."

The man studied her thoughtfully.

"I think I preferred the blue."

"You are entitled to your opinion."

"I am that."

"You may also keep it largely to yourself."

"Very wise advice."

By closing time everyone had become accustomed to it.

Except Liam.

Every time she crossed the room he found himself smiling.

...

The slate chimed for the first time three years later.

Just once.

A soft tone.

He looked at it.

Read.

Touched the screen.

The sound stopped.

"I'm sorry."

She shrugged.

"It'll keep."

"It probably won't."

"Then somebody else can panic for ten minutes."

He hesitated.

Then turned the slate face down again.

She smiled without triumph.

They resumed their game.

...

The following spring their lunch was interrupted twice.

He answered the first message.

Ignored the second.

She waited until he'd finished.

"Everything all right?"

"No."

"No?"

"No."

He folded the slate closed.

"It will still be wrong tomorrow. But it can wait."

"It will."

"So will you."

"I hope so."

They finished lunch in companionable silence before setting off for their walk.

...

Autumn again.

Red hair the colour of a lost sunset.

He lost in the semi-final.

As always.

Instead of joining the post-match analysis immediately, he carried his tea into the corner by the window.

The slate opened.

His fingers began moving across it.

Quietly.

Methodically.

After perhaps twenty minutes she wandered over.

"Finished?"

"Nearly."

She looked out through the glass.

"It'll still be dreadful after another pint."

"I know."

"Come back."

He read one more line.

Closed the slate.

Without another word he followed her to the analysis board, where four people were already arguing cheerfully over a joseki that nobody could quite remember correctly.

Liam watched them rejoin the conversation.

He said nothing.

Neither did she.

After the game, Liam put two dark bottles on the bar without ceremony.

"Stout. Proper one. None of your nonsense."

She looked at hers with mild suspicion.

"I don't usually."

"Try it anyway."

She did.

Her expression shifted slightly.

"It's like drinking something that's made a decision."

He laughed. Actually laughed.

"That's exactly what it is."

Liam said nothing.

But the next year the slate stayed open a little longer.

Years accumulated the way good years often do.

Quietly.

Nobody marked anniversaries.

Nobody counted them.

The regulars simply came to expect that if it was spring, the two of them would appear shortly after midday, eat, linger over another drink, then disappear for the afternoon.

If it was autumn, they would arrive carrying Go bowls.

Separately through the door.

A hair colour that often defied chromatic sense but was always her.

Together by the time the first game began.

...

She returned one spring with her hair back to its natural colour.

"I've become respectable, Liam. Promotion."

She winced slightly.

Liam looked over the rim of his glasses.

"I wouldn't go that far."

"Thank you."

"I meant ordinary."

"Worse."

"Much."

The man looked up from the menu.

"I liked the silver."

"I know."

"I also liked the blue."

"I know."

"The yellow..."

"We don't discuss the yellow."

"I wasn't going to."

"You were thinking about it."

"I was."

She laughed.

"You've become predictable."

"So have you."

"I hope so."

...

The slate no longer stayed in the satchel.

It sat on the table beside his plate.

Dark.

Waiting.

Occasionally he turned it over.

Most lunches it remained silent.

When it did, the meal continued as though it had never existed.

...

Autumn.

Another tournament, ordinary hair.

Another semi-final.

Another defeat.

Nobody seemed surprised.

Least of all him.

Back at the bar Liam poured tea before he asked.

"The usual?"

"The usual."

"You'll come back next year."

"I expect so."

She looked at him over the rim of her glass.

"You've said that every year."

"I've been right every year."

"So far."

"So far."

...

One spring she found him already waiting.

"You're early."

"So are you."

"I know."

They ordered lunch.

Halfway through she unfolded a sheet of paper across the table.

He frowned.

"What am I looking at?"

"A proposal."

"I generally dislike those."

"I know."

"Should I be worried?"

"No."

He studied it.

Coloured contour lines.

Rainfall projections.

Reservoir networks.

"So?"

"The northern basin."

"It'll work."

"The committee says it won't."

He looked again.

"They're wrong."

"I know."

"Then why are we discussing it?"

"I wanted another opinion."

"You already had one."

"I wanted yours."

He reached for a pencil.

For twenty minutes they forgot lunch entirely.

By the time the food arrived, the margins had filled with calculations and neat corrections.

Liam set the plates down.

"You two building an empire?"

"No."

"Repairing one," she said.

He nodded.

"Fair enough."

...

The slate chimed twice that autumn.

He silenced it before reading the second message.

"You didn't look."

"I know what it'll say."

"And?"

"It'll still say it in an hour."

She smiled.

"Good."

He slipped it back into the satchel.

"Your move."

...

Years later the satchel disappeared entirely.

The slate travelled in his hand.

...

One spring lunch was shorter than usual.

A junior administrator appeared at the door looking increasingly uncomfortable.

"I'm terribly sorry."

The man sighed almost before the words were finished.

"What is it?"

"The Adeptus committee has..."

"I know."

"...requested your immediate..."

"I know."

"...attendance."

"I know."

The young clerk blinked.

"You haven't heard it yet."

"I know the sort of thing they request."

The clerk looked helpless.

She rescued him.

"Tell them he'll be there in an hour."

"They said immediately."

She smiled pleasantly.

"Then they may continue saying it for another hour."

The clerk looked at the man.

He looked at his lunch.

Then at her.

Then back to the clerk.

"An hour."

The clerk nodded uncertainly and retreated.

They ate in silence for a few minutes.

"You'll be late."

"Yes."

"They'll complain."

"Yes."

"They'll survive."

"I hope so."

She raised her glass.

"To institutional resilience."

He touched his to hers.

"To lunch."

...

Another autumn.

He lost.

Packed away his stones.

Walked quietly to the corner.

Opened the slate.

People gathered around the demonstration board.

Arguments began.

Laughter followed.

Normally he would have drifted over after five minutes.

This year he did not.

She carried two fresh teas across the room.

One for herself.

One for him.

"You've missed an excellent argument."

"I'm nearly finished."

"So am I."

He looked up.

"You've only just arrived."

"I meant nearly finished waiting."

He stared at the screen another few moments.

Then closed it.

Not because the work was done.

Because she'd asked.

They spent the next hour discussing the game that had eliminated him.

On the way home she carried the Go bowl.

He carried the slate.

...

The following spring there was more paper than conversation.

Not much.

Just enough for Liam to notice.

The slate had acquired companions.

Printed reports.

Maps.

Briefing folders.

She waited while he finished reading one.

He apologised.

She waved it away.

The conversation resumed.

A little later than it once would have.

...

No one remembered exactly when her laughter became one of the sounds people expected to hear during Board Games Weekend.

Only that one autumn it was there.

And afterwards it always seemed to have been.

Until, one spring, it wasn't.

The next autumn the door opened.

He came in alone.

"Tis yourself," Liam said gently.

"So it is."

"The lady running late?"

He was quiet for a moment.

"No."

Liam waited.

"She went to the Emperor's grace. In the spring."

"God be good to her."

Nothing else followed.

Nothing needed to.

Liam poured the tea.

Set it down without a word.

He picked up the mug.

Thanked him.

Then carried it to the table where they had always played.

There was only one Go bowl.

The slate lay beside it.

Already open.

...

The following spring he came again.

Alone.

He ordered lunch.

A pot of tea.

Nothing else had changed.

He still took the same table.

He still looked out of the same window before the food arrived.

The slate remained open beside his plate.

Sometimes he ate with one hand while the other turned another page.

Sometimes he stopped halfway through a mouthful to make a note.

When Liam brought another pot of tea, he found a weather restoration map spread across half the table.

"I didn't know you'd taken an interest."

"I haven't."

"No?"

"I'm finishing her work."

Liam looked at the map.

Then at him.

"Ah."

That was all.

...

Board Games Weekend arrived.

He entered carrying the same wooden Go bowl.

The slate under his arm.

People greeted him warmly.

He greeted them back.

Nothing appeared amiss.

The first round passed.

The second.

The quarter-final.

The familiar semi-final.

He lost.

Again.

The room relaxed into its customary post-match discussion.

Someone called him over.

"Come settle something."

"In a minute."

He sat in the corner.

The slate opened.

Twenty minutes became forty.

Eventually Kenji wandered across.

"They're looking for you."

"I know."

"They've reached move seventy-three."

"They usually do."

"They're wrong."

"They often are."

Kenji hesitated.

"They'd still like your opinion."

He read one final paragraph.

Closed the slate.

"I suppose I'd better prevent lasting damage."

He joined the others.

For an hour.

Then quietly drifted back to the corner.

The slate opened once more.

...

The years continued.

He still came.

Less conversation.

More work.

The Go remained.

The spring lunches remained.

Though lunch increasingly meant reading while food cooled beside him.

One year Liam noticed he'd brought two folders.

The following year there were four.

Another year the Go bowl sat on top of a stack of briefing papers.

Kenji watched him organise them before the tournament.

"Busy?"

"A little."

"Can nobody else do it?"

He was silent for long enough that Kenji wondered whether he'd heard.

"Perhaps."

"But?"

"They won't."

Kenji nodded without really understanding.

...

One spring he apologised twice during the meal.

Then three times.

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right."

"No."

"It isn't."

The apology simply hung in the quiet between him and Liam.

He finished eating.

Opened the slate again.

Closed it almost immediately.

Then stared through the window for a long time.

...

Eventually he stopped coming in the spring.

Only the autumn remained.

Even then he arrived later.

Left earlier.

Played well.

Lost.

Worked.

Went home.

One year he left before the final had even begun.

Liam watched the door close behind him.

"He forgot his tea."

Kenji looked over.

"So he did."

Neither moved to clear it until it had gone cold.

...

The next autumn his place in the draw remained empty until nearly lunchtime.

People began reshuffling pairings.

"He must have forgotten."

"He never forgets."

"He'll be here."

He wasn't.

For the first time in decades the tournament finished without him.

The following year they left the space again.

Empty.

Again he did not come.

Nor the year after.

Eventually the organisers stopped leaving the place blank.

The tournament adapted.

Traditions, Liam often said, survived because people carried them.

Sometimes they survived because people had no choice.

...

A parcel arrived one damp autumn morning.

No return address.

Simply:

For Board Games Weekend.

Liam untied the string.

Inside lay the old Go board.

Its edges were worn smooth by decades of careful hands.

Beneath it, wrapped separately in cloth, sat two bowls of stones.

He opened the first.

Then the second.

He stood very still.

Kenji came over.

He looked.

"Those are new."

"They are."

The stones were new. The bowls were the old ones. But the stones themselves were something else — black with GV inlaid in white, white with GV inlaid in black. Not stamped. Not printed. Set into the stone itself, the way you did things when you wanted them to outlast you.

Kenji picked one up.

Turned it over.

"These are..."

"Aye."

"Who has these made?"

Liam said nothing for a moment.

"Someone who wanted them used."

Beneath the bowls rested a single folded sheet.

No letter.

Just one line.

Please keep this in play.

Liam ran a thumb gently across the grain of the board.

"Kenji."

"Yeah?"

"Put it with the others."

"The tournament board?"

"Aye. Stones and all."

Kenji carried it into the back room.

The first game upon it began less than half an hour later.

Nobody knew whose initials they were carrying.

Except Liam.

...

Many years later, long after Kenji had become the older barman welcoming newcomers with tea before they asked, two junior clerks came into McEvers after work.

They wore the exhausted look of Administratum officials who had spent all day surviving meetings.

One of them accepted his drink gratefully.

"I swear," he said, "if I ever meet the Ecclesiarch..."

His companion laughed.

"You won't."

"No."

"I suppose not."

"They say he works harder than anyone in the Palace."

"They say he reads everything."

"They say he sleeps about four hours."

"They say he still rewrites departmental reports himself."

Kenji smiled.

"Who's that then?"

The younger clerk looked surprised.

"The Ecclesiarch."

"What was his name before?"

The clerk frowned.

"I can't quite...Vardan? Vandan?."

His companion answered.

"Vandire, Goge Vandire."

Kenji stopped polishing the glass.

He looked towards Liam.

Liam had heard.

"Our Go Goge?"

"So it says."

Liam stood very still for a moment.

Then he nodded once.

"Well now."

He picked up the old Go board.

Ran a hand gently across its surface.

Set it back exactly where it belonged.

Lunch service began.


# Tale 22 The Fuse (published)


The lights went out halfway through pulling a pint.

Nobody panicked.

McEvers had survived earthquakes, bombardments, hive quakes, three separate attempts at compulsory electrification, and whatever unpleasantness had occurred in M36 that left half the district smelling faintly of cinnamon for six weeks. A power cut barely made the list especially as Liam had made sure the essentials - pumps, kitchen, sanitary - remained on a seperate circuit. 

Emergency lamps glowed softly behind the bar, one redly winged. 

Kenji looked up from the till.

"That's not happened for a bit now."

"It'll be back, soon as."

KIT's voice drifted from somewhere beneath the counter.

**External supply interrupted. AGAIN. Liam's sentiment strikes again. I  have Internal systems available. Shall I transfer the premises to reserve power?**

"No."

**Probability of restoration within five minutes: thirty-seven percent.**

"No."

**I can restore full lighting in point three seconds.**

"I know you can. You can also feck off. The punters wont mind a bit of atmosphere. "

Liam set the pint on the counter.

"But we'll use the fuse. Kenji, hold the fort. "

KIT paused just long enough to convey disapproval.

**The fuse is objectively inferior.**

"It is."

**Then why---**

"Because that's what it's for."

Kenji was already reaching beneath the counter.

"I've a box here somewhere."

Liam shook his head.

"No. Proper one's below."

He hung the cloth over the tap.

"Keep them amused. The pumps still should work, but dont chance anything heavy on the load"

"Grand."

"If KIT gets notions..."

"I'll ignore him."

**I heard that. **

The jukebox struck up with a tune that had been popular in the twilight days of the Western Hegemony. 

"I know."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The stairs beneath the kitchen were older than the kitchen.

The next flight was older than the stairs.

The one below that had once led outside.

Now it led deeper into the foundations of a city that no longer knew there had ever been a hillside here.

Liam walked without thinking.

Each landing carried another layer of McEvers.

Old barrels.

Shelving.

Forgotten stock.

A crate of glasses bearing six different brewery logos, each company extinct before the next had been founded.

Another door. 

A landing with several crates of clear liquid marked Inisheer Special and enough skulls and crossed bones to make it a relic. 

Another staircase.

Cooler now.

Drier.

The air had the stillness of places that had long ago ceased expecting visitors.

At the bottom he unlocked the final door.

The deepest basement waited beyond.

It wasn't large.

Just...old.

Things came here when there was no reason or sense to throw them away.

Things stayed because somebody might need them one day.

Or because nobody could quite bring themselves to part with them.

Or because in at least two cases, they refused to move. 

The electrical cabinet occupied one wall.

Opposite stood a wardrobe beneath an oversized stasis field whose emitters hummed so quietly they had become part of the silence. Good purchase that Liam thought, change once every few thousand years. 

Beside it stood two matching dressers.

Against the far wall, the armour watched over everything.

Tall. Blue beneath the dust.  Gold trim dulled by ages. Its helm rose into a ridged funerary crest. A careful observer might conculde there was a faint glow in the helmet lenses then conclude he had better get augmetics. 

An apron hung from one shoulder. Two hats adorned the right hand point of the crest.  A tea towel from one gauntlet.  Someone had balanced an old shopping bag on one boot.

Liam nodded to it as he passed.

"All right lad."

There they were, beside the boarded up gate. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

He reached the dressers without looking at them, stepping over a bag of who knows what, the bag itself from a amusement park that had been closed for longer than some especially energetic suns lasted. 

He'd opened the right-hand one for longer than most civilisations had existed.

His hand found the brass handle by habit.

Pulled.

The drawer slid open. 

Travel pass. 

Liam frowned.

"Oh. oh feck."

Wrong dresser.

He ought to have shut it there and then.

Instead he rested one hand on the drawer front. It had been...a while. 

The travel pass was still lying exactly where she'd left it that last day, adjusting for drawer jostiling and dresser moving. 

He picked it up.

The laminate had yellowed a little despite everything.

Mariko smiled from a photograph scarcely larger than a postage stamp, looking mildly irritated that whoever had taken it had insisted she wasn't smiling enough.

"You always looked cross in photographs." he'd said to her 

She'd never agreed.

"I'm concentrating."

"On what?"

"Not looking cross."

He smiled to himself.

"You never managed it."

The pass went back exactly where he'd found it.

Underneath lay the sunglasses.

The left lens still carried the crack from dropping them outside the old Shibuya station one bright  October day.

He remembered offering to replace them.

She'd looked over the top of them.

"They still work."

"They're cracked."

"So am I."

That had been the end of the discussion.

He laid them down.

Nail clippers.  The expensive pair she'd insisted on buying because, according to her, life was too short for bad nail clippers.

He'd laughed at the time.

Then quietly admitted they were the best he'd ever used. The Japanese had always been good at metallurgy 

Curtain hooks.  Of course.  Every place they'd ever lived had acquired curtains within a week, a week of incessant curtain discussions

He'd never understood why. Curtains to him were of course required, but didnt warrant dozens of hours of discussion 

She'd never understood why he kept resisting .

A single chlaquered ebony copstick. Still no sign of its partner.

He laughed softly.

"I still haven't found the other one. God you were quare mad at me"

Bulldog clips.

Allen keys, as handy as ever and a tool Liam was baffled had fallen out of use. .

An elastic band turned brittle with age holding more elastic bands. 

A cassette. Her neat handwriting on the label.

Two titles carefully crossed out.

She'd changed her mind at the last minute. Hadn't stopped The Candies, Liam mused. 

She always did that with music.

The Luzern name badge.

**MARICO**, a japanese and english flag under her name 

Misspelled. She had kept it as she was madly proud of her breaking away. 

Passports..... A block of them, bound with a red ribbon

Somebody had asked her for an old visa number once, years back, and she had not been able to produce it.

She never had that problem again.

The last one still had five years left on it.

A SIM card from a telephone company whose language itself had long since vanished. "pff.. no clue on THAT" he mouthed. 

The little Maxol Nipper. A purple and red one.  He turned it over in his fingers.

"I was awfully pleased with myself."

She'd humoured him for the entire evening.

Not because it was interesting.

Because *he* was interested. He had tried to explain the curious social pheonmena and she had given him that look that longsuffering partners give.  He put it back.

Nothing in the drawer was precious.

None of it belonged in a museum.

It was simply...

Mariko.

The ordinary clutter of sixty-four years lived by a woman who never threw away anything that might come in useful.

At the bottom lay the lucite block.

He didn't pick it up.

He didn't need to.

He knew every bubble inside it.

Every tiny flaw.

Snow.

Young faces.

The Alps behind them.

A group of them packed in close, arms around each other the way people stand when the photograph matters more than the day.

The lad on her left had his arm around her shoulders and a look on his face suggesting he had hopes for more

Liam had never asked his name. Too proud. 

"Sure you could always go back to your lad in the Alps."

"Someday I might."

She always left the pause there.

"When I get tired of you, old man."

That had ended more arguments than any apology he ever managed.

She'd been laughing at something outside the frame.

Not the camera.

Never the camera.

He let the drawer sit open another moment.

Then he closed it.

Halfway.

A slight pressure to the left.

The runner slipped past the place where it always caught.

Click.

Exactly as it always had.

He stood there for another heartbeat.

Then nodded once, almost to himself.

"Right. Lights. "

The other dresser stood less than a foot away.

Same timber.

Same brass handles.

He opened its top drawer.

Blu Tack.

Electrical tape.

Terminal blocks.

Old plugs.

Cable ties.

A packet of screws that had somehow survived the Age of Strife.

And, sitting exactly where it had always sat...

A packet of  ceramic thirteen-amp fuse.

"There you are."

He picked one  up.

As he turned towards the electrical cabinet the armour regarded him with its eternal silence.

Dust lay in the grooves of the blue enamel.

The gold trim had worn thin at the edges.

The crested helm stared forever at nothing.

The apron had slipped from one shoulder.

Liam stopped.

Walked over.

Folded it properly.

Hung the tea towel back over the waiting gauntlet.

"There."

The armour, as ever, declined to comment.

"Good man."

He crossed to the fuse board, pulled the blown ceramic link free and slid the new one home. Seven left he thought. Next crisp run, he'd get some more. 

The lights came back with a solid, satisfying clack that travelled upward through forty thousand years.

Somewhere overhead he heard the refrigerator restart.

A second later came the distant cheer of people whose evening had resumed before they had quite noticed it had paused.

Liam smiled.

"That'll do."

**It still worked?**

"yeah KIT, sometimes aul things like it and us work. In your case for a living. How are the orders?"

He switched off the torch, locked the deep basement behind him and climbed towards the noise of the bar, leaving the deepest room in McEvers exactly as he had found it.

Waiting patiently for the next thing that was too ordinary to throw away.

---

# Tale 23 500 Kenji's 
The ceiling above the snug had been staining for three days and beginning to drip.

Nothing dramatic. A slow, dirty bloom widened each morning when the temperature shifted. Kenji put a bucket under it on the second day when he noticed the water collecting and said nothing. On the third, he waited for the afternoon lull, wiped his hands, and went to the foot of the stairs.

He had always known the stairs were there, narrow, older than the current layout, behind a plain door no customer ever noticed. He never climbed them. Liam never asked him to.

Aoto watched from the stool by the front door, reading about racing, and said nothing.

Kenji knocked once.

The door opened at once. Liam stood there in shirtsleeves, looking slightly harried. He paused.

"Eh, boss. The water leak."

"Come in so."

The flat was smaller than Kenji had imagined.

One main room. A low Japanese table, set close to the floor, four stools around it, each with a blue and gold cushion. A single good open-frame wooden reclining chair set at the exact angle that caught the light from the only window. The window faced the underside of a hive causeway now. It had faced sky once, then a wall, then this. The flat had not moved. The city had built a lid over it.

The kitchen occupied the far end, compact and spotless, its tools hung in precise order. A futon stood against the wall, made with the kind of care that suggested it was done every morning without thought. A small table beside it held a lacquered urn. The surfaces were clear. An open storage cupboard held cups, plates, some bottles of spirits. Almost everything had a use apart from two hurleys crossed on the wall above the table.

The long wall opposite the window did not.

Kenji saw it as soon as he stepped inside.

Five hundred small frames, each scarcely wider than his palm, fitted close together from skirting board to ceiling. Some formal, some candid, some clearly taken by people who already understood the joke. Faces shared the same set of the mouth, the same way of standing, the same slight tilt of the head when listening. Dates had been written small beneath them. The earliest photographs had faded almost to sepia. The most recent was only a few years old.

Kenji stopped.

Liam closed the door behind him and walked past without comment. He opened a panel beside the kitchen, took a cloth and a small implement from his pocket, and went to work. He fiddled, swore under his breath, and kept at it. Two breakers kicked against one another with faint, irregular clicks.

"The house circuit," he said. "It was fighting with the toilet circuit."

He isolated one, waited, then reset the other. Somewhere behind the wall, a pipe gave a dull knock.

"Just finished separating them. The water was a kickback from the toilet not working just so. Should dry up now and we can repaint."

Kenji had not moved.

Liam glanced at him, then at the wall, then back to the panel. He wiped his hands on the cloth.

Kenji stepped closer.

The faces ran the full length of the room and climbed almost beyond inspection. Men mostly, with women appearing among them in the later centuries. Young faces became older faces. The same family repeated across millennia. Some smiled. Most did not. A few wore the exact expression Kenji found in the mirror after a long service.

He looked for some time.

"What's this?"

Liam did not turn from the panel.

"Kenji."

"What's this?"

Liam did not turn from the panel.

"Kenji."

"I know that, Liam. Why not one?"

A short silence.

"Exactly."

Kenji breathed out through his nose and kept looking.

Liam closed the panel and came to stand a little behind him. Not close. Just present.

He set the cloth down.

"Eighty years or so behind the bar is about average," he said. "Some less. A few more. A handful left and never came back. That was fine too."

Kenji nodded once.

"You kept all of them."

"I did."

"Why?"

Liam considered the question without hurry.

"Everything else wears out," he said. "Or gets left behind. These didn't."

Kenji stayed another minute.

Near the end, he found himself.

The photograph had been taken behind the counter. He was younger in it by perhaps six years, holding a tray and looking past the camera at someone who had said something irritating. He did not remember the photograph being taken.

He stepped back.

"Leak should be grand now," Liam said. "I'll come down with ya."

"Right."

They went down the stairs together. Liam locked the door behind them.

In the bar, the afternoon light had shifted. The stain above the snug was no longer spreading. Aoto glanced up once and returned to his reading.

Kenji took his place behind the counter. He polished a glass that was already clean.

Liam moved past him, cloth in hand, and began setting up for the evening.

The wall stayed upstairs.

# Tale 24 Aoto Opens Up
Kenji had poured Bruce Galdai half a stout before he looked through the front window and stopped.

Aoto was talking, for once. 

Not answering someone looking for something. Not telling somebody to move along. Just...Talking. Off his stool, talking. 

His right hand moved once between himself and the woman under the awning. The movement traced a shallow angle in the air, then flattened. The woman replied at once. One of the mechadendrites folded along her back loosened and rose over her shoulder. Its tip drew a shape beside Aoto’s hand without touching him.

Aoto nodded.

Kenji let the tap close. Foam climbed the side of the glass and settled below the rim.

Bruce followed his attention.

“Oh,” he said. “That’s Hestia.”

Liam was polishing a wine glass beneath the good shelf. He turned it once, examined the stem and looked toward the window.

Outside, the woman wore Mechanicum red, darkened across the shoulders where the awning had failed to catch all of the rain. Her hood was down. Fine brass structures circled the left side of her head. Three folded limbs rested behind her in what Kenji supposed was intended to appear harmless. The door was sticking again he noticed, closing in fits and starts, allowing snatches of the conversation to drift in. 

Aoto said something else.

The woman answered at length.

Aoto laughed.

The sound came faintly through the glass.

Liam set the wine glass down with both hands.

“Bruce.”

“I see it.”

“Any idea?”

“None.”

Kenji finished pouring the stout and placed it in front of Bruce.

Aoto did not laugh often. Kenji had heard it at racing results, once when KIT attempted to deny possessing nutmeg while actively venting it into the kitchen, and once when a customer claimed to have been champion of a fighting circuit Aoto had apparently helped destroy.

This laugh was shorter than any of those. It was still a laugh.

The Mechanicum woman leaned forward. The mechadendrite drew another shape. Aoto corrected it with one finger.

Bruce lifted the stout.

“I’m going to have to go out there, aren’t I?”

“I’d leave them to it,” Liam said. “Safer.”

“She’s barred tho?”

“She’s outside. So, eh, no issue ”

“She appears to be enjoying herself.”

Liam picked up the wine glass again but did not polish it.

“What’ll she drink?”

Bruce paused with the stout at his mouth.

“Coffee. Black. Oily and bitter”

“Does she like coffee or is that something penitential?”

“No. She uses it.”

Liam looked through the window.

The woman had produced a data-slate. Aoto was pointing at it.

“That’s no use,” Liam said.

“It is to her.”

“What does she drink when she isn’t working?”

Bruce considered this for longer.

“I have never seen her not working.”

“Stout, so.”

“She may not like it.”

“She’s talking to Aoto. She'll definitely need a drink.”

Liam nodded toward Kenji.

Kenji took down another glass.

Outside, Aoto had gone back to describing something with his hands. His fingers marked distance and height. The Magos watched, her head tilted slightly to keep all three primary lenses aligned on him.

Kenji pulled the stout slowly. Liam watched the head form.

“Not too much.”

“I know.”

“I’m only saying.”

“You always say.”

“That’s how you know.”

Kenji wiped the foot of the glass, set it on a small tray and went around the end of the bar.

The conversation became audible as he opened the door.

“Hydraulic slip under load,” the Magos said. “Right pauldron. Repeated repair, local material, pre-Astartes base plate. He had compensated manually for the imbalance.”

Aoto sat on his stool beneath the awning. Rain hissed against the road beyond the dry strip in front of the bar.

“Always did,” he said.

The Magos stood beside the wall. Her red robes had been gathered clear of a drain channel. The mechadendrites remained folded except for one narrow manipulator, which hovered beside her shoulder.

“He was present in the western Alpine remnant zone,” she said. “Habichtsburg. A fortress built over a sealed financial reserve vault. He had occupied three rooms in the south range and maintained the site alone.”

Aoto’s eyes moved to Kenji, then to the tray.

“Who’s that for?”

“Her.”

The Magos turned.

“I did not request a drink.”

“Boss sent it.”

She looked through the window. Liam raised the wine glass a fraction.

“This may constitute an attempt to alter the terms of access.”

“No,” Kenji said. “You’re still barred.”

Aoto gave a small grunt of approval.

Kenji placed the stout on the ledge beside her.

The Magos examined the glass.

“What is it?”

“Stout.”

“I am aware of the general category.”

“Good.”

Kenji kept hold of the tray.

Aoto looked back at her.

“Three rooms?”

“Sleeping chamber, hearth chamber and armour repair bay. He had no attendants. No servitors. The upper fortress contained evidence of prolonged solitary occupation.”

“What name?”

“He identified himself only as the Seneschal.”

Aoto’s head turned.

The rain continued against the road. A hauler passed at the far end of the street, its engine labouring under a load too heavy for the gradient.

“Describe him,” Aoto said.

The Magos leaned closer.

“Legiones Cataegis. Significant metabolic irregularity. Scar over his left eye towards the hairline, what seemed a heat injury on his lower right jaw, two jagged lines inked on his left cheek.. Pre-Astartes armour, stripped of formal campaign marks and repaired through multiple material phases.  Heavy blade. Archaic pistol. Sealed drinking vessel. A hawk had been worked into the breastplate over earlier scoring.”

Aoto’s hand closed around the edge of the stool.

“Leftenant.”

“He supplied no rank.”

“Leftenant.”

The Magos stared at him.

“You knew him.”

Aoto looked toward the road.

“Knew of him.”

“When?”

“Before.”

“Before the fortress occupation?”

Aoto gave her a flat look.

“Before Ararat.”

“Before.”

Her mechadendrite unfolded again.

“The hawk. Was it a formation designation?”

“No.”

“A unit marking?”

“No.”

“A campaign device?”

“No.”

“Personal heraldry?”

“No.”

She waited.

Aoto shifted his weight on the stool. The old wood made no sound beneath him.

“Seemed right.”

The Magos became completely still.

“The Seneschal used the same phrase,” she said.

Aoto looked back at her.

“What?”

“I asked whether the hawk belonged to a formation. He looked at it and said it seemed right.”

Aoto’s mouth moved slightly at one corner.

“Leftenant.”

The Magos sipped, grimaced.

“It’s bitter.”

“Yes.”

She drank again, less cautiously.

Kenji went back inside.

Bruce had turned fully on the stool. Liam stood behind the bar with the wine glass untouched in one hand.

“Well?” Bruce asked.

“He knew her Seneschal.”

“Knew him?”

“Called him Leftenant.”

Liam looked toward the window.

“Ah.”

Bruce set his stout down.

“Alive?”

“She said he was.”

Outside, Hestia had placed the data-slate on the ledge between herself and the glass. Aoto leaned over it. The mechadendrite drew a series of marks in the air while she spoke.

Kenji returned the tray beneath the bar.

“What are they talking about now?” Liam asked.

“Armour. The hawk. Before Ararat.”

“Grand.”

Bruce looked at him.

“Grand?”

“He’s talking.”

“He never talks.”

“He is now.”

Hestia’s voice rose outside, not in volume but in speed. Her words came through the door whenever someone entered or left.

“Comparative survivorship estimates are unreliable. The sealed military appendices classify late Cataegis attrition through broad cohort loss, but the surviving logistics fragments indicate significant variance between operational theatres.”

Aoto said something too low to carry.

Hestia replied immediately.

“The Tharsis actions may be an exception. You were present at the Tharsis Genocide?”

Aoto stopped moving.

Kenji saw it through the window before he understood it.

The ease left Aoto’s shoulders. His hand remained half-raised above the slate, one finger angled toward a point Hestia had drawn. His head did not turn. He simply became still in the particular way that made everyone near the door reconsider their next movement.

Hestia waited.

Her mechadendrite remained extended beside her. Rainwater ran from the awning and struck the pavement in a steady line beyond them.

Inside, Liam lowered the glass.

“Ah.”

Bruce looked from him to the window.

“What?”

“She’s found one.”

Outside, Hestia’s expression had not yet changed. She remained bright with the force of the question, waiting for an answer from the only living source she had ever encountered.

Aoto looked past her at the rain.

Kenji took up the cloth beside the till and put it down again.

The silence lengthened.

Hestia’s mechadendrite folded by one joint.

“That is the archive designation,” she said.

Aoto did not answer.

“It is not yours.”

“No.”

“What did you call it?”

Aoto’s hand lowered to his knee.

“Tharsis.”

Hestia waited.

No further question came.

She folded the mechadendrite against her back. The other two remained still beneath her robes.

Aoto’s shoulders did not loosen.

Hestia picked up the stout and drank.

The door opened as two customers left. A wash of conversation and warm air moved under the awning, then disappeared when the door shut again.

Hestia looked at Aoto.

“The Seneschal received an Imperial recall order while we were at Habichtsburg.”

His eyes shifted to her.

“No replacement garrison. No medical provision. Immediate compliance.”

Aoto remained stone-faced.

“He shot down the courier drone,” Hestia said.

The edge of his mouth moved.

“He removed the message cylinder intact. I read the order to him.”

“What then?”

“He placed it behind the hawk on his breastplate. He left before morning.”

“Walking?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Armed?”

“He took his blade, pistol and drinking vessel.”

Aoto nodded once.

“Good.”

Hestia looked at the slate but did not touch it.

“He did not take anything from the vault.”

“Wouldn’t.”

“He had guarded it for an unknown period.”

“Wasn’t guarding the vault.”

Hestia’s head lifted.

“What was he guarding?”

Aoto looked at the door behind her.

“The door.”

Inside, Bruce’s hand stopped around his glass.

Liam began polishing again.

Rain struck armour and pavement. The sign above the bar gave a small electrical buzz and held.

After a while Hestia asked, “Was he always called the Seneschal?”

“No.”

“What was he called?”

Aoto looked at her.

She stopped.

“That question is not necessary,” she said.

“No.”

She drank again.

Aoto’s posture eased by a degree.

The conversation resumed, but it had changed direction. Hestia told him about the swollen doors beneath Habichtsburg, the wheel-lock that had required heat cycling, and the vault full of polymer money that had outlived every system able to redeem it.

Aoto listened.

When she described the Seneschal laughing as a servitor lost traction against the vault door, Aoto laughed too. Once. Quietly.

Kenji poured another stout.

Liam glanced at the glass.

“She didn’t ask.”

“No.”

“Good.”

Kenji carried it outside.

Hestia had reached the part about the recall order being clear in the manner of administrative finality. Aoto saw the glass and pointed at the ledge.

“She doesn’t like it.”

“I know.”

Hestia looked at both of them.

“I have not completed the first.”

“You will,” Kenji said.

“This appears presumptive.”

“Yes.”

He placed the second stout beside the first and went back in.

Bruce watched him approach.

“Is she coming inside?”

“No.”

“Has Aoto changed his mind?”

“No.”

Liam put the polished glass on the shelf.

Outside, Hestia said something that made Aoto turn fully toward her. She answered with both hands now, one human, one brass, sketching the shape of a fortress wall under the awning.

Aoto replied.

Kenji could not hear the words.

He did not need to.

The door remained closed between them.

The drinks went out anyway

# Tale 25 Twenty Years Later (published) 

The taller of the two men had learned to limp discreetly.

Liam recognised him anyway.

It was a quiet afternoon. Two pilgrims were asleep over tea in the far booth and Kenji had gone downstairs for clean glassware. Aoto had disappeared through the passage beside the kitchen several minutes earlier with a fiction slate under one arm and the expression of a man who intended to be unavailable for a while.

The door opened.

Two very large men came in with a boy between them.

Civilian clothes helped. Loose coats, heavy boots, plain trousers. The sort of things dock labourers wore if dock labourers were two and a half metres tall and had shoulders requiring architectural consideration.

The boy was perhaps nine and looked seven.

Human. Entirely, obviously human.

He looked around McEvers with the solemn interest of someone inspecting a place he had heard about many times and had already formed opinions on.

The man on his left favoured one side when he walked.

Liam put down the glass.

"Well now."

The man stopped.

Twenty years had done surprisingly little to the face. A little more weather in it perhaps. Hair grown out and cut badly. The old injury still pulled at the line of his torso.

Recognition moved across his expression.

"Hello."

"Tis yourself."

The other man smiled.

The Night Lord had grown his hair long.

This had been an error.

Liam looked at it.

Defensively, the Night Lord touched it.

"My son likes it."

The boy looked up.

"I said it was better than bald."

"Different statement."

"Long isn't not bald, Dad."

Liam leaned both hands on the counter.

"And this is?"

The Imperial Fist put one enormous hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Our son, Jon."

The boy escaped from under it immediately.

"I can introduce myself."

"Apparently so."

He stepped forward.

"Jon."

"Liam."

"I know."

"Do you now."

"This is where they met."

Liam looked at the two men.

The Night Lord became interested in the Guinness sign.

The former Imperial Fist cleared his throat.

"In broad terms."

"Ah."

Liam considered the matter.

"Well, sure. Broadly."

Jon climbed onto a stool. His feet hung well clear of the floor.

"Did Grandad Aoto really punch someone through the pavement?"

Both men closed their eyes.

Liam reached under the counter and produced a packet of Taytos.

"Not quite through."

Jon took them.

"How far?"

"Eat your crisps."

The packet opened.

That settled him for four seconds.

"Was there really a Death Guard?"

"Yes."

"Did he smell?"

"Jon."

"What?"

The Night Lord sat beside him.

"You cannot ask people if their former comrades smelled."

"He's not here."

"That does not improve the question."

Jon considered this while putting an unreasonable number of crisps into his mouth.

The passage door opened.

Aoto came out drying his hands on his trousers.

He stopped.

The two men stopped.

For less than a second nobody moved.

Aoto's eyes went first to hands, then distance, then Liam. His weight changed slightly over his left foot.

The Imperial Fist's hand had already gone behind Jon's stool.

Not toward a weapon.

Behind the child.

Aoto took it in: the bad side, the face, the child, the hand behind the child.

"Ah."

The Imperial Fist smiled.

"Aoto."

The Night Lord inclined his head.

Aoto looked between them.

Then down at Jon.

Jon was shovelling Taytos into his mouth at a rate that suggested either starvation or commitment.

"You're Aoto," he mumbled.

"Don't speak while eating, Jon," the Night Lord said.

"Mm."

"You punched Dad's friend."

Aoto looked at the Imperial Fist.

"Which one's Dad?"

Jon pointed at him.

"That one."

Then at the Night Lord.

"And that one."

Aoto absorbed this.

"Right."

The Night Lord folded his arms.

"You appear disappointed."

"Thought I'd hit you."

"You did not. You hit Daha, Fulgrim's lad."

"Shame."

Jon laughed so hard he inhaled crisp dust and had to be slapped gently between the shoulder blades by a hand large enough to palm his entire ribcage.

Liam put a glass of water down.

"Slow down."

"He does not understand slow," the Imperial Fist said.

"I do."

"You ate breakfast standing up."

"We were late."

"We were not late."

"You said we were late."

"I said if you continued looking for your other boot we would become late."

Jon drank the water.

"That's the same thing."

Aoto looked at Liam.

Liam shrugged.

"Family."

"Mm."

They stayed.

That was the first thing.

Nobody seemed in a hurry.

Talk unwound.

The two men had acquired names Liam did not ask for and work Liam only half understood. "We did transport for a while. Loading, mostly. Heavy lifting." The Fist turned his cup. "Construction always pays. Nobody asks questions on a site." A period on a hive reclamation crew, until someone began asking why neither of them required an exoskeleton.

They had lived in several places.

Jon corrected the number twice.

"Five."

"Four."

"Five."

"The depot does not count."

"We slept there."

"For eleven days."

"So five."

The Night Lord looked at Liam.

"Five."

They had found Jon six years earlier.

A hab block had been cleared after a structural failure. Someone knew someone who knew there was a child with no surviving family and two enormous men who had somehow become the people others asked when something heavy needed moving.

Jon had arrived with a blanket and one shoe.

He now had opinions about hair and two shoes.

Liam poured tea.

Aoto sat at the end of the counter.

He had been quiet for several minutes when the Imperial Fist turned toward him.

"We wanted to ask you something."

Aoto waited.

The Night Lord looked at Jon.

Jon was attempting to balance a crisp on the rim of his glass.

Quietly, the Fist spoke.

"How did you do it?"

Aoto frowned.

"Do what."

"Disappear."

Aoto's expression did not change.

The Night Lord corrected him.

"Stay disappeared."

That got it.

Aoto leaned back against the counter.

"I'm here aren't I," Aoto said.

The Fist rubbed absently at the old wound under his coat.

"We could move before."

Jon looked up.

Neither man had meant him to.

The Night Lord continued anyway.

"After the Siege, nobody knew anything. Records were gone. Whole districts had moved. Whole populations had evaporated."

Aoto nodded once.

"It was easy enough to become someone else."

"I know how to vanish." The Night Lord said it plainly, no weight on it. "That was the work, once. Getting out of a room and not being followed." He glanced at the Fist. "He's steadier than me. Doesn't spook. But staying gone —" A short pause. "That's a different skill."

"Mm."

"It is becoming less easy."

Jon stopped balancing the crisp.

The Imperial Fist looked at him.

"We are managing."

The boy looked unconvinced.

The Night Lord said, "People remember us."

Aoto glanced between them.

"Hard not to."

"Yes."

"How long in the last place?"

"Three years."

Aoto grunted.

"Our longest," the Fist said.

Jon said nothing.

Liam looked at him.

Then at Aoto.

"Aoto."

"Boss."

"Go off shift there for a bit."

Aoto turned.

"Take these lads into the snug. Close the door."

Jon straightened.

"Can I come?"

"No," Liam said.

"Why?"

"Because you and me are going to annoy KIT."

From the kitchen hatch came a sharp electronic click.

"I heard that."

"Good."

Jon climbed down immediately.

The three big men went through the torii.

Aoto closed the snug door behind them.

"Kenji, take the bar will ya, lad," Liam shouted down the stairs.

Jon stood listening for a moment.

Something came through the wall. One word.

"—records—"

Nothing more came through.

Liam handed him another packet of Taytos.

"Come on."

The kitchen lights brightened as they entered.

KIT spoke before Jon had both feet across the threshold.

"The juvenile is baseline human."

Jon looked around.

"Who said that?"

"KIT."

"Where is he?"

"Everywhere in the bar. Worse than mice."

"I am not everywhere."

"Enough places."

A preparation arm moved behind the counter.

Jon stared.

KIT stared back in the limited way available to a culinary provisioning system with no face.

"You possess two male parental units."

Jon looked at Liam.

"This is so cool! Is he always like this?"

"Worse when he's rested."

"I am establishing household nutritional architecture."

"You're being nosy."

"The activities overlap."

Jon climbed onto a kitchen stool.

KIT produced a plate.

"Are you genetically related to either parent?"

"Huh?"

"KIT."

"This affects inherited metabolic assumptions."

"I'm adopted."

"Informal or administratively registered?"

Jon shrugged.

"Dad says paper is dangerous."

Liam paused.

KIT did not.

"Which father?"

Jon pointed toward the snug.

"That one."

"There are two individuals behind that wall."

"The grumpy one."

Liam scratched his cheek.

"That narrows it less than you'd think, tho."

Jon grinned.

KIT placed food on the plate.

Liam looked at it.

A sandwich.

He looked harder.

"KIT."

"The juvenile requires a balanced intake."

"You made a sandwich."

"I can make sandwiches if needed."

"You never did when I asked, ya tin god."

Jon picked up the sandwich.

"What's in it?"

"Protein, complex carbohydrate, vegetable matter and an acceptable fat profile."

Jon bit it.

"Ham 'n' cheese."

"Yes."

"Why didn't you just say ham 'n' cheese?" Liam asked.

KIT was silent for almost two seconds.

Liam smiled.

"He has you there."

"I am revising my communication model."

"Best of luck."

Jon ate.

KIT resumed.

"Current reading level?"

"What?"

"Literacy."

"I can read."

"Demonstrate."

"No."

Liam leaned against the prep table.

"Good man."

"My assessment requires evidence."

"I read books."

"Which books."

Jon named one.

Liam did not know it.

KIT did.

"That text is intended for readers approximately two developmental years below your age."

Jon stopped chewing.

"My dad reads it to me."

"Which father?"

"The one with the hair."

KIT processed this.

"Shared reading remains developmentally beneficial."

Jon resumed eating.

"Thought so."

"Does the other parent read to you?"

"He gives me manuals an' things."

Liam looked toward the snug.

"Course he does."

"Technical manuals?"

"Mostly."

"Age appropriate?"

"No."

"Subject?"

"Buildings. Building equipment. Building materials. Last week it was a slate called The Wonderful World of Concrete."

Liam rubbed his forehead.

"Of course."

"Fortifications," Jon added.

"Of course."

"He says walls are interesting."

"They are to him."

KIT produced a cup of milk.

Jon regarded it with suspicion.

"I don't like milk."

"You require calcium."

"I eat cheese."

"Quantity insufficient."

"How do you know?"

"I have observed your mass, dentition, bone density, apparent age, limb proportions and current food intake."

Jon looked at Liam.

"That's creepy."

"Correct."

"I am performing nutritional assessment."

"Still creepy."

KIT dispensed something else.

Jon sniffed it.

"Chocolate?"

"Calcium delivery mechanism."

He drank.

Liam pointed at KIT.

"Chancer."

The snug remained quiet.

Jon swung his legs.

KIT asked, "How frequently does the household relocate?"

Liam looked up.

"Leave it."

Jon answered anyway.

"Five times."

"Mean residential duration is therefore—"

"Don't."

KIT stopped.

Jon drank the chocolate milk.

"We're moving again. Dad said..."

Liam said nothing.

The boy stared into the cup.

"Probably."

A small ventilation fan turned somewhere inside KIT.

"Do you wish to relocate?"

"No."

The answer came immediately.

Liam wiped a patch of flour from the counter with his thumb.

Jon continued.

"I have mates now."

"Friends," KIT said.

"Mates."

"Equivalent."

"No."

Liam nodded.

"He's right."

KIT gave a faint irritated hum.

Jon finished the milk.

"Mrs Tavar says I can feed her birds when she works nights."

"Neighbour?"

"Yes."

"School attendance stable?"

"Yes."

"Current room personally assigned?"

Jon frowned.

"What?"

"Your room. Is it yours?"

"Yeah. It's small like, but it's mine. I have a desk and a tablet of my own with games."

"Then relocation carries measurable developmental cost."

Liam turned slowly toward KIT.

"Would you listen to yourself."

"I am stating a provisioning fact."

"You're after developing tact. Are ye getting soft KIT?"

"I reject that allegation."

Jon smiled into the cup.

"C'mon, Jon, let me show you some stuff in the bar," Liam said as they walked through.

The snug door opened.

Aoto came out first.

Nothing about him had changed.

He walked back through the bar and took his usual stool near the entrance.

The Night Lord came to the bar, then the Imperial Fist.

Neither spoke.

Jon was tracing the patterns on the crest of the Longford jersey, behind the armourplaz.

"Are we going?"

The Imperial Fist looked at him.

"Yes."

Jon's grip shifted on the package.

A hand settled on his shoulder. The Night Lord.

"Home."

Jon looked up.

"Our home?"

A pause.

Small.

"Yes."

That was enough.

Jon nodded.

"Good."

KIT produced a sealed package across the counter.

The Night Lord stared at it.

"What is that."

"Food."

"For whom?"

"The juvenile."

Jon took it.

"Thanks, KIT."

"It is preventative maintenance."

"Still thanks."

KIT's lights dimmed fractionally.

Aoto opened the front door.

Outside, reconstruction traffic moved slowly along the street. Scaffolds climbed the damaged hab fronts. Somewhere beyond the roofs, machinery hammered at Terra one piece at a time.

The Imperial Fist stopped beside Aoto.

Neither said anything.

Then he held out his hand.

Aoto looked at it.

Took it.

The Night Lord nodded once.

Jon stood between them holding KIT's package against his chest.

"Bye, Grandad Aoto."

Aoto's hand stopped on the door.

The Night Lord closed his eyes.

The Imperial Fist looked at the ceiling.

Liam bent over the counter.

Aoto stared at the boy. Loomed, bent down.

"Not your grandad."

Jon considered him.

"You're old enough."

"Gwan home you."

Jon grinned.

The three of them went out into the street.

Aoto watched until they turned the corner.

Then he sat back down.

From the kitchen, KIT said, "The juvenile's calcium intake remains inadequate."

Liam picked up his glass.

"Ah, leave him alone."

"I have prepared a supplementation schedule."

"Delete it."

"No."

Liam started polishing.


# Tale 26 Armour (published) 

The Night Lord came in alone.

That meant nothing in itself.

It had been years since Liam had seen him, and considerably longer since the three of them had come through the door together. People had lives. Even very large people with complicated histories had places to be.

He had cut his hair.

Liam wasn't sure he approved.

The Night Lord crossed the quiet bar in a long coat and heavy civilian boots. He still had to turn his shoulders slightly through the door.

Aoto, on the stool beneath the awning, had let him pass without comment.

Liam put down the glass.

"Well now."

"Hello, Liam."

"What'll you have?"

"Whiskey."

"Which one?"

"Whatever."

Liam looked at him.

That was unusual.

He poured from the middle shelf.

The Night Lord sat.

It was a quiet afternoon. Kenji was doing something downstairs involving crates and profanity. Two labourers occupied the far booth over late lunches. Rain ticked softly against the window.

Liam set down the whiskey.

"How've you been keeping?"

"Well enough."

"Working?"

"Until recently."

"Construction still?"

"Mostly."

Liam nodded.

The Night Lord drank.

"And the young fella?"

The glass stopped halfway back to the counter.

"Dead."

Liam's hand went still on the cloth.

"Ah."

"Seven years ago."

"I'm sorry."

"He was eighty-eight."

Liam nodded slowly.

"Good innings."

A tiny movement touched the Night Lord's mouth.

"He hated when people said that."

"Did he?"

"Said it made him sound like sport."

"That sounds like Jon, alright."

"Yes."

The Night Lord looked into the whiskey.

"He never drank milk after here, y'know."

From the kitchen hatch came a click.

Liam pointed at it without looking.

"Don't."

The hatch remained closed.

The Night Lord almost smiled.

Almost.

Liam folded the cloth once.

"And your man? How's he keeping?"

The almost-smile disappeared.

The Night Lord looked toward the window.

"Dead."

Liam said nothing for a moment.

"When?"

"Three months ago."

"Ah, that's a blow lad. Sorry for your troubles."

The Night Lord drank.

"What happened?"

"They found him."

Nothing else followed.

Liam did not ask who _they_ were.

He had lived long enough to know you don't ask who _they_ are.

The Night Lord finished the whiskey.

"I need my armour."

Liam looked at him.

Outside, Aoto shifted on the stool.

"Do you now."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I have use for it."

Aoto came through the door.

The Night Lord glanced at him.

"It is still downstairs?"

"Course it is," Liam said.

"And his?"

"Yes. Amongst other things."

A pause.

"I want mine. And his equipment as well."

Aoto leaned against the end of the bar.

"No."

The Night Lord looked at him.

"I was speaking to Liam."

"Heard you. This is a bar safety issue, tho. So speak to me or shut it."

"It belongs to me."

"Mm."

"I left it here."

"Mm."

"I want it back."

"No."

The Night Lord looked at Liam.

Liam picked up his cloth.

"Seems fairly clear."

"You agree with him?"

"I generally find life easier that way."

The Night Lord's eyes moved toward the cellar door.

"I could take it."

Aoto laughed.

One short bark.

"You could try, laddie."

The Night Lord looked at him.

Aoto smiled.

For several seconds neither moved.

Then the Night Lord looked away.

"Very well."

Aoto's smile disappeared.

"What were ye going to do with it?"

"That is my concern."

"Wrong."

The Night Lord's jaw tightened.

"Someone killed him."

"I gathered."

"They knew what he was. What I was. I wasn't there."

"Mm."

"They knew where to find us."

Aoto waited.

"And now," the Night Lord said, "I know where to find them."

"Right."

"There are matters requiring resolution."

"Are there."

"Yes."

Aoto folded his arms.

"You coming back after?"

The Night Lord said nothing.

It was not a long silence.

It did not need to be.

Aoto pulled out the stool beside him.

"Sit down."

"Aoto."

"Sit."

"I did not come here to—"

"Sit down."

The old command voice was quiet.

The Night Lord stared at him.

Then sat.

Liam began polishing the glass again.

Aoto took the stool beside him.

"When did you last sleep?"

"I sleep."

"When."

"Last week."

"How long?"

The questions were coming in an order. He had been asked them before, long ago, by men who outranked him.

"I don't know."

"Eating?"

"Yes."

"Properly?"

"Yes."

"Working?"

"I told Liam. Not currently."

"Why?"

"I left."

"Why?"

"I had things to do."

Aoto nodded.

"Where're you staying?"

"A room."

"Same one every night?"

"Yes."

"Fighting?"

"No."

Aoto looked at his hands.

The Night Lord slowly moved them beneath the counter.

"Fine."

"Not fine."

"I am managing."

"No."

The Night Lord looked at him.

"You're holding."

Aoto tapped the counter once.

"Different thing, soldier."

The Night Lord stared ahead.

"He is dead. Camba is _dead_."

"Mm."

"Jon is dead."

"Mm."

"There is nobody left."

"You."

The Night Lord laughed once.

"That is not much."

"Was enough for them."

The Night Lord turned.

Aoto held his eyes.

"You walked out of here during the Siege with no armour and no plan."

"I deserted my Legion."

Liam glanced up from the glass.

"Probably for the best, all things considered."

The Night Lord looked at him.

"That is not the point."

"No. But it bears saying."

Aoto continued.

"You stayed gone."

The Night Lord looked back at him.

"Worked jobs. Had a home. Raised a boy."

Silence.

"Kept yourself clamped down."

The Night Lord's jaw tightened.

"They are dead."

"You said."

Aoto leaned forward.

"Did it work?"

No answer.

"Did it?"

The Night Lord looked down at the counter.

For a long time he said nothing.

"Yes."

"Right."

The Night Lord shook his head.

"Then it is finished."

"No."

The Night Lord's gaze moved over Aoto once. Height. Reach. The distance to the cellar door.

Something old, doing the looking.

Aoto saw it.

"Clamp it."

The Night Lord went very still.

"I am."

"No, you're not."

"I have been controlling myself for over a century."

"Then you know how to."

Aoto pointed toward the floor.

"You came here for that because you want to stop."

The Night Lord's eyes followed the gesture.

Somewhere beneath them, midnight-blue plate had been sitting in the dark since the Siege of Terra.

"You know nothing about what I intend."

"I know you haven't asked for your armour in a hundred years."

Aoto sat back.

"Enough."

The Night Lord's hand closed around the empty whiskey glass.

Slowly.

Liam watched his fingers.

The glass remained intact.

Aoto nodded.

"Good."

The Night Lord looked at him.

"Do not patronise me."

"Then stop making me check whether you can hold a glass."

Liam looked down quickly.

The Night Lord caught it.

"Something amusing?"

"Little bit."

"Wonderful."

The edge went out of the room.

Not much.

Enough.

Aoto waited.

Then:

"Your mission changed."

The Night Lord stared at him.

"I have no mission."

"Do now."

Something in the Night Lord straightened. He had not told it to.

"I deserted."

"Ye all did."

"I left the Legion."

"As Liam said. Good call. For it had left you, truth be told."

"You cannot simply assign me a new purpose."

"Can try."

For the first time the Night Lord's mouth moved toward something like amusement.

It lasted a second.

Aoto went on.

"Others'll come."

"Others."

"Broken ones."

The amusement vanished.

"Not my concern."

"Is now."

"Why?"

"Because you know how to live while broken."

The Night Lord said nothing.

"Someone'll come through that door thinking he's finished, you can talk to him."

"I am not a confessor."

"Good. Wouldn't trust one."

Liam grunted.

Aoto nodded toward the snug.

"Some need a chat. Some need somewhere to go. Some need somebody beside them until they get their head straight."

The Night Lord looked toward the torii.

"Some," Aoto continued, "might need a bit of muscle."

The Night Lord looked back.

"No power armour."

"Aoto."

"No."

"If you expect me to undertake potentially violent—"

"You're a fucking Astartes, boy."

"That is not equipment."

"It'll do."

"This is ridiculous."

"Still no armour."

Liam put the glass down.

"I can get you a job."

The Night Lord turned.

"What kind of job?"

"Cover."

"I understand the concept."

"Good. Saves time."

"Doing what?"

Liam shrugged.

"Construction. Freight. Reclamation. Whatever's going. You're hardly difficult to employ."

Aoto grunted.

"Ye can lift things."

The Night Lord looked offended.

"I am capable of considerably more than lifting things."

"Can you lift things?"

"Yes."

"Grand."

The Night Lord looked from one to the other.

"You have planned this."

"No," Liam said.

Aoto considered.

"Bit."

"Traitor," Liam said.

The Night Lord rubbed a hand over his face.

The kitchen hatch opened.

"If employment requires dietary support, I can generate a nutritional schedule calibrated for transhuman musculature operating below combat load."

The Night Lord closed his eyes.

Liam pointed at the hatch.

"Not now, KIT."

"I am assisting."

"You're eavesdropping."

"I am integrated into the premises."

The hatch closed.

The Night Lord sat.

Then:

"And what exactly happens?"

Aoto shrugged.

"We need you, we point you at something."

"Something."

"Someone, maybe."

"For what purpose?"

"Depends. Like we said."

"On?"

"Who comes through the door."

The Night Lord looked toward the entrance.

People moved past outside.

Workers. Pilgrims. A woman with two children. A delivery cart edging around a hole in the street, repaired badly three times.

Ordinary life.

"If I agree to this," the Night Lord said, "I will not be staying here."

"No," Liam said.

"I will need to work."

"Yep."

"Live somewhere."

"That's generally how it goes."

"And you expect me to remain available."

"When you can."

The Night Lord looked at him.

"How will you find me?"

Liam stopped polishing.

"Well."

He glanced toward Aoto.

"I think you've a fair idea who — or, no offence, what — the big lad is by now."

The Night Lord looked at Aoto.

"Yes."

"And I'd say you've probably worked out that I have a particular set of skills acquired over a very long career."

The Night Lord stared at him.

Liam shrugged.

"I'll find you."

There was a pause.

"That," the Night Lord said, "was mildly threatening."

"Wasn't meant to be."

"It was."

"Ah well."

Aoto stood.

"Sorted then."

"I did not say yes."

Aoto walked toward the door.

"Didn't say no."

"That is not how agreement works."

"Is today."

He watched Aoto go.

"And the armour?"

Aoto opened the door.

"No."

The Night Lord sighed.

He sat for another minute.

Then stood.

He left the glass on the counter.

At the door Aoto stepped aside.

The Night Lord paused beside him.

Then he stepped through.

"Ruvihor."

He stopped.

Turned.

Liam stood behind the counter with the glass in one hand and the cloth in the other.

"You're always welcome here."

Ruvihor said nothing.

"You know how it goes."

Liam started polishing again.

"Keep the trouble outside."

For a moment Ruvihor simply looked at him.

Then at Aoto.

Aoto gave one small nod.

Ruvihor walked away.

The door closed.

Downstairs, his armour stayed where it had been since the Siege.

# Tale 27 Service Call

The thing materialised three feet inside the front door.

Aoto stood up.

He had been reading the grox racing results with one ankle crossed over the other, the old maul resting against the wall beside the stool. The slate folded once in his hand.

The newcomer was short. Broad through the head. Green-brown skin, large dark eyes over a wide mouth. Long arms with ropy muscles. A faded greygreen work coat hung from narrow shoulders. In one hand he carried a metal toolbox scarred by use.

Aoto looked at the space behind him.

Then at the door.

Then back at the newcomer.

“Door.”

The creature blinked.

“I did not use the entrance  junction.”

“I noticed.”

“The transit junction is also unavailable. It is awaiting inspection.”

“Still, lad, there's a door.”

Behind the counter Liam looked up.

“What’s the problem?”

“Materialised inside.”

Aoto looked at the door. The racing slate moved in his hand.

The toolbox came up.

“Maintenance.”

Liam stopped polishing.

“Maintenance of what?”

“The local junction.”

Liam looked at Aoto.

Aoto looked back.

“The gate? ” Liam said.

“Aye, must be”

The creature’s eyes moved between them.

“You are aware of it.”

“Oh yeah. It's gone a bit draughty recently,  truth be told.”

“Good. This will save time.”

Liam set the glass down.

“What’s your name?”

He straightened slightly.

“My designation is Karm ek Caret Akal.”

Liam paused, trying it out silently. 

“Grand. Kermit it is.”

A pause.

“That is not my designation.”

“No.”

“Karm. Ek. Caret. Akal.”

“I heard ye.”

Aoto looked at Liam.

“Kermit.”

“Kermit.”

The creature shut its eyes for a second.

When they opened again, something had been professionally abandoned.

“I require access to the junction.”

Liam turned.

“Kenji.”

Kenji looked up from the till.

“You’re in charge for a bit.”

Kenji looked at Kermit.

Then at Aoto.

Then back at Liam.

“How long?”

Liam picked up his jacket.

“Depends what he breaks.”

Kermit’s mouth tightened.

“I am here to prevent breakage.”

“Even better.”

Aoto put down the newslate and left it on the stool.

Both of them followed Kermit.

---

Kermit took the stairs.

That was the first thing Liam liked about him.

They passed the cellar, the lower store, then the room where KIT’s deeper pipework crossed the ceiling in ways nobody had ever adequately explained.

"What or who's this " KIT asked through a floor vent 

"Nobody you need to concern yourself with"

"It seems old"

"KIT...."

 At the second landing Liam said, “Could’ve saved yourself the walk.”

Kermit kept going.

“How?”

“The gate. Couldn't ye have used it like?”

Kermit stopped.

Turned.

Looked at Liam for long enough to make the question seem regrettable.

“The junction I have been sent to inspect.”

“Aye.”

“The junction that has exceeded its maintenance interval.”

“Aye.”

“The junction whose last scheduled attendance could not be completed due to active conflict.”

Liam frowned.

“What conflict?”

Kermit stared at him.

“The war.”

“You’ll have to narrow that down I'm afraid”

“The one in the Webway.”

“Ah. Neoth's shindig”

Kermit resumed walking.

“Attendance was due during what your local chronometers would have called the  thirty-first millennium. The assigned technician reached the outer approach and withdrew.”

“Bad?”

“Several routes had collapsed. Psychic loading exceeded safe transit limits. Golden hostile entities occupied one service corridor. Another section was, somehow, on fire.”

Liam glanced at Aoto.

“Webway fire.”

Aoto shrugged.

“Seen worse. Lit worse, truth be told”

Kermit stopped again.

Looked at him.

Then continued.

“This is the earliest safe follow-up.”

“So the thing’s eleven thousand years overdue.”

“Eleven thousand, two hundred and sixteen.”

“Right.”

They reached the final landing.

Liam nodded towards the gate below.

“Still works.”

“So does an elevator awaiting inspection.”

“An elevator.”

“A vertical conveyance system.”

“I know what an elevator is.”

“Then you understand why the technician takes the stairs.”

Liam nodded.

“Fair.”

Kermit lifted the toolbox.

“Also, if I use the junction and damage it during transit, liability becomes complicated.”

“Ah.”

“I am not paid enough.”

Aoto grunted.

---

Aoto slowed as soon as they entered.

His shoulders came down a fraction. His hands stopped opening and closing.

The gate stood at the far end of the room. Cold light lay across the stone and washed over the silent blue armour. Just present.

The toolbox went onto a crate of Tayto.

Kermit took out a thin instrument and swept it once across the room.

Then again.

He looked at Liam, then at Aoto.

“Both of you exceed baseline longevity by significant and unlikely amounts.”

Liam nodded.

“Well, I seem to be sorta immune to death. Don’t ask how. for I don't know”

Kermit looked at him.

“I had not intended to.”

“Grand.”

The instrument turned towards Aoto.

“And the big lad here, well, he seems to be like a sick lamb with a fire near yon yoke. Keeps him ticking like.”

Aoto slowly turned his head.

“Sick lamb.”

“Analogy.”

“Could’ve picked another one.”

“You knew what I meant.”

Kermit moved closer to Aoto.

“Stand still.”

Aoto looked at him.

“No.”

Kermit looked at Liam.

Liam shrugged.

“He’s like that.”

Kermit sighed and scanned him anyway.

The instrument changed pitch.

Low.

Then lower again.

Kermit checked the reading twice.

“Chronic exposure.”

“Aye,” Liam said.

“Duration?”

Liam gave him a number.

Kermit stopped moving.

“That is not a therapeutic interval.”

“Works though.”

Kermit looked at him.

“That phrase has already become irritating.”

Aoto leaned one shoulder against the wall.

Kermit moved the scanner towards the gate.

Then back to Aoto.

Then back again.

“You have adapted to leakage from the junction.”

“Seems so,” Liam said.

“Intentional?”

“Eventually. As I say, sick lamb”

Kermit crouched beside the nearest wall panel.

Liam watched him put one hand against the stone.

The panel opened.

Liam stared.

“You knew that was there?”

“Yes.”

“You could’ve mentioned it.”

“You did not ask.”

"crikes, I just went where and when it took me"

Aoto gave a short laugh.

Liam pointed at him.

“None of that.”

Kermit reached into the opening.

Liam stepped forward.

“Hang on.”

Kermit stopped.

“If you fix it.”

“Yes.”

“Will it stop doing ...you know... lamb things?”

Kermit looked at Aoto.

Then at the gate.

“Possibly.”

Liam’s voice dropped.

“Then don’t.”

Kermit looked back at him.

“The junction requires maintenance.”

“So does he.”

Silence.

Aoto folded his arms.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. Well, you are. But you won't be always”

“Close enough.”

Kermit looked between them.

Then back into the open housing.

“This complicates matters.”

“Good.”

“It is not good.”

“It means you’re thinking.”

“I was thinking before.”

“Think harder.”

Kermit stared at him.

Then returned to the panel.

“I can preserve the bleed.”

Liam let that sit.

“Can ye.”

“Yes.”

“Without making him worse....”

“That remains to be established.”

Aoto spoke from the wall.

“Do what you need.”

Liam looked at him.

Aoto shrugged.

“Been worse.”

“That’s not a useful standard.”

“Works though.”

Kermit stopped.

Slowly looked at both of them.

“I dislike this establishment.”

“Give it time.”

---

The plywood came next.

Kermit saw it and froze.

The battered sheets still covered part of the gate aperture, nails driven through into the psychoactive wraightbone lookalike at the irregular intervals where Liam had put them years earlier.

Kermit approached slowly.

“What is this.”

“Plywood.”

“I recognise plywood.”

“Grand.”

“What containment methodology did you employ?”

Liam frowned.

“Containment methodology.”

“Yes.”

“I nailed it over the hole to stop Eldar and whatnot. Look, here, there's even a sign if ye pry a panel back”

Kermit looked at him.

“With what?”

“A hammer.”

Silence.

“A conventional impact tool.”

“Aye.”

“No field reinforcement.”

“No.”

“No psychic bracing.”

“No., but I was fierce abboyed ”

“No harmonic damping.”

“Not knowingly.”

Kermit stared at the nails.

Then pulled out another instrument and passed it over the plywood.

A descending tone sounded.

He did it again.

“Hm.”

“What.”

“The load distribution is acceptable.”

The instrument stopped over one corner of the sheet.

Something blue sat there, hardened, thumbed flat.

“What is this.”

“Blue tak.”

A pause.

“It was holding a notice,” Liam said.

“Where is the notice.”

“Gone., seems. Bet the bloody Eldar tore it down in a huff. It was a barring order”

Kermit regarded the blue tak a moment longer.

Then closed the instrument.

Liam folded his arms.

“Told ye.”

“You did not.”

“Well, implied it.”

“How did you determine placement of the nails?”

“I was fairly annoyed, told ye”

Kermit looked at the plywood. Then at him.

“I see.”

“You do?”

“No.”

He opened the toolbox.

---

The service took nearly two hours.

Kermit removed things Liam had not known existed.

One looked like glass and smelled faintly of wet earth.

Another looked like bone until it unfolded.

A third object vibrated when touched and had to be placed carefully into a disposal pouch marked with symbols Liam could not read. An identical one replaced it

At one point Kermit passed Aoto a black component and said, “Hold this.”

Aoto took it.

The floor groaned.

His arm dropped three inches.

Kermit looked over.

“Hold it level as possible”

“It got heavy.”

“It does that.”

Aoto lifted it back.

“Could’ve warned me.”

“You appeared strong.”

Aoto looked at Liam.

Liam smiled.

“Sick lamb.”

“Fuck off.”

"baaa"

Kermit worked on.

Eventually Liam said, “So.”

No answer.

“You one of the Old Ones? Right?”

The tool stopped.

Only for a second.

Kermit backed out of the housing.

“That is what you call us now?”

“Among other things. Dead is another”

“Hm.”

“Thought ye were all dead.”

Kermit selected another tool.

“We lost.”

He turned back to the gate.

“Different thing.”

Liam watched him.

“Your people built this.”

“Some of them.”

“The Webway.”

“Parts.”

“Could you explain—”

Kermit looked over his shoulder.

“I am not paid enough. to know and if I was, not enough to tell”

Liam nodded.

“Fair.”

Kermit reached deeper into the housing.

After a while Liam said, “How many of ye are left?”

The tool stopped.

Then work resumed.

“Enough.”

“For what?”

“To keep some things running.”

“That many?”

“No.”

A click.

A soft hum.

Kermit adjusted something out of sight.

“We are .... the janitors. The service crew.”

He turned back to the gate.

Liam looked at the gate. Said nothing. Then:

“There’s millions of these, aren’t there.”

“Yes.”

“And they run for how long?”

“The manufacturers warranted them for hundreds of millions of years. Assuming they get regular attention.”

“So you’re never done.”

“No.”

Liam watched him work a moment.

“So. If you’re maintaining these. When nobody’s fighting a war in them. Who says? Who sends you?”

Kermit did not look up.

“I get routings. Every now and again.”

“From who?”

A shrug. Small. The tool kept moving.

“I’m just a tech.”

Liam looked at the gate.

Said nothing.

---

The diagnostic panel came up later.

Kermit had one hand inside the wall and the other against a cluster of controls when several lines of light appeared above his wrist.

He frowned.

“Your traffic pattern is abnormal.”

Liam leaned closer.

“How.”

“Limited spatial transit.”

“Aye., especially since the plywood”

“Considerable temporal activity.”

“No.”

Kermit looked at him.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

Kermit checked again.

Then looked at Liam.

Then back at the readings.

Then at Liam again.

“You.”

“Me.”

“Yes.”

Liam looked at the spindle.

“Right.”

“And processed starch product.”

Silence.

Aoto spoke from the wall.

“Taytos.”

Kermit turned.

“What are Taytos.”

“Crisps.”

“Potato crisps,” Liam said. "The things you have the toolbox on."

Kermit looked at the display.

“Large quantities.”

“Depends what ye mean by large.”

Kermit rotated the reading.

Liam stared at it.

“Ah.”

Aoto leaned over.

“Fair amount. boss. I mean, even in kilotons thats a bit ...”

“Shut up.”

Kermit looked between them.

“Would you care to explain why substantial quantities of processed potato product have undergone temporal displacement through this junction?”

“No.”

“Good.”

The display vanished.

“That reduces my paperwork.”

He reached into the panel and rotated a small spindle.

The gate changed pitch.

Liam straightened.

“What did ye do?”

“Temporal alignment.”

“You’re after changing it.”

“Yes.”

“Put it back.”

“You have been operating it incorrectly.”

“It worked.”

“Incorrectly.”

“Worked though.”

Kermit stared at him.

Then adjusted the spindle another fraction.

“This orientation permits controlled forward temporal displacement.”

Liam went still.

“Forward.”

“Yes.”

“For people?"

“For suitably aligned users.”

“Aligned how.”

“Psychically.”

“How far?”

“That depends on junction stability, target coherence and survivability.”

Liam looked at the spindle.

Kermit turned it back.

“Reverse orientation restores standard configuration.”

“Can they come back so?”

Kermit closed the panel.

“That is a different problem.”

Liam looked at the wall.

Aoto looked at Liam.

Neither said anything.

---

The last part of the service concerned Aoto.

Kermit stood him near the gate and ran the scanner over him again.

The tone was different now.

Steadier.

Kermit checked the output.

Then adjusted something inside the open housing.

“Again.”

Aoto stood there.

The scanner passed over him.

“Hm.”

Liam watched Kermit’s face.

“Well?”

“The sustaining emission has been retained.”

“Same as before?”

“No.”

Liam’s eyes narrowed.

Kermit checked the figures.

“Cleaner.”

Aoto shifted his weight.

“What does that mean.”

“Reduced noise. Lower parasitic load. Approximately twelve percent less neurological agitation under equivalent exposure.”

Aoto looked at Liam.

“Less.”

Liam nodded.

“Neurological agitation reduced, is it? Less grumpy in other words. We’ll take that.”

Kermit glanced at him.

“It is still not a recognised treatment.”

“Works though.”

Kermit closed the scanner. He sighed.

“I knew you were going to say that.”

Aoto rolled one shoulder.

He looked towards the gate.

Then back at Kermit.

“Feels grand.”

“That is diagnostically useless.”

“Still true.”

Kermit put the scanner away.

---

He closed the final housing.

The gate remained.

Same light.

Same stone.

Same impossible depth behind it.

But the room had changed.

Liam felt the draught first.

Or rather, the lack of it.

He had spent so long with the cold moving through the chamber that its absence felt like someone had shut a window.

Kermit opened a small plate beside the gate and pressed one thumb against it.

A date appeared.

Liam read it.

“Fifty thousand years.”

“Next scheduled service.”

“I’ll probably still be here.”

Kermit stopped.

For the first time since arriving, he looked at Liam without checking a tool or a reading.

Then at Aoto.

“Good.”

He shut the toolbox.

The latch clicked.

Aoto pushed away from the wall. Aoto opened the crate, took out two packets and held them towards Kermit.

Kermit looked at the packets.

Then at the gate.

Then at the diagnostic display he had just put away.

He took them.

“For the road,” Aoto said.

“That expression is technically inappropriate.”

“Door this time.”

Kermit looked at him.

“I did not enter through the door.”

“I know.”

“My arrival method was operationally necessary.”

“I know.”

“I will not use the junction.”

“I know.”

Aoto waited.

Kermit stared at him.

Then picked up the toolbox and started towards the stairs.

Aoto followed.

Liam remained behind.

The gate hummed softly.

Aoto paused halfway up.

“Boss.”

“Yeah.”

Liam looked at him.

Aoto opened and closed one hand.

Once.

Steady.

“Grand.”

Liam nodded.

“Grand.”

Aoto continued upstairs.

Liam stayed another moment.

The plywood was still there.

The nails were still where he had driven them.

He looked at the wall.

Then at the hammer on the crate.

He picked it up.

The room no longer draughty.

“Sure that’s one thing.”

He turned out the light and followed them upstairs.

# Tale 28 The Bolivians

Rohalla had been quiet for most of the evening.

The Tempestus lads generally came in one of two ways. Either they arrived still carrying the momentum of whatever they had just survived, noisy and hungry, with somebody wanting to know whether KIT could do six spice bags at once, or they came in with the peculiar silence of people whose bodies had finished the work before their heads had caught up. Rohalla was somewhere between the two. He had eaten, barely touched the second half of his drink, and spent the last hour turning the glass a quarter turn at a time between his fingers while the rest of his section dispersed around the bar.

Liam put another clean glass onto the shelf and glanced back at Rohalla.

“Bad one?”

Rohalla looked up. “Successful.”

“Ah.”

“We took the objective.”

“Well, that’s generally the preferred outcome.”

That got the smallest movement at one corner of Rohalla’s mouth, though it vanished almost at once.

“Forty-one casualties.”

Liam stopped polishing.

“Out of how many?”

“Two hundred and six.”

“Fair hit that.”

“Twelve after the objective was secured.”

That changed it.

Liam set the glass down beside the till and rested both hands on the counter. “What happened, mind if I ask. Some sort of delayed-action bomb or what?”

For a few seconds Rohalla seemed to be deciding whether he wanted to answer. Then he took a drink, put the glass back exactly where it had been and said, “An officer went down. Turns out he’d been running on pure hate and battle fever. So his squad began withdrawing. Another saw them moving and assumed the order had been given generally. Then the movement spread along the line. Their lieutenant tried to stop it and failed. By the time battalion command understood what was happening, two companies were coming off the position.”

Liam looked at him. “Thought ye lads were all clockwork like.”

Rohalla gave a humourless little nod. “Exactly.”

If Tempestus lads could go like that, Guardsman Bob from Wherethehell Secundus hadn’t a prayer.

“What about the twelve?”

“Shot by their own officers.”

“Bad business, but sure, men break in war.”

“It stopped the movement, though.”

“The report was altered.”

“Was it?”

“All twelve were listed as enemy casualties. Their officers agreed the matter had been resolved internally.”

“Resolved is one word for it.”

“The battalion commander signed it.”

Liam looked at him again.

“How did you find out?”

“I was attached from divisional staff.”

“So nobody owns ye.”

“Not exactly.”

“Who writes yer assessment?”

“My immediate superior.”

“And he talks to divisional command.”

“Yes.”

“And divisional command talks to the battalion commander.”

Rohalla said nothing.

Liam gave the counter a slow wipe.

“So eventually yer man is marking his own homework. Bit of a loop, that; be like me asking Aoto how he’s doing.”

“I heard that. And fine, thanks Boss.”

This time Rohalla did smile.

“Something like that.”

“Can the battalion commander get rid of ye?”

“Not easily.”

“Like the big lad. Can he hint?”

Rohalla hesitated.

Liam nodded. “There ye are.”

That was the old problem. Older than Rome. A king sent a man to tell him what the general was doing; the general bought the man, frightened him, found him a promotion, married him to a cousin or arranged for him to find a ditch inconveniently deep enough to disappear into. Republics changed the titles. Empires changed the uniforms. The general still found ways of reaching the man sent to watch him.

Rohalla reached inside his coat and produced a slate.

“People have tried solving this before.”

“What did they do?”

“Depends on the people.”

“The version that worked.”

Liam gave him a look. “That’s already the wrong question.”

“The version that worked for a while, then.”

“Look. I’m not a military man at all, but I did once find meself attached to a unit, sorta good-luck gringo, got to see some stuff. Bolivia, that was. Fierce dusty.”

Rohalla’s fingers moved across the slate.

“Bolivian Autocracy. They had formations reporting eighty per cent strength when half the men were gone, ammunition figures that existed mainly in offices. One commander kept dead men on the rolls for nearly a year because he was drawing their pay. Desertions disappeared from reports whenever admitting the numbers threatened somebody’s career.”

“That was permitted?”

“No, Rohalla. That’s generally why people hide things.”

“What did central authority do?”

“They sent in commissioners. One attached to each major formation, reporting outside the military chain.”

Rohalla looked up at that.

“So the formation commander could not dismiss him.”

“No.”

“Could he interfere with the commissioner’s report?”

“Not and stay breathing.”

“Promotion?”

“Later.”

“Later?”

Liam rubbed the cloth between his fingers.

“That’s where ye need to be careful.”

A station outside Santa Cruz came back to him, or what had once been Santa Cruz, and a commissioner with a scar down one cheek explaining the system over coffee that tasted of burnt grain. The supply trains ran on time now, the man had said. Nobody wanted to be responsible for the ones that did not.

Liam later learned the measure of that efficiency.

“At first they were there to observe. Records and reports mostly, complaints when someone had the neck to make one. If a commander started hiding things, the commissioner told central authority. Simple enough.”

“And if the commander issued a catastrophic order?”

“He could stop it.”

“Immediately?”

“If he thought waiting would get everyone killed.”

Rohalla wrote something.

“That is substantial authority.”

“Yes.”

“Useful.”

“Also yes.”

Liam pointed at the slate with the cloth.

“That’s the bit people always like.”

“And then?”

“They found more things for him to do. Morale. Loyalty. Discipline. Officer competence. Political reliability. Every time another problem appeared, somebody decided the commissioner was already standing there, so he might as well deal with that too.”

“The commander still could not remove him.”

“No.”

“But central authority could.”

“Course.”

Rohalla looked back at the slate.

“What happened when troops broke?”

Liam frowned.

“You’re skipping ahead.”

“I am asking because that is the problem I came in with.”

“Fair enough.” Liam poured a drink for another customer, took payment, and returned.

“They stopped them.”

“How?”

“Sometimes by talking. Sometimes by blocking the route. If that failed, one or two might get shot pour encourager les autres, though they didn’t call it that because the French had been dead long enough for everyone to pretend the idea was new.”

Rohalla kept writing.

“Now. That bit.”

Rohalla looked up.

“That is not the good bit.”

“I understand.”

“No, listen. It worked often enough to become respectable. Acceptable. Once people could point to a battalion that hadn’t run because a commissioner had shot the first three men who tried, the argument became much easier the next time. Someone would shoot someone who looked like they might.”

Rohalla nodded once.

“So the problem was uncontrolled escalation of authority.”

Liam stared at him.

“That was one of the problems.”

“What would you have done differently?”

“I wouldn’t have built the bloody thing. Didn’t even want to be in Bolivia, if we’re being exact.”

“Then the commander still controls the report.”

“Yes.”

“And his officers protect their own.”

“Yes.”

“So nothing changes.”

Liam gave him a long look.

“Independent reporting,” Liam said eventually. “If ye must.”

Rohalla wrote.

“Access to the records.”

More writing.

“And the commander can’t just have him shipped off because he doesn’t like what’s being said.”

Rohalla nodded.

“But narrow powers. Fierce narrow. If the fellow can stop an obviously suicidal order, grand. If he starts deciding whether yer colonel has the right opinions about politics, ye’ve already lost the run of yourselves.”

“And battlefield discipline?”

“What about it?”

“If the attached officer observes a collapse beginning and the commander fails to act.”

“Then he should be able to act. But lookit, I’m not a military man. Isn’t that the job of the local officers?”

Liam reached over and tapped one finger against the slate.

“And ye write down the Bolivian ending as well.”

“I have.”

“Not just the clever bits.”

“I have.”

“They ended up with commanders more frightened of the man beside them than the enemy in front. Do something, maybe get shot. Do nothing, maybe get shot.”

“I heard you.”

“Good.”

Rohalla finally stopped writing.

“One question.”

“Go on.”

“Did it work?”

“Eh, for values of work, yes.”

“For how long?”

“Long enough.”

Rohalla considered that, then shut the slate off and slid it back into his coat.

“Right. I’m off.”

At the door Aoto shifted just enough to make room.

“Remember the Bolivians,” Liam called after him.

---

Nineteen years later, Rohalla walked through the door in a uniform Liam had never seen before.

Liam recognised the man immediately. Rohalla had gone grey at the temples, but the face was the same. He had acquired the settled confidence of someone who had been obeyed for a long time.

The coat was not.

Black, severe, fitted beautifully through the shoulders, with red at the collar and a rank arrangement Liam could make no sense of.

“Rohalla. Long time no see, ’tis yourself.”

“Liam.”

“The usual?”

“You remember?”

“Ah now.”

Liam reached for the bottle, poured, then looked across the counter again.

“Mind me asking, Rohalla, the uniform. Very snazzy and all, but is that rank scheme new? Or is it me eyes?”

Rohalla lifted the glass.

“The Commissariat.”

Liam paused.

“The what?”

“Commissariat.”

“That’s a word I haven’t heard in a while. What’s it mean these days?”

Rohalla smiled. “Military oversight.”

“Ah.”

“I am Chief Commissar to the Lucifer Blacks. Initial fielding. Top-tier formations first.”

Liam stopped with the bottle still in his hand.

“The Lucifer Blacks?”

“Yes.”

“God, that’s a fierce compliment to ye.”

“They are a premier formation.”

“I know who they are. Palace work. Gold lads all over the place.”

“We work closely with the Custodes.”

“Do ye now.”

Five metres away, in the snug, an off-duty Custodian in a plain dark coat was playing twenty-one with a heavyset man who had arrived earlier smelling faintly of damp soil and had been warned at the door that slime on the stools was against house rules. He had accepted this without complaint.

Nobody mentioned him.

A card touched the table.

“Eighteen,” said the Custodian.

“Stick,” said the other man.

Liam put the bottle back on the shelf.

“So. Chief Commissar. That sounds important.”

“It is a senior post.”

“And what do ye actually do?”

“Maintain discipline. Advise command. Ensure formations remain aligned with Imperial authority.”

Liam nodded along for the first few seconds.

“Aligned how?”

“We report independently of the formations to which we are assigned.”

The cloth in Liam’s hand slowed.

“Right.”

“Commanders have no authority to remove us.”

Liam looked up.

Rohalla was drinking.

“Do they now.”

“Effective so far.”

“Has it.”

“Yes.”

Liam put the cloth down.

“Ye have access to the records?”

“Of course.”

“And if the commander is hiding something?”

“We report it.”

“To?”

“The Commissariat.”

Liam leaned both forearms on the bar.

“Hang on.”

Rohalla looked at him.

“This sounds fierce familiar.”

A smile appeared.

“It should.”

Liam narrowed his eyes.

Rohalla took another drink.

“You helped design it.”

Liam went still.

“I did what?”

“I used your analysis in the proposal.”

“What analysis?”

“The comparative disciplinary systems.”

Rain outside. Tempestus uniform. Slate on the counter.

“The Bolivians.”

“Among others.”

“No, no. I told ye about the Bolivians.”

“Extensively.”

“As an example of what not to fucking do.”

“Yes.”

Liam waited.

Rohalla seemed surprised by the wait.

“They were not ruthless enough was the message I took from it.”

Liam looked at him.

“...Well.”