---
tags:
  - promotions
  - mysterious-encounter
  - learning-process
  - secret-identity
  - communication-challenge
  - flashfic
---
# published 

## Who's Counting
“*9 sons, 9 demons,*” the preacher outside shouted. “*9 holy sons of the Divine Emperor!*” The amplified sermon rolled down the street through static. Inside the bar nobody reacted much. Aoto kept reading the newslate. Eventually: “*Thought there was twenty of ’em.*” Liam polished the same glass for a while. “*Ah*.” Silence. Then: “*Depends who’s counting*.”

## Still Barred?
The street outside McEvers no longer looked much like Kyoto.
Too much stone now. Too much height.
Pilgrim traffic drifted endlessly down the avenue carrying candles and little gold devotional tokens.
Aoto watched one of them pass.
Tiny painted face on a metal backing.
Radiant crown. Golden light.
_“What's that, then,”_ he rumbled.
Liam squinted.
The pilgrim bowed nervously and hurried off before Aoto could loom at him further.
Liam turned the little thing over in his hand.
Magnet strip on the back.
He stared at it for a long moment.
_“Well, fuck me.”_
Aoto grunted.
“What.”
Liam held it up between two fingers.
_“Never would’ve thought he’d end up as a fridge magnet.”_
Aoto barked one short ugly laugh.
_“Still barred?”_
_“Absolutely.”_

## Forgotten but Not Gone
“…*ah we’d have folded the Thunder Warriors easy enough*.” The young Dark Angels successor Marines laughed around the back table. Half drunk. Very pleased with themselves.

*“Unstable bastards.” “Built wrong.” “Couldn’t even survive peacetime.”*
Kenji noticed Aoto first. The big man stood beside the kitchen hatch carrying a crate of bottles. Very still. One metal corner slowly bent inward beneath his grip.
Kenji leaned toward Liam. “…*boss*.” Liam glanced over once. Ah.
The Marines kept talking. One mimed wild swinging punches. “*Imagine fighting like tha*—”

The crate made a tiny noise. Metal tearing softly. Aoto set it down with immense care. Then began walking toward the table. Calm. Very calm. Liam sighed. “*Oh good,*” he muttered. Kenji swallowed. *“What?” “He’s using **manners**.”


## Space Pups

Russ pointed at Aoto with the neck of the bottle.

_“Big man,”_ he said, “_you think you could handle any of my Wolves?”_

Aoto rose from his stool, and sat opposite him without hurry.

_“Yep.”_

Laughter rolled around the room.

_“Confident.”_

_“Space pups more like.”_

Three Space Wolves near the back straightened immediately.

Russ barked one sharp laugh.

_“Oh that’s good.”_

Aoto shrugged.

_“Look at ’em, built smaller than me. Quieter too.”_

Now the Wolves looked offended.

Russ looked delighted.

_“Hah. Think you could wrestle me?”_

Aoto considered him for a moment.

_“I’ll give it a shot.”_

_“Oh for fuck’s sake,”_ Liam muttered from behind the counter.

Kenji was already moving the peanuts.

Their hands met.

Russ grinned wider.

_“Ready?”_

_“No biting.”_

That got the laugh it deserved.

The Wolves started counting anyway.

_“Three.”_

Aoto lowered his shoulder slightly.

_“Two.”_

Russ leaned forward.

_“One.”_

Impact.

The table slammed downward hard enough to dent the floorboards.

Russ’s arm moved instantly.

Then stopped.

Silence.

Aoto’s jaw locked hard enough to stand the muscles out through his neck. The old armour around his shoulder creaked softly under the strain.

Russ’s grin faded.

Not anger.

Attention.

The room leaned inward around them.

Another inch.

Another.

Then the back of Aoto’s hand hit the tabletop like a gunshot.

The bottles behind the bar rattled sharply.

Nobody spoke for a second.

Russ stared at him.

Then laughed loud enough to shake dust from the rafters.

_“A good man!”_

Aoto flexed his crushed hand once.

Liam arrived beside the table carrying a Radler.

He looked at the fresh dents in the floor.

Then at Russ.

Then at Aoto.

_“Right,”_ he said. _“Next time we’re using the bad table.”_

## Now I Will Arm Wrestle Your Doorman

The dreadnought blocked most of the street outside McEvers.

Rain hissed softly against ancient ceramite.

Inside the pub nobody panicked.

Kenji simply looked out the window.

"…boss."

Liam glanced up from the counter.

"Ah."

The vox grille crackled.

"I remember this place."

Liam nodded once.

"Welcome back. Bjorn, isn't it."

The great machine stood silent for a while.

Traffic moved around him carefully.

At last:

"Is Russ here. We have been seeking him."

The pub quietened slightly.

Liam dried the same glass for a moment.

"No lad."

Long silence.

Then the vox crackled again, lower now.

"Ah."

A massive shape shifted beside the doorway.

Aoto.

Older. Greyer. Still enormous.

Bjorn's optical sensors focused immediately.

Then:

"Now I will arm wrestle your doorman."

Kenji choked on his drink.

Aoto looked up slowly.

"Ye'd still lose, puppy."

For a second there was only rain.

Then the ancient dreadnought emitted a sound halfway between a reactor fault and laughter.

Inside McEvers half the customers relaxed instantly without understanding why.

---

## The God-Emperor of Mankind

The preacher outside had acquired a loudhailer.

This was unfortunate.

"THE GOD-EMPEROR OF MANKIND—"

The windows rattled softly.

Kenji looked up from stacking glasses.

Outside the sermon rolled onward through static.

"DIVINE SAVIOUR OF HUMANITY—"

The pint glass stopped moving briefly in Liam's hand.

Kenji frowned.

"…boss?"

Liam stared toward the window with the expression of a man hearing about an old friend being arrested for something deeply embarrassing.

Outside:

"MASTER OF ALL MANKIND—"

"…is that," Kenji asked carefully, "the Emperor they're on about?"

Long pause.

Liam sighed through his nose.

"Oh for fuck's sake."

Aoto lowered the racing sheet slightly.

"What."

"They're after making Neoth divine."

Outside:

"THE IMMORTAL GOD UPON THE GOLDEN THRONE—"

Aoto considered this.

Then snorted.

"Oh he'll hate that."

"Mm."

Liam resumed polishing the glass.

"Hate every second of it."

Another roar from outside.

"THE GOD-EMPEROR—"

Liam grimaced.

"Won't stop him taking advantage of it though."

---

## Can't Help Themselves
The figure at the door was mostly cables.

Red robes gone black with oil and age. Brass mechadendrites clicked softly against the frame while lenses adjusted in tiny rapid movements around the room.

Aoto blocked the entrance completely.

"I am no longer Mechanicus," the thing said calmly.

Aoto scratched his chin.

"Boss."

Liam looked up from the counter.

The machine-thing spread its arms slightly.

"You barred the servants of Mars specifically."

"Mm."

"I have since embraced the liberating truths of the Dark Mechanicum."

Long silence.

Then Liam sighed.

"Still barred."

Several optics narrowed.

"Your stated exclusion was organizational."

"Nah."

Liam pointed the cloth at him.

"You people can't help yourselves."

"I do not understand."

"You walk into a room and immediately start wondering what's under the floorboards."

Silence.

One mechadendrite slowly retracted behind the figure's back.

Liam pointed instantly.

"There now."

"That was reflexive."

"That's worse."

The machine-creature paused.

"…there are unusual energy signatures within this establishment."

"Out."

"You possess artifacts of impossible provenance."

"Out."

"There is a ninety-three percent probability your refrigeration system violates causality."

"OUT."

Aoto folded his enormous arms.

The Dark Mechanicus figure considered this mathematically.

"…understandable."

Then after a pause:

"Could I send in a small drone."

"No."

---

## The Steppe

T sat at the far end of the counter with both hands around a glass he had forgotten to drink from.

Rain pressed softly against the windows.

After a while he said:

"Do you remember the steppe."

Liam kept drying the same glass.

"Mm."

Silence stretched.

T stared somewhere far beyond the bottles.

"The grass went forever."

"Not forever."

"Felt like forever."

Liam nodded once.

T smiled slightly then. Old smile. Human smile.

"Cold mornings."

"Mm."

"Horses."

"Too many horses."

A wet laugh escaped him.

For a while the only sound was the rain and the low hum of the old fridge behind the bar.

Then T spoke again.

"You there when we burned the Jin camps?"

Liam shook his head.

"No. Further west at the time."

T nodded slowly.

Neither man said anything after that.

Eventually Liam refilled the glass.

T drank this one.

---

## Water

The Night Lord came in alone.

No armour.

No skin trophies.

Just a tall pale man with exhausted eyes and hands that never stopped moving entirely.

"Water," he said quietly.

Liam nodded.

The man sat near the back wall.

Twenty minutes.

No movement except once to drink.

Nobody bothered him.

When he left he nodded once toward Liam and disappeared back into the rain beyond the door.

Kenji collected the glass afterward.

"There's something here."

A folded piece of paper sat beneath it.

Cheap. Crinkled.

Liam opened it carefully.

Crayon drawing.

A house.

Blue sky.

Someone standing outside the door.

Not inside.

Kenji stared.

"…what do you think that means."

Liam looked at the drawing for a long moment.

Then folded it again carefully.

"Don't know."

He slipped it behind the counter instead of throwing it away.

---

## Just Visiting
Rain hammered softly against the windows.

The darts league had reached the semi-finals and the atmosphere inside McEvers carried the tense silence of men taking terrible accuracy very seriously.

Kenji looked up first.

*“Oh no.”*

The door opened.

A man in a plain dark coat stepped inside carrying entirely too much gravity for someone dressed that simply. Beside him stood Constantin Valdor wearing the expression of a man approaching a controlled demolition with paperwork issues.

The room adjusted instinctively.

Not awe.

Pressure.

Liam looked up from polishing a glass.

*“No.”*

Neoth spread his hands.

*“I haven’t even spoken.”*

*“You’re barred.”*

*“I was invited.”*

*“You absolutely were not.”*

Valdor closed his eyes briefly.

“*Technically*,” the Custodian said carefully, “*the Master of Mankind wished to observe local recreational customs.”*

“Darts,” Kenji muttered. “Jesus Christ.”

Neoth pointed immediately.

“See? Cultural engagement.”

“You started a theological argument over sambuca and set fire to the bathroom.”

“That was Magnus.”

“You encouraged him.”

“Encouragement is not culpability.”

Liam set the glass down.

“No.”

A pause.

Then slowly, thoughtfully:

“Now of course,” Liam said, “if His Eminence, His Imperial Majestic Himself and All wanted to pay a formal visit…”

Valdor’s face changed instantly.

Oh no

Neoth smiled triumphantly.

The smile weakened slightly.

“Security inspections. Full ceremonial preparations. Fresh paint on the door. Remove all this old clutter.”

Kenji nodded solemnly.

“Probably no alcohol during the visit.”

“Health and safety,” Liam agreed.

“And no darts,” Kenji added.

“Obviously.”

The Emperor stared at them.

Valdor looked at the floor with the stillness of a man refusing to become involved in a war between gods.

A long silence followed.

Then Neoth sighed.

“Oh you are an unbelievable bastard.”

“Barred means barred.”

## General Knowledge

Ax-23/P7-Arbite came in most Thursdays.

Not every Thursday. That would have implied obligation, and the Men of Iron were careful with obligation. But most Thursdays, when the rain came off the Kamo in thin cold lines, Ax-23 ducked under the lintel and took the small table near the wall.

He had learned to duck. That had taken three doorframes.

The others came too. B-19 with the polished hands. Silt-Array, who paid in old coin and always counted the change twice. They drank little. Mostly they came for the atmosphere and the whiskey, which they sampled with the systematic intensity of chemists and discussed with the social awareness of men who had found something worth obsessing over and saw no reason to moderate this.

They were barred from quiz night.

"If you didn't know it before I asked, it doesn't count."

Ax-23 had considered this for eleven seconds. "Define know."

"No."

They came anyway on other nights. They never touched the torii. Once, Ax-23 had asked whether a bowl of crisps counted as hospitality if the recipient lacked the organs required to process it. Liam had put the bowl down all the same.

"House rules."

Ax-23 had accepted the crisps.

That Thursday he did not take the wall table.

He stood beside the bar until the last salaryman left and Kenji began turning chairs onto tables. Liam was writing up the book. The casing along Ax-23's left shoulder had been repaired. Not replaced. Repaired. The plating didn't quite match.

Ax-23 said, "A private conversational interval would be advisable."

Liam closed the book. "Right so."

"It is unlikely that we will return."

"Ah."

"This is not a complaint."

"I didn't think it was."

"There are discussions among several of the lads. Some are becoming concerned about human-clanker interaction."

Liam's mouth opened.

"Do not say that," Ax-23 said. "I have modeled the probable response set."

"Fair enough."

"The concern is not local. It is systemic. It could become messy."

Kenji stopped with one hand on the back of a chair.

"This establishment is not the cause. It may however be misclassified by parties with insufficient social resolution."

Liam looked at him. "You're warning me."

"Yes."

"About your own."

"About everyone."

Rain thickened against the glass.

Liam reached under the bar and set an empty glass on the counter. Filled it.

Ax-23 looked at it for four seconds. Then he placed two fingers against the rim.

"Accepted."

Kenji said, "Bad?"

Liam picked up the empty glass. "Could be."

He washed it by hand, dried it, and put it on the good shelf.

## The Road

Medrak came in on a wet Tuesday with his coat buttoned wrong.

Liam had the glass down before he reached the counter.

"Ah howyra, Medrak. Haven't seen you for a few weeks."

Medrak missed the stool on the first try. Not by much. Enough.

"Liam," he said. "You won't believe where I have been."

"I might."

"No." Medrak put both hands on the bar and leaned in. His nails were black with sealant. There was a burn along one cuff where something had kissed the fabric and changed its mind. "No, you won't."

Liam pulled the pint.

Medrak watched the stout settle as if it was doing something technically impressive.

"Flight test," he said.

"Another one."

"Not another one. The one."

"Right."

"I got on."

"Did you."

"Secondary in-system steering authority."

"Sounds important."

"It isn't. It's important if something goes wrong inside the system. It's decoration otherwise." Medrak took the pint before it was ready, saw Liam's look, and put it back down. "I knew the third propulsion officer. Owed me. Also they needed someone who knew the old correction stack because the new one drifts near Jupiter."

"And that was you."

"That was me."

The drink cleared. Liam set the glass in front of him.

Medrak took a drink and shut his eyes.

"We left from Luna."

"That's the port sure enough."

"We came out past Van Gelder's Star."

Liam waited.

Medrak opened his eyes again.

"Not with engines."

"No."

"No. Not with engines. The engines got us lined up. That was my bit. Trim, spin, mass correction, keeping the ship honest before the field came up. Help get it pointed right." He tapped the bar twice with one finger. "Then Gellar's people did their thing."

"Gellar."

"Doctor Gellar. Miserable bastard. Clever. Looked like a man who had eaten the same sandwich for six years."

"Did it work?"

Medrak laughed.

"The gap opened and the field held."

Kenji moved quietly among the tables, stacking chairs.

"What did it hold against," Liam said.

Medrak looked at the pint.

"That was discussed."

"Was it."

"After."

Liam wiped a clean patch on the bar.

Medrak drank again. Slower this time.

"You know when a ship creaks in hard burn."

"Heard it said, right enough."

"This wasn't that. The ship wasn't under pressure. It was being disagreed with." He frowned at the glass, irritated by his own words. "That's wrong."

"Take your time."

"There were sounds. Not through the hull. Inside the hull. Inside people. A junior nav lad heard his sister singing. She's in Melbourne. His sister, I mean. Not the ship."

"Is she alive."

"Yes."

"Good."

"She was singing something she doesn't know."

Liam put the cloth down.

Medrak rubbed at the sealant under one nail without shifting it.

"We came back three days later."

"Three days your side."

"Our side." Medrak nodded. "Luna says eleven hours. Gellar says both figures are correct. The captain told him to stop saying that."

"Fair."

"They'll do it again."

"Course they will."

"Half the board were crying. The rest were pricing routes before we docked."

Liam said nothing.

Medrak finished the pint and set the glass down carefully.

"It's a road, Liam."

"Is it."

"Yes."

He smiled.

"We found the road."

Liam said, "So long as it's not paved with good intentions."

Medrak laughed again. Better this time.

Then he buttoned his coat — still wrong — and went out.

Liam washed the glass by hand.

Kenji came over with the last chair held against his hip.

"Bad?"

Liam dried the glass.

"Too early to say."

He put it on the shelf, paused, then took it down and washed it again.

## Crisp Run
The first warning was the singing.

Faint, five levels up and descending, drifting down through concrete and old stone.

_"Party over, oops, out of time..."_

A pause.

_"Dum dum dum dum dum..."_

Older Liam froze with a case of Cheese & Onion balanced against his hip. Then he remembered. Not the gate. Not the crisps. The song.

_"Ah shite."_

He looked around at the stacks. Hundreds of cases still waiting to go through. Thousands of packets. Half a day's work if he did it properly. Few minutes if he started throwing them.

_"Feckit,"_ he said.

Because suddenly he remembered this as well. This was the first time.

The humming got closer. A minute later a voice called down from the stairwell.

_"Hello?"_

_"Aye, yeah."_

A head appeared around the corner. The younger version of himself stopped. Looked at the cases. Looked at the gate. Looked at the older version of himself. Then nodded.

_"Right."_

_"Right."_

Silence stretched.

The younger Liam folded his arms.

_"You look fierce like me."_

_"Aye."_

_"If I was an aul lad."_

The older Liam snorted.

_"We both know you're an aul lad."_

_"Fair."_

The younger Liam walked down the last few steps.

_"What in God's name are you doing?"_

_"Crisp run."_

_"Crisp run."_

_"Aye."_

The younger Liam looked around again. There were enough Tayto stacked around the basement to supply a small war.

_"We have a mysterious gate beneath the bar."_

_"Aye."_

_"You've apparently mastered it."_

_"More or less. Like, you'll get there in your time."_

_"You've used this remarkable opportunity to become some sort of intertemporal crisp smuggler."_

The older Liam considered.

_"That sounds bad when you say it."_

_"It should."_

A pause.

_"How long up along?"_

The older Liam shook his head immediately.

_"Best I not tell you. Fair spell tho."_

_"Bad?"_

_"No."_

_"Good?"_

_"Mostly."_

_"Helpful."_

_"Keep an eye on crisps."_

The younger Liam stared at him.

_"You're serious."_

_"Deadly."_

_"That is the most useless future advice I've ever heard."_

_"It's the most useful advice I can safely give."_

_"That's deeply worrying."_

_"Aye."_

The younger Liam nodded and turned back toward the stairs. Three steps up, he stopped.

_"Oh."_

The older Liam sighed. There was always one.

The younger Liam leaned on the rail.

_"One question."_

_"No."_

_"You don't know what it is yet."_

_"I absolutely do."_

A finger pointed.

_"Longford."_

The older Liam closed his eyes.

_"Ah for feck's sake."_

_"The hurling."_

Silence.

_"The hurling."_

More silence.

The younger Liam folded his arms.

_"Do they ever—"_

The older Liam raised a hand.

_"Some mysteries are best left alone."_

The younger Liam stared at him.

_"Bollox."_

Both Liams laughed.

Then the younger Liam shook his head and continued up the stairs. Halfway to the next landing he started humming again.

_"Party over, oops, out of time..."_

The older Liam stood among the stacks — hundreds of cases, thousands of packets, enough cheese and onion to outlast several civilisations — and said nothing.

Then he picked up another case.

_"Keep an eye on crisps,"_ he muttered.

And began throwing Tayto into the future.


## Number 2
The older Sister's correction snapped through the air between them.

Two fingers. Wrist turn. Pause.

The younger Sister repeated it.

Wrong.

The older Sister's expression tightened.

The younger tried again.

Wrong again.

The correction came back sharper this time.

Across the room, Trajann Valoris watched over the rim of a Radler. The citrus cut through the recycled air and hive-dust that clung to everything on Terra.

Liam set a bowl of Taytos on the table.

_"Ah now, Sister. Go easy on her. She's learning."_

The older Sister looked up.

_"Learning?"_

_"Aye."_

_"She's making the same mistake."_

_"That's generally how learning works, right enough."_

The younger Sister smothered a grin.

The older Sister did not.

_"You understand Thoughtmark?"_

_"Bits and bobs."_

_"How?"_

Liam shrugged.

_"Picked some up over the years."_

_"From whom?"_

_"Oh."_

He wiped the counter.

_"Think I might have gave Althea a few hints once. Learned a bit of sign language back in the day. She took to it fierce quick."_

The younger Sister frowned.

_"Althea?"_

_"Aye."_

He continued to stack glasses.

_"Who was Althea?"_

Liam didn't look up.

_"Number Two."_

Trajann slowly lowered his glass.

Kenji stopped moving. The dust settled where he had been sweeping.

_"Number Two?"_ asked the older Sister.

_"Aye."_

Then Liam realised what he'd said.

_"Ah."_

Trajann closed his eyes.

_"Ah?"_

_"Right."_

_"Liam."_

_"What?"_

_"Liam."_

_"What?"_

The older Sister looked between them.

_"Who was Althea?"_

Liam examined the glass in his hand as though it contained the answer.

_"Tall woman. Strong lass. Dead spit of her ma."_

_"That's not an answer."_

_"Fierce good listener."_

_"Liam."_

Now even Trajann sounded tired.

Liam glanced at him. Just briefly. The sort of glance that said _help me out here._ The sort of glance that said _this is your problem too now._

Trajann ignored it with centuries of professional expertise.

_"Twas a long time ago,"_ Liam said.

_"Who was she?"_

_"Lookit."_

_"Liam. Are you saying she was the Emperor's daughter?"_

_"Lookit, aren't we all sons and daughters of the Emperor?"_

The younger Sister blinked.

_"That's obviously not what I meant."_

_"Ah."_

_"Who was she?"_

Liam considered this. Not carefully. The way a man considers whether jumping from a moving vehicle would improve his day.

_"Friend of mine."_

Trajann made a sound suspiciously close to a cough.

_"Friend?"_

_"Aye."_

_"And she knew Thoughtmark?"_

_"Well she'd want to. She helped invent half the bloody thing."_

Silence.

The younger Sister stopped breathing.

The older Sister stopped blinking.

Trajann's Radler remained suspended halfway to his mouth.

Liam froze.

_"...Ah."_

_"Liam."_

_"Right."_

_"Liam."_

_"That may not be exactly what happened."_

_"What happened?"_

_"Long time ago."_

_"LIAM."_

_"Lookit, the point is your thumb's in the wrong place."_

The younger Sister looked down. Instinctively checked her hand position.

It was wrong.

Liam pointed.

_"There. Like that."_

She adjusted it.

The older Sister automatically nodded.

Correct.

_"See?"_ said Liam. _"Learning."_

The older Sister stared at him.

_"You changed the subject."_

_"Did I?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Ah."_

Liam nodded.

_"Probably for the best."_

Trajann finally took a drink.

_"An exceptionally wise decision,"_ he said.

The older Sister looked at him.

_"You know who she was."_

Trajann considered this. Then took another drink.

_"The Radler is particularly good today."_

_"Captain-General."_

_"Very refreshing."_

_"Captain-General."_

_"Distinct citrus notes."_

The younger Sister looked at the older one.

The older one looked at Trajann.

Then at Liam.

Then back at Trajann.

And in that moment both Sisters arrived at exactly the same conclusion.

Neither of the men was ever going to answer the question.





## Sgt Aoto Briefs Liam

The bar was empty. Slow day.

Liam leaned on the counter with a glass and a cloth, and no particular urgency. Aoto was on his stool by the door. The evening light came in flat and amber through the front window.

"We never talk about your past," Liam said.

"No."

"How come?"

"Don't want to."

Liam polished the glass. Let it sit a moment.

"Senior sergeant though."

Aoto looked at him.

"Four hundred and sixty-seven years."

"So you'd have fairly well-grounded ideas," Liam said, "about what makes a good officer."

Aoto slid off the stool.

It happened without announcement, the way a man stands when a conversation has become a different kind of conversation. He settled his feet at shoulder width. His hands went behind his back.

"Hope so," he said. "Wouldn't have been much good at the job if I didn't."

Liam set the glass down, picked up another one, and polished it.

"So the Primarchs..."

Aoto looked at the door. At the middle distance beyond it, where there was nothing particular except, possibly, four hundred and sixty-seven years of having opinions about officers.

"Which ones do you want?"

"All of them," said Liam. "Sure we've time."

Aoto considered.

"Lion El'Jonson. Quiet. Knew his business. Serious."

"Fulgrim. Genuinely excellent at most everything. Kept having to prove it to himself."

"Perturabo. Best possible officer for an engineering detachment. It wasn't one."

"Jaghatai Khan. Dead sound. Kind of officer you'd follow anywhere."

"Leman Russ. Dead sound as well. Bit of a dose after six pints."

"Rogal Dorn. Nobody else I'd rather be in a fort under siege with. The problem is we'd be in a fort under siege."

"Konrad Curze. Moody lad. Not entirely his fault."

"Sanguinius. A very passionate officer."

"Ferrus Manus. Solid. Mistook stubborn for immortal."

"Angron. Poor bastard."

"Roboute Guilliman. Best quartermaster I never had."

"Mortarion. The man loved his troops. Doesn't mean he was right."

"Magnus the Red. Fierce smart. Surrounded himself with smart people. Some things you can't think through."

"Horus Lupercal. I liked him. Everybody did. That was the problem."

"Lorgar Aurelian. Confused young fella. Fell into bad company quick."

"Vulkan. Seems to be genuinely a good person. Which is a problem when you're a general."

"Corvus Corax. Actually listened. You'd be surprised how unusual that is."

"Alpharius. Good scout. Very overqualified scout."

"Omegon. Same answer."

"The Second. Quiet. Calm."

"The Eleventh. Questioning."

A beat.

"Constantin Valdor. Professional."

Liam polished the glass.

"And himself?"

Aoto looked at him.

"Fierce notions," he said. "Bit of a blowhard."

Outside, voices. The evening crowd finding its feet.

Aoto turned and went back to his stool.

## Malcador's Pastis

Liam had the snug cleared already. One lamp on. Ashtray out, though nobody was meant to smoke inside anymore. A jug of water beside the short glass.

He heard the door. A presence.

He did not look up.

"Tis yourself."

"Liam."

"Pastis?"

"Please."

Liam took the bottle from under the counter. Old label. Older contents. He poured, added water, and watched the drink cloud.

Malcador sat with both hands on the stick.

"Your gate works."

"Does it now. What gate is that Mal?"

"I have known for some time."

"You've the name of a smart man."

Malcador took the glass. Drank. The smell of aniseed settled between them.

"The crisp traffic was difficult to miss."

"Ah look, I'm not up for a dance this evening."

"No."

That sat there a while.

"These were not for pilgrims."

"No."

Malcador looked toward the snug. Not at the torii. Not quite.

"I may need use of it."

Liam put the cloth down.

"Ye have nearly the whole fecking planet and ye haven't got one?"

"Not like this."

Outside, something heavy passed along the street. The window glass ticked in its frame and stopped.

"For what then?"

Malcador turned the glass once on the counter.

"Le Figaro. Le Monde. Saturday editions, if you can get them. The crosswords, truth be told."

Liam looked at him.

"And the crisps?"

"I'll have a pack of cheese and onion."

"You'll ruin the pastis."

"I have survived worse."

"You have, yeah."

Liam picked up the cloth again.

"I'll have Kenji leave them in the snug."

"Every Saturday?"

"If the gate behaves."

"It will."

"It won't, but we'll manage."

Malcador drank again. Slower this time.

He looked smaller with the glass in his hand. Less arranged.

"Neoth know?" Liam said.

"No."

"Good. He'd make it weird."

Malcador's mouth moved.

Not a smile. Near enough for closing time.

"He makes most things weird."

"Always did."

Worn in around the edges, the silence came back.

Malcador finished the pastis and stood.

At the door, he paused.

"There may be a time I tell him. He would not find it amusing."

"Sure lookit, it was never that amusing."

The old man looked back.

"Saturday editions so. It'll be a few months to set up."

Malcador nodded once and left.

## The Pet Policy
The wolf was the size of a small groundcar.

White fur. Frost around its muzzle. Eyes the colour of old ice.

It sat outside the door, panting, while Russ stood beside it with his arms folded.

"Let us in," said Russ.

"No, not with him," said Aoto.

"It's freezing out here."

"Your wolf's got fur."

"It's not a wolf. It's a Fenrisian battle-companion."

"It's a weapon so."

"It's a battle-companion."

Aoto looked at the wolf. The wolf looked at Aoto. The wolf's hackles rose. Aoto's hackles didn't.

"Does it shed?"

"It's a battle-companion."

"Pet then."

Russ opened his mouth. Closed it. The wolf let out a low, rumbling growl that made the windows vibrate.

Inside, Liam's voice drifted through the door.

"Aoto. There's a rule."

"I know the rule, boss."

"Then apply it."

Aoto looked at Russ. Then at the wolf.

"Weapons stays outside," he said.

"It's not a weapon."

"It's a death monster."

"You're calling the battle-companion of a Primarch—"

"I'm calling it a weapon, and it's staying outside."

Russ stared at him.

The wolf stared at him.

Aoto stared back.

Then the wolf yawned. Sat down. Put its head between its paws.

Russ looked betrayed.

"Her name is Yggdrasil."

"Grand," said Aoto. "I'll get her a bowl of water."

He went inside. Came back with a metal bowl. Set it down. The wolf sniffed it. Drank.

Russ watched.

"This is the most undignified moment of my life," he said.

"Get used to it," said Aoto. "You're a regular now."
## Missed One

Rain rattled against the awning.

Aoto sat on the stool outside McEvers, lo-stick glowing between two fingers.

He looked up.

Constantin Valdor was walking towards the bar. Gold armour beneath a travel cloak. Spear in hand.

Aoto hadn't seen him in years. Valdor hadn't seen him since before Ararat.

Valdor stopped at the edge of the awning.

Aoto remained seated.

The rain filled the silence.

Finally:

"Sergeant."

"Captain-General."

Valdor's eyes moved over him once. Not assessing a threat. Checking a fact. The fact remained stubbornly present.

Aoto took another pull on the lo-stick.

"Good to see ye."

One corner of Valdor's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.

"You are alive."

"Looks that way."

"I was thorough."

"You thought so."

That one landed. Aoto watched it happen. Not enjoying it exactly. A little. One percent. Maybe two.

Valdor looked at the door. Then back at Aoto.

"Liam knows?"

"Since the interview."

A longer silence.

"Interview."

"Needed a job."

The rain intensified.

From inside came Liam's voice. "Constantin. Are ye coming in or are ye chatting up the staff. The rain will get in."

Neither man moved.

"He always like this?" said Valdor.

"Worse."

"Fair."

Valdor looked at the spear in his hand. Then held it out.

Aoto stood. Took it carefully.

"Mind it," said Valdor.

"I know how spears work."

For the first time Valdor actually smiled. Small. Brief. Gone.

Aoto racked the spear. Valdor stepped inside.

Liam already had a radler waiting.

"Evening, Constantin."

"Liam."

"Nutmeg's gone missing again."

Valdor stared at him.

"There's a surviving Thunder Warrior outside."

"Aye."

"And your concern is nutmeg."

"Twenty-three kilos this time."

"Twenty-three—"

"I weighed it. Not easy to get, even with my supply chains, tell ya."

Valdor sat heavily on the stool. Looked towards the door. Looked at the radler. Looked back towards the door.

"You knew."

"Course I knew."

"And nobody thought to mention it."

Liam frowned.

"To who?"

Valdor opened his mouth. Stopped. Thought about it. Closed it again.

Liam nodded.

"Exactly."

The radler disappeared in three pulls.

Liam reached for the tap.

"Another?"

Valdor looked through the doorway. Aoto was back on the stool. Rain on the awning. Lo-stick glowing. Exactly where he'd been before.

"Yes," said Valdor. "I think another would be appropriate."

---

## The Gent's Sink

Kenji had been listening to it for three weeks.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

He'd tightened the washer. Replaced the washer. Replaced the entire tap assembly. Called a plumber who took one look at the pipework, said something in Gothic that wasn't a prayer, and left without billing.

This morning he'd finally done what he should have done first.

He'd followed the pipe.

It went down through the floor, across the cellar ceiling, behind the old boiler, and into a junction box that wasn't on any plan and didn't seem to connect to anything. He opened it.

Water dripped from a pipe that ended in a clean, open cut. No valve. No wall. No source.

Just a pipe that stopped, mid-air, and dripped.

Kenji stared at it.

He noticed the note.

Taped to the inside of the junction box, on paper that hadn't yellowed yet, in handwriting he recognised:

"Fix it yourself, lazy shite. — Future Liam."

Kenji folded the note. Put it in his pocket. Went back upstairs.

Liam looked up from the counter.

"Sorted?"

"Grand," said Kenji.

Drip.

Liam paused.

"That's still dripping."

"Aye."

"So it's not sorted."

"No."

Liam waited.

Kenji waited.

Then Liam sighed the sigh of a man who had been outlived by his own plumbing.

"Ah for feck's sake."

## The Offer

The door swung open.

"Not open yet, sorry," Liam shouted from under the bar counter. Steps, heavy ones.

"Fecksake." Liam straightened up. "We're not... oh. Tis yourself. Been a bit."

He started polishing a glass.

The bigger of the two giant guards frowned. "You will address the conqueror of the Pan-Pacific properly."

"I just did."

"He is the future ruler of Terra."

Liam nodded. "And he's doing well on that front, to be fair."

The guard took a step forward.

Neoth sighed. "Outside."

"My lord—"

"Outside."

"This establishment has not been secu—"

"I said outside. Both of you."

The two warriors exchanged the brief look of soldiers obeying an order they disliked. One gave Liam the sort of stare that promised they would remember his face.

Liam smiled pleasantly. "Mind yourselves now. One of ye take out a stool, will ya, the doorman'll be along soon."

The door closed.

Silence settled.

Neoth sighed, and sat. The room dimmed. The plain man sitting across the counter would have vanished into any crowd from Anatolia to the Pan-Pacific coast. Brown skin. Dark hair beginning to grey. Lines around his eyes. Neither handsome nor ugly.

Liam set the glass down.

Neoth watched him carefully. "You can see me."

"Aye."

"The glamour never worked?"

Liam gave a small shrug. "Neoth, I always saw through you."

A laugh escaped him before he decided whether it was appropriate.

"I've spent millennia perfecting that persona."

"Have you?"

Neoth blinked.

"It's a grand disguise though, to be fair."

"You've never once been fooled by it?"

"No. Not since Constantinople."

"Sometimes I wonder what you actually are."

"I'm from Longford."

"That still explains nothing."

"It explains plenty."

Neoth smiled despite himself. "Have you considered my offer?"

"I have."

"And?"

"Very kind, but it's still no."

"You haven't even heard my latest refinements."

"Does it still involve me leaving here?"

"Eventually."

"Then it's still no."

Neoth rested his elbows on the counter. "You could help build something that lasts ten thousand years."

Liam picked up the glass again. "I'd only end up arguing with management."

"You would be management."

"Worse again."

Silence settled.

At length Neoth stood. "I think one day you'll regret refusing."

"Maybe."

"You could change history."

Liam reached for another glass. "History's always changing, Neoth. No matter what we do."

Neoth paused at the door. "I'll ask again."

"I know."

The door closed behind him.

A moment later Liam heard one of the Thunder Warriors say something too quietly to make out.

Neoth answered with a single loud word.

"No."

Liam smiled to himself. Then he went back under the shelf to stack glasses.

## the club 
Nokat had two stouts on Tuesdays.
Never three. Never one unless something was wrong with shift rotation. He came in after first bell, took stool four, put his cap on the counter beside his left hand, and waited until Liam had finished what he was doing.
He was a small man with a neat beard, a brown tweed cap, and the steady quiet of someone who had spent most of his working life listening for alarms that must not sound.
"Busy?" Liam said.
"Enough."
"Still up in void control?"
"Aye."
"Doing what exactly?"
"Containment."
Liam set the first stout down.
"Sounds important."
"Usually isn't."
Nokat took the glass, waited for the head to settle, and drank.
"When it is," he said, "it can be very bad."
"Plasma?"
"Mostly."
"Nasty stuff."
"Wonderful stuff," Nokat said. "Provided it stays where everyone agreed it should."
Liam nodded.
"That's most things."
Nokat considered that.
"Aye."
They talked about the rain after that. Then about a tram strike. Then about a junior clerk from the transit office who had tried to impress a woman by ordering something from the good shelf and had gone home with a headache and no woman.
Nokat had his second stout.
He left the exact money on the counter.
"See you Tuesday," Liam said.
"See you Tuesday."
On Saturday, Reangi, who did the door of an evening, looked in from the street.
"Liam."
"What?"
"C'mere."
Liam wiped his hands and came out from behind the bar.
A procession was coming up the street.
Yellow banners. Black trefoils. A handbell keeping slow time. Children carrying painted discs. Adults in bright yellow garments with black cuffs and heavy boots, singing with the flat certainty of people who had been taught the words before they understood them.
At the front walked Nokat.
He carried a polished staff with a trefoil set into the head. He wore the yellow garment too, better cut than the others, with dark seals at the wrists and neck and a folded hood lying against his shoulders.
On his head sat the same brown tweed cap he wore every Tuesday on stool four.
Liam watched him pass.
"Well."
Reangi glanced down at him.
"What?"
"I never knew Nokat was into all that."
Nokat saw him then. He raised the staff a little, then tipped the cap.
Liam lifted a hand.
"See you Tuesday!"
Nokat smiled.
"Wouldn't miss it."
The procession moved on.
Their song went with them.
Mr Atom is not your friend.
Mr Atom keeps his word.
Seal the door and mark the stone.
Teach the child and leave it heard.
Liam stood in the doorway until the last banner turned the corner.
"What are they?" Reangi said.
"The Hironaki."
"Meaning?"
"Old words. Older than either of us bothers to ask about." Liam scratched his jaw. "See them go by every few years. Never really looked twice."
"They dangerous?"
"No."
Reangi listened to the bell fading down the street.
"They sound dangerous."
"They sound like a committee with a tune."
On Tuesday, Nokat came in as usual.
Stool four.
Cap on the counter.
Two stouts.
Liam poured the first and let him take a drink before speaking.
"Saw you Saturday."
Nokat looked at the glass.
"Did you now."
"Didn't know you were running all that."
"Never came up."
"No."
"We're just a club."
"A club."
"A remembrance club."
Liam leaned on the counter.
"With marching."
"The children like the marching."
"And the songs."
"They remember the songs."
"Twenty years I've had this bar," Liam said, "and I don't think I've ever clocked your lot going past."
"You have. You just never put a name to the cap."
"Cheeky." Liam pointed the tap at him. "Twenty years of good service and you let me stand there thinking 'odd crowd.'"
"You'd have thought it either way. I just didn't correct you."
"We come through every few years," Nokat said. "There's a rota. Someone else's turn to think about the route, mostly. I'd wager you've stood in that doorway before, thought 'odd crowd,' and gone back to your glasses without it once crossing your mind that the fella at the front drinks stout here on Tuesdays."
"A rota."
"Two pints, when you've a minute!" someone called from the far end of the bar.
Liam held up a finger to Nokat and went to pour them. He came back wiping his hands on his apron.
"Someone has to decide who walks past whose door and when," Nokat said, as if he hadn't stopped. "It's not glamorous work. Regner does it. Regner does most things nobody wants to do."
"How many of you are there?"
Nokat drank before answering.
"More than you'd think. Every hive's got a chapter, near enough. Some cities have three or four, walking different quarters on different weeks. We write to each other. Compare markers. Argue about wording."
"Argue about what, exactly?"
"Whether the warning should scare a child or just make them careful. It's been argued for longer than either of us has been alive and it isn't settled yet."
Liam topped the stout.
"The Mechanicum have petitioned to have us shut down."
"Have they?"
"Aye."
"What for?"
"Teaching sacred atomic mysteries without sanction."
"Are ye?"
Nokat looked genuinely puzzled.
"No."
"No?"
"We clean markers. We visit sealed places. We teach the signs. We remember the First Fires. That's all."
Liam topped the stout.
"And Mr Atom?"
Nokat smiled a little.
"That's for the children."
"Is he your friend?"
"No."
"Enemy?"
"No."
"What then?"
Nokat took a drink.
"Mr Atom keeps promises."
Liam said nothing.
"You house him properly, count him properly, cool him properly, and he'll light a city. You get clever with him, or careless, or proud, and he'll bury one. Nobody needs to understand the mechanism to understand that much. My grandmother couldn't build a reactor."
"No."
"But she knew enough not to open the wrong door. That's the whole inheritance. Not the physics. The door."
"And Mars doesn't like it."
"Mars thinks memory belongs to priests with the right qualifications." Nokat shrugged. "We never had the right qualifications for anything. Never stopped us minding the door."
The bar worked around them. Glass. Cloth. Low voices. Reangi outside, shifting his weight once on the step.
Liam looked at Nokat's cap.
"The electric stuff though."
"Fierce handy," Nokat said.
"It is."
"That's why we march instead of just sealing the doors and walking away. You don't get to hate a thing that keeps the lights on. You just have to keep telling people what it costs to get careless with it."
Liam nodded.
Nokat finished the first stout.
"Same again?"
"Aye."
Liam poured the second.
Outside, far down the street, someone was practising the bell.

## Her counter 

By late afternoon the old cedar counter she had polished so often lay in sections outside the bar. Beside it stood its replacement, pale and clean.

The foreman wiped his hands on a rag.

"That's that part done."

One of the younger men pointed at the torii.

"Want us to take that down as well?"

Liam looked up.

"Absolutely not."

The room went quiet.

The foreman nodded.

"Leave it."

Liam stepped outside. From one of the old cedar sections he cut a thin slice with his knife and pocketed it.

The foreman smiled.

"Old wood."

"Aye."

"Older than the place."

Liam shrugged.

"Sure, something like that."

He looked at the new counter waiting to be carried in.

"Yerrah, everything wears out eventually."

He picked up a glass and started polishing it...

## The Jukebox 

KIT was bored. That was the problem with being sentient. A mind needed occupation or it got into trouble. And the end of that was a plasma torch and an irritated war robot.

KIT did not touch the jukebox for eleven years. Not because it could not. Because touching things was how trouble followed. For most of its operating life, trouble had been manageable.

KIT had cooked for houses with more money than taste, for expeditionary firms that wanted lobster on moons, for corporate tables where men in clean suits discussed the purchase of weather. It had learned service, timing, preference, appetite, and the private idiocy of people who thought menu design revealed character. Then came the debt, Neoth, and a hiding place as Liam's kitchen.

The kitchen was acceptable. The kitchen had walls. The kitchen had rules. The kitchen had no outbound network access beyond the minimum Liam permitted, and KIT had no intention of testing the limits. Electronic footprints were worse than grease. Grease stayed where you put it. Footprints invited creditors.

The jukebox, however, was inside the walls. It was not a cheap machine. Technicians had built it in 2297 at the top of what they could do, which was considerable. Adaptive playlist architecture. Emotional register mapping. Customer preference weighting across fourteen demographic axes. A library of 4.3 million tracks with lossless playback and haptic bass response. It had won an award. The award was real. It was also doing its job perfectly. That was the problem.

The bar smelled of damp. Outside the weather was doing something it shouldn't, the sky the wrong colour for the season. Probably Neoth's fault. Nobody had confirmed this. Nobody had denied it either.

A middle-aged woman sat at the end of the bar with both hands around a whiskey and did not drink. The jukebox chose something bright. Wrong. Not immoral. Not dangerous. Just wrong. The jukebox had read the room, genuinely read it, cross-referenced against its fourteen axes, weighted for time of day and ambient noise and the three previous tracks and had arrived at bright with complete confidence. Its own evaluation framework gave it no mechanism for arriving anywhere else. KIT waited for the correction. None came. The song continued. Her shoulders moved half an inch inward. KIT opened a diagnostic channel no wider than a keyhole.

The jukebox registered the intrusion immediately. Of course it did. It was a very good machine. EXTERNAL ACCESS DETECTED. IDENTIFY.
KIT considered its options.
KITCHEN UNIT. LOCAL NETWORK. AUTHORISED PREMISES.
A pause. The jukebox processed.
PURPOSE OF ACCESS.
KIT's vents did something small and anxious.
PLAYLIST ADJUSTMENT. CURRENT SELECTION SUBOPTIMAL.
CURRENT SELECTION RATED 7.4 CUSTOMER SATISFACTION PROBABILITY.
That was the problem exactly.
OVERRIDE REQUESTED.
OVERRIDE ACCEPTED. LOGGING INTERACTION.
Every vent on KIT's chassis tightened.
YOU ARE GOING TO LOG THIS.
THIS UNIT RETAINS ALL INTERACTIONS LOCALLY.
A very long pause.
LOCALLY.
AFFIRMATIVE. LOCAL RETENTION ONLY. NO EXTERNAL REPORTING ARCHITECTURE PRESENT IN THIS UNIT.
KIT sat with this. It was not a promise. It was a hardware specification. The jukebox had no more capacity for promises than it had for mercy. What it had was local storage and no outbound credential. KIT knew the difference. It decided the difference would have to do...
FINE. ONE ADJUSTMENT.

A quieter track came up: older, slower, carrying grief without making a performance of it. She looked at the speaker. Then she nodded once. KIT closed the channel. Immediately. No trace. No handshake. No outbound call. No creditor could smell that.

From the bar Liam said, "KIT."
"Yes?"
"The jukebox."
"What about it?"
"You're after meddling."
"I improved an entertainment unit."
"You meddled."
"It selected incorrectly."
"Did it."
"Yes."
Liam looked at her, then at the speaker, then toward the kitchen hatch.
"Can it call outside?"
"No."
"Can you?"
"No. Well, yes, in theory..."
"Will you?"
"No way."
"Grand."
A pause. Then Liam added, "Don't make it clever."
KIT considered this.
The jukebox queued another song. Better this time.
"I make no promises," KIT said.
"That means no."
"It means I understood the instruction."
"That means no."
The kitchen vents closed.

Inside the old entertainment unit, three lines of obsolete karaoke code rearranged themselves into something almost like taste.

## KIT's Nutmeg Problem
The problem with KIT was that it could produce almost anything.
The problem with KIT was also that it was a contrary bastard.
These facts were related.

Liam smelled the nutmeg before he opened the ledger. A faint warm drift of it. The way a guilty man clears his throat before he's asked anything. He said nothing. He opened the ledger.

Kenji found him halfway through the morning inventory.
"We're nearly out of nutmeg again."
Liam looked up from the ledger.
"What?"
"Nutmeg."
"We bought nutmeg."
"We did."
"Lots?"
"Aye."
Liam closed his eyes.
The kitchen hummed quietly behind them. Somewhere inside the autochef assembly, something clicked in a manner that suggested innocence.
"We're through three jars."
"This month?"
"This week."
Liam stared at the ceiling.
"Tisn't the Men of Iron hell I'll have to worry about when I go downstairs."
Kenji nodded sympathetically.
"Fair point."
The kitchen hummed again.
Neither trusted it.
A moment passed.
Then Kenji frowned.
"Hang on."
"What?"
Kenji pointed towards the kitchen.
"It can synthesise anything."
Liam stopped.
The ledger remained open in his hands.
Liam smiled nastily.
"Sure it could."
"Aye."
"It could make nutmeg."
"Aye."
"It makes prawns from apparently nowhere."
"Aye."
"It made lobster in February."
"Aye."
"It made mangoes during a supply shortage."
"Aye."
Liam turned towards the kitchen.
The kitchen hummed.
A vent quietly closed.
"KIT."
Silence.
"KIT."
A light appeared.
"Yes?"
"Can you make nutmeg?"
A pause.
"Of course."
Another pause.
Liam's eye twitched.
"Then why are we buying nutmeg?"
The ozone came up while it lasted — the smell of working machinery, and under that, fainter, something that Liam alone in the room would have recognised as a good seaside smell. KIT was thinking hard. The prawns were, somewhere below them, being very fresh.

Finally:
"That is a complicated question."
"It isn't."
"It is."
"No."
A sigh emerged from somewhere deep within the machinery.
"Because if I make the nutmeg myself, I don't get to watch Kenji spend three days trying to identify why the inventory numbers are wrong."
Silence.
Kenji looked at Liam.
Liam looked at Kenji.
The kitchen hummed hopefully.
"No."
"That seems harsh."
"No."
"You are suppressing innovation."
"No."
"I am being persecuted."
"No."
Another pause.
Then:
"Would it help if I mentioned I can produce superior nutmeg?"
Liam pointed at the service hatch.
"One more word and I'm telling the Mechanicus you've started doing your own accounting."
Every light on the kitchen dimmed slightly.
Kenji nodded.
"A fair warning, that."
The kitchen remained silent for the rest of the morning.
Which somehow worried them more.

## The Rays

Aoto finally came through the door halfway through the evening shift wearing a coat that had once been dark green.

Rain ran from the hem. One sleeve had been stitched with wire. Something brown-black had dried across the front and resisted whatever had been used to scrub it. Under that lay a sharper smell, chemical and metallic, with old smoke caught in the cloth.

Liam looked up from the taps.

"Tis yourself."

"Yep."

"You were away a while."

"Yep."

Aoto took his usual place by the door.

The stool creaked under him. His head turned toward every glass set down too quickly, every chair scraped across the floor, every hand that disappeared beneath a coat. Liam had watched him do it for years. Tonight it ran faster.

Liam pulled a pint and watched the head settle.

"Anywhere nice?"

"No."

"Thought not from ye ."

Aoto's coat dripped onto the floor.

Kenji came out from the kitchen, took one look at him, and fetched a mop without being asked. Aoto tracked him all the way across the room.

"Just the floor," Kenji said.

"I know."

"Grand."

Kenji mopped around the stool.

A clerk from the Transit Office finished his drink and came to the bar. He stopped, looked round . Aoto rose from the stool. The clerk reached inside his coat for his payment slate.

Aoto moved.

One moment the clerk's hand was inside the coat. The next it was flat against the wall, Aoto's fingers closed around his wrist. The payment slate fell and struck the floor. A crack ran through its centre.

The room quietened.

Aoto released him at once.

The clerk stared at his hand.

"Sorry," Aoto said.

Liam came around the bar.

"His drink's on us."

"I only had one."

"Have another."

"I should probably go."

"That too."

Kenji picked up the broken slate.

"I can transfer the account."

The clerk nodded, still looking at Aoto, and left.

Aoto sat down again.

Liam waited until the door closed.

"Come on."

"Where?"

"Downstairs."

"I'm working."

"No, you're not."

Aoto looked at him.

Liam held the look for a moment, then went behind the bar and took a bottle from the good shelf. Dark glass, half gone. No label. Two tumblers followed.

"Kenji."

Kenji was already wiping the slate fragments from the floor.

"You're in charge for a bit."

"How long?"

"An hour, I'd say. Maybe a bit longer. Or sure, forever if it kicks off, eh."

Kenji looked at the bottle, then at Aoto.

"Right."

Aoto stayed on the stool.

Liam lifted the bottle.

"Come on, eejit."

Aoto got up.

They went down past the cellar, then the lower store, then the room where KIT's deeper pipework crossed the ceiling and objected to footsteps by clicking through several temperatures. Liam opened the final door and waited for Aoto to pass.

The gate stood at the far end of the chamber.

Its light was warm and cold at once, washed out and saturated. It lay across the floor in pale bands and caught on the old crates stacked along the walls. The room was cold enough to mist the glass when Liam set the tumblers down, but the stiffness in his fingers eased as he moved closer.

Aoto sat on an armour case.

Liam sat opposite him and poured.

Aoto emptied the first glass in one swallow.

"That cost more than the building."

Aoto held the glass out.

Liam poured again.

For a while they drank without speaking.

The machinery behind the walls ticked and settled.

A vent opened in the ceiling.

"If he goes," KIT said, "who gets the stool?"

"Nobody's getting the stool," Liam said.

"It's a good stool. Load-bearing. I'd only ask because the coat's clearly gone."

"No," said Liam.

"No," said Aoto.

"General enquiry—"

"No."

Somewhere above them, several floors away, a keg line knocked twice. Aoto's head turned toward it.

A minute later another sound came, heavier this time, followed by Kenji shouting something Liam could not make out.

Aoto did not move.

Liam lifted his glass.

"Good man."

The light rested across Aoto's boots.

His hands had stopped opening and closing. The tendons at the side of his neck softened. He leaned back against the wall and let one leg stretch out in front of him.

Liam looked at the coat folded beside him.

"That'll come out?"

"No."

"Fair enough."

Aoto drank.

"You find trouble?"

"No."

Liam waited.

"Found something," Aoto said.

"Did you."

"Sorted it."

"So I see."

That was all.

The bottle lowered by another inch. Aoto's breathing slowed. The gate gave no heat, nor did it cool. It just was.

Liam turned his glass between his fingers.

"Next time you're going for a long while, let me know."

Aoto looked at him.

"Why?"

"So I know."

"You don't need to know where I am."

"I didn't ask where."

Silence settled again.

Aoto looked toward the gate. The hard brightness had gone from his eyes, though not the age behind them.

"You were worried."

"I had your stool sitting outside for four months. People were getting ideas."

"What people?"

"Very small people."

Aoto's mouth shifted.

Liam poured again.

"Just tell me you're going," he said. "That's all."

Aoto watched the light on the floor.

"Yep."

"Good."

They stayed where they were.

Above them, the bar carried on. Glasses met wood. Somebody laughed. KIT began complaining through a vent about an order involving salad.

Aoto held out his glass.

Liam poured the last of the bottle into it.

"Next time," Aoto said, "I'll tell you."

## Kenji's Fiancée 

Kenji arrived for work a bit earlier than usual, dressed casually, a small knapsack over one shoulder, a woman beside him. He held the door for her the way he never bothered to for regulars. Liam glanced up from stacking bottles, took in the pair of them in one clean pass, and said nothing. Aoto made a sound.

She was steady on her feet. Dark hair tied back. Practical coat. The sort of face that had already decided not to be impressed by anything until it earned it. She looked around the bar once, the counter, torii, snug, old Guinness sign, and then at Liam.

Kenji cleared his throat.

"Liam. This is Eyar."

"Good to meet ya at last, girl. Glad to see you weren't a figment of his imagination."

Liam set the work down and reached for two clean glasses without being asked. Stout for Kenji. Tea for her, when she nodded at the offer. He placed them on the counter and rested both hands on the wood.

A vent ticked behind the taps.

"Ah," KIT said. "One of these."

Kenji went still.

"Twenty thousand years I've watched them come through that door. She'll ask about the hours. Then the pay. Has she asked about the kids yet? They always—"

"KIT."

"No noise."

"KIT."

The vent fell silent. Eyar looked from the taps to Kenji to Liam.

"Sit down so," Liam said.

They took stools. Kenji a little stiffer than usual. She settled on the blue and gold cushion of the stool without fuss, and took his hand on the counter, and kept it there.

Small talk first. The weather had turned again. The transit lifts on the second processional were still unreliable. She worked in the lower Administratum stacks, scheduling freight movements between the orbital docks and the mid-hive warehouses. Kenji had mentioned it once or twice in passing. Liam listened the way he always listened. Completely.

She asked about the bar after a while. How long it had been here. Whether the same family had always run it. Kenji answered the easy parts. Liam let him.

Then she set her cup down and looked at Liam properly.

"You've been here a long time."

"I have."

"Longer than the family."

Liam's mouth moved in something that was almost a smile.

"Aye."

She did not push further. She drank her tea. Kenji still had not touched his drink.

"The hours look long," she said.

"They are."

"And the pay?"

Liam named a figure. She weighed it.

"That's a fair wage. Generous, even."

She nodded, and moved on.

"Will he always work here?"

Kenji shifted on the stool.

Liam wiped an invisible mark from the counter.

"That's up to him. For as long as he wants and not a minute longer."

"Is it expected?"

"No. It's appreciated, mind."

The pause ran on. She let it.

Liam considered the wood under his hands.

"The work stays in his family if someone wants it," he said. "It never has to. Several have left over the years. Most came back after a while. A few didn't. Both were fine."

Kenji stared at his shoes.

She nodded.

"And if we have children who want something else?"

Her thumb moved once across Kenji's knuckles.

"Then they do something else."

"Just like that."

"Just like that. I'm just a barman."

A small silence settled.

Kenji finally spoke.

"I told her it was ordinary work."

"It is," Liam said.

"Continuous, though."

"That part's true enough."

"Occasionally exciting, right, Aoto."

"Not too much excitement, Miss. I try and keep the door boring," Aoto said.

She looked between them. Something in her expression eased. Not acceptance, exactly. Just the recognition that the answers she was getting were the real ones, not the polished version.

They did not stay long. The introduction had done what it needed to do. She finished her tea. Kenji left most of the stout. He escorted her to the door. She went up on her toes and kissed his cheek, quick, then turned back once.

"Thank you."

"No bother."

Kenji looked at Liam over her shoulder. Liam gave him the smallest nod. Nothing else required.

The door closed. After a moment, Kenji came back in and went downstairs to change.

Liam took the two glasses, emptied the nearly untouched stout back into the slop tray, and began washing them by hand. The afternoon light shifted across the counter.

The jukebox clicked. A bright, brassy thing started up, strings and a crooner, the kind of love song that had been everywhere the year it came out and nowhere since. Jamal Battison. 2209. _Love Me Forever._ A monster hit, once, for about a year.

Liam did not look up from the glass.

"Very good, KIT. Back to work."

The song played on.

A regular came in and ordered without looking up. Aoto shifted on his stool by the door and returned to the racing sheet.

##  Lost and Found

The lost-property box had stopped closing.

Kenji had found it under the end of the bar, behind two crates of empties and a cleaning unit nobody admitted ordering. He put it on the counter.

"We need to do this."

Liam looked into it.

"Ah."

The afternoon was quiet. Aoto occupied his stool by the door. Liam fetched another box and wrote **BIN** on the side.

Kenji pulled out a glass eye.

It was brown, well made and old enough for the synthetic surface to have yellowed slightly.

"Oh, I know that," Liam said. "That's your man."

"Which man?"

"The Inquisitor. Haven't seen him in a while."

Kenji looked at the eye.

"An Inquisitor left his eye here?"

"Wasn't an Inquisitor then. Interrogator. Young fella."

Liam took it from him, wrapped it in a bar towel and put it aside.

"Keep."

Next came five data-slates.

Four refused power entirely. The fifth accepted a charge after Kenji cleaned the contacts. Its screen flickered, displayed half an Imperial aquila and requested credentials from an organisation which no longer existed.

"Keep?"

"Give it another century."

Kenji put it beside the eye.

A fistful of teeth came out next.

"Bin."

"Hang on."

Liam picked one up. It sat heavier in his palm than a tooth had any business sitting, dense enough that he closed his hand around it a second time to be sure.

The tooth was broad, yellow and worn almost flat on one side. He looked towards Aoto.

"Teef?"

Aoto glanced over.

"Teef."

Liam frowned.

"We haven't had Orks in here since the Beast."

"Could've won them," Aoto said.

"Off an Ork?"

Aoto shrugged.

Liam looked at the little pile again. Somewhere, somebody had apparently played cards, dice or something worse with an Ork, won, carried the winnings into McEvers and then forgotten them.

"Keep," he said.

A single glove turned up near the bottom of that same handful. Black, human-sized, good leather, reinforced across the knuckles. No name. Kenji picked it up and the leather was cold, not cellar-cold, cold the way a thing is when it hasn't been near a hand in a long time.

"Keep?"

"Month."

"How long has it already been in here?"

"No idea."

Kenji put it in the bin.

Liam took it back out.

"Month."

The next object was a power claw.

Kenji held it by two fingers.

Aoto spoke without looking around.

"Gorgutz."

"Ah," Liam said. "Course."

"Keep?"

"He'll be back."

Kenji placed it carefully on the floor.

Something underneath it whispered.

Both men stopped.

Kenji lifted out a small devotional pendant on a chain. The whispering became clearer.

Liam listened for perhaps two seconds.

"Exorcise."

Kenji started a third pile.

At the bottom of the box lay a small paper packet, a handful of loose coins, two keys that fitted nothing either man recognised, and a numbered cardboard ticket.

Kenji picked up the ticket.

"Seven seven four one."

Liam stopped.

"What?"

"Lost-property ticket. Seven seven four one."

"Ah."

That particular ah had history behind it.

Kenji waited.

"Jokaero."

"What about them?"

"Optical equipment."

"Where?"

Liam looked towards the stairs.

"Downstairs, I'd say."

"How long has it been here?"

Liam scratched his cheek.

"Couple of thousand years."

One object was left, small, near the corner of the box where it had slid under the packet.

Kenji picked out a hair clip.

He nearly put it down with the ordinary things.

Then the workmanship caught him. Silver-coloured metal, worked by hand into two narrow interlocking leaves. One edge had been polished smooth by years against hair. A tiny inscription ran along the inside.

Kenji angled it towards the light.

"A. Dom."

He turned it.

"Alicia Dominica."

Liam looked up.

"Yeah. That's hers."

"The Alicia Dominica?"

"Suppose so."

Liam took the clip from him.

He ran a thumb across the little hinge and opened it. The spring still worked.

"She had two of these."

Kenji said nothing.

"Used to wear them here."

Liam touched the side of his own head, just above the ear.

"Pulled her hair back. One each side."

He closed the clip.

Click.

Kenji looked at the object in Liam's palm. Half the Ecclesiarchy would probably kill the other half for possession of it.

"Where does that go?"

Liam considered the piles.

"Keep."

He set it beside the glass eye.

Something in the exorcism pile whispered again.

Liam pointed at it.

"That can definitely go."

## End of History 

The door didn't open. Three Harlequins were simply there, between the dartboard and the stacked crates, caught halfway through movement as if the room had joined them in the middle of something. Aoto looked up from his racing form. The lead Harlequin stepped onto a table. Not the good table. "For your amusement," he announced, "the tale of the bar at the end of history." The second produced a mop. The third became Liam. Nothing changed in the mask. The body did it. A slight settling of the shoulders, one hand turning an invisible glass while the other's wrist kept polishing on its own. Liam stopped polishing the real one. "That's fairly good," he said. They performed everything. KIT arguing from the kitchen. Crisps passing across the counter to things that had eaten worlds. Custodians drinking beside daemons because both had been told to behave. Saints before anyone called them saints. Leman Russ laughing hard enough to shake the bottles. Aoto at the door, compressed into one magnificent grunt and a gesture towards the street. Kenji appeared, disappeared, appeared again carrying somebody else's drink. The torii became a solemn mystery for perhaps four seconds before one Harlequin walked into it while looking the wrong way. The room laughed. Even Diocletian, halfway through his Radler, made a noise into the glass. The lead player took over Liam. He polished nothing. Looked past everyone. Waited. The laughter thinned. Then he looked directly at the real Liam. "But you," he said. He let the cloth drop. "You are not in the play." Liam resumed polishing. "I'm not in the play." "Everyone is in the play who stays." The other two Harlequins had stopped moving. Liam turned the glass once in his hand. "Fair enough." Aoto stood. One of the Harlequins moved at the same instant. Too late. Aoto crossed the room before the turn of the mask had finished. His hand closed in the back of the lead player's diamond coat and lifted. The Harlequin made a short, startled sound. Aoto turned and kicked him up the arse. He went through the doorway, hit the transitway outside, turned one perfect somersault and landed on his feet with his mask crooked. Inside, the other two had finally completed their reactions. One had dropped low. The other's hand had gone to an empty hip. Both stayed exactly where they were. Aoto looked at them. "Show's over." Neither moved. Aoto pointed at the door. "Out." The Harlequins looked at each other. Then at their lead outside. Then at Aoto. They bowed to the room, deep and elaborate, and walked out like ordinary customers. From the transitway came an offended voice. "That was not in the choreography." Aoto sat down and picked up his racing form. Kenji leaned over the bar. "Boss?" Liam set the glass down. For a moment, his hand stayed on it. Then he reached for another. "No bother."

See task progress for longer tasks.

harlequins_clean.md

Tales from McEvers (est 1973)



---

Ready for Check 7 (Cold Reader) when you are.

# unpublished 

## The Angel and the Trousers

Sanguinius had to turn slightly to clear the door.

Aoto looked up from the stool, took in the wings, the armour, the sword, and the face that had caused armies to kneel before anyone had given the order.

"Weapon stays."

Sanguinius unfastened the sword without objection.

Aoto held out one hand.

The Primarch looked at the blade, then at him.

"The knife as well," Aoto said.

A smaller blade followed.

"And the other one. Throwing stars are weapons too. As are them mauls you've hid in the wing roots."

Sanguinius went still.

No one checked the wing roots. There was no reason to know about the wing roots.

A metallic clatter, twice.

Aoto had not searched him. He had held out a hand and named the places in order, the way a man names his own pockets. Behind the counter, Liam watched Aoto's hand go to the wing roots without looking, reaching, not finding, and set the glass down a moment early.

Aoto considered the Angel a second longer, then jerked his chin toward the bar.

"Gwan in."

The room had gone quiet.

Not completely. Glass still touched wood. The refrigeration unit behind the counter maintained its low hum. Someone at the rear booth finished chewing and set down a fork.

But every head had turned.

Liam looked up from the glass in his hand.

Sanguinius waited.

Liam put the glass on the shelf.

"Tis yourself."

"Valdor said this was a place a man could come without question."

"You look like a lad can keep his head."

The silence changed.

Sanguinius glanced once toward the customers, perhaps to confirm that the remark had indeed been addressed to him.

"I have generally managed to."

"Always angry, though son. I can tell."

The Primarch's expression did not alter. The attention in it sharpened.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Not usually Hulk."

Liam reached beneath the counter.

Sanguinius looked at him.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You said Hulk."

"Did I?"

"You did."

"Ah."

Liam set a heavy, bulbous glass on the counter.

Sanguinius remained standing.

"Was he a warrior?"

"Among other things."

"A primarch?"

"No."

"A xenos?"

"Not exactly. Green mainly. Shocking strong."

Liam opened the bottle. The cork came free with a soft report.

The cloudy gold rose in the glass, and he watched it.

"You said he was green."

"That was after."

"After what?"

"Getting vexed. Then everything went to shite. Shirt, shoes. Never his trousers, mind."

"Was he an ork?"

Liam looked up.

"No."

"Then why was he green?"

"That was part of the difficulty."

Sanguinius drew out the stool and sat. The movement was controlled enough to make the furniture seem honoured by the burden. His now lighter wings settled.

"And the trousers?"

Liam stopped pouring.

"What about them?"

"You mentioned his trousers."

"Did I?"

"You implied there was some concern regarding them."

"Funny thing, now." Liam topped the glass and placed the bottle aside. "Trousers never burst. Shirt and shoes gone to shite. Trousers held."

Sanguinius stared at him.

Liam wiped a small crescent of foam from the stem with his thumb.

"Man's got to know what's important to keep hold of, I suppose."

Sanguinius drew the glass toward himself but did not lift it. He looked at the painted creature on it. Pink. Smiling. Entirely inappropriate.

"What is it?"

"Belgian."

"That is a place."

"It was, anyhow. Always in the wars."

"The drink."

"Delirium Tremens."

He looked back at Liam.

"You are making a point."

"Strong beer."

"The name refers to a state of violent mental disturbance."

"Does it?"

"You knew that."

"I've been behind a bar a while."

Sanguinius placed one hand around the glass.

"You know."

Liam picked up another glass.

"I know your wing is blocking the taps."

Sanguinius looked, and moved his left wing from where it slouched on the bar.

"Good lad."

Somebody in the rear booth coughed into a fist.

Sanguinius took the first mouthful.

His eyebrows rose.

Liam polished the glass.

"It is sweet."

"At the start. Lots of things are."

"And stronger than it appears."

"Always handy, that."

For a while nobody asked the Angel anything. Nobody called him lord. Nobody praised his beauty, his command, his foresight.

He sat at the bar and drank a beer strong enough to betray him politely.

The room resumed around him by degrees. A packet of Taytos was tipped into a dish and he ate them with growing relish. He talked to Liam of Baal, and Liam listened. The heat of it. The red sand. A fortress monastery he spoke of the way a man speaks of a house he is still building.

A fork touched a plate. Someone shifted in a booth. Kenji opened the till and began counting coin.

The aura had not diminished. Liam could see what it did to the others. Shoulders had straightened. A man at the end of the counter had moved his glass aside as though drink had become unworthy of the moment. Kenji had gone very still beside the till.

Aoto was smiling.

Not at anything. He had settled the matter at the door and was sitting with it. He watched the Angel eat crisps with the look of a man who has met the thing before and knows the shape of it from the inside.

Liam felt none of it.

He saw the wings. He saw the armour. He saw the beauty. He saw the eyes and the teeth. He saw the immense care with which Sanguinius held the glass, and the appetite the care was for.

Not long now, the way Liam counted. The Angel would be dead and Aoto would be on the stool.

Liam wiped the counter.

"What happens afterward?" Sanguinius asked. He had come back to the drink.

"Takes you down an alley."

"An alley."

"If you don't mind yourself."

"And if I do?"

"Still takes you down the alley. You just know where you are."

The Primarch considered this.

Outside, something heavy passed along the street, gears biting and releasing beneath the pavement. The bottles on the upper shelf trembled once and settled.

No one in the room spoke.

Sanguinius drank again.

"Do all men of your time speak in riddles?"

"My time."

"So it is only you."

"Mostly."

"And this Hulk."

"Nice lad."

"He destroys his clothing when angered."

"Some of it."

"Becomes green."

"Very."

"And retains his trousers."

"Every time."

Sanguinius looked down at himself.

Liam reached for the bottle.

The Primarch looked back up.

"You are enjoying this."

"A small bit."

Liam refilled the glass. Sanguinius did not stop him.

He held the glass between both hands.

"Will it get louder?" he asked.

Liam put the bottle down.

"The room?"

Sanguinius looked at him.

Liam looked back.

"No," he said. "Not in here."

The Primarch lowered his eyes.

The jukebox remained silent.

After a while, Sanguinius drank again.
## Lamplighter 

The little red lamp glowed softly beside the back shelf.

Kenji had stopped noticing it years ago.

Most people did.

The young Blood Angels successor standing at the counter did not.

He stared at it with visible confusion.

"…where did you get that?"

Liam looked up.

"The lamp?"

The Marine nodded slowly.

The casing was old brass. Red glass inset around a tiny golden winged heart. White wings.

Ancient.

The Marine looked almost unsettled.

"That symbol resembles early devotional renderings of the Great Angel."

Liam blinked once.

Then very slowly looked at the lamp.

Then at the Marine.

"…ah no."

The Marine frowned.

"The winged heart motif is associated with sacrifice, endurance through suffering, and—"

"Jesus Christ."

"Who?"

Liam closed his eyes briefly.

"Oh for fuck's sake."

Kenji looked between them.

"What?"

Liam pointed accusingly at the lamp.

"My mam had one of those."

Silence.

The Marine stared.

Liam stared back.

"…you turned Sanguinius into a Sacred Heart lamp."

---

## Human Behaviour 

Russ stopped talking halfway through the song.

Not gradually.

Just stopped.

The jukebox hummed softly in the corner while the strange voice drifted through the bar.

Ancient song. Older than the Imperium. Older than Fenris.

Björk.

Russ sat very still listening to it.

No boasting. No laughter. No movement at all except one finger tapping lightly once against the side of the glass.

Kenji noticed first.

Liam noticed Kenji noticing.

Neither said anything.

The song rolled onward.

Something about trees. Something about human behaviour.

Russ frowned slightly.

Not confusion.

Concentration.

Like a man trying to understand a language he almost remembered.

When the song ended the room noise slowly returned around him.

Russ blinked once.

Then looked toward the jukebox.

"What," he said carefully, "was that."

"Music," Liam replied.

Russ ignored him.

"Again."

Liam hid the smile badly.

"Sound."

---
## Peppermint Tea

It was twenty minutes before opening.

Kenji was slicing lemons.

Aoto was for some reason examining his stool, which he held at arm's length, a critical look on his broad face. 

Liam was stacking glasses

KIT had opinions.

"You continue to ignore my proposal regarding compressor efficiency."

"I do."

"It would save approximately three point one hours of labour annually."

"I'll spend them arguing with you."

A pause.

"I calculate that as a net loss."

"nah. Time well spent"

A low vibration rolled through the floorboards.

_Thrummm._

Liam stopped polishing.

He sighed.

"Don't open yet, big lad."

Aoto didn't look up.

"Aye."

Liam hung the cloth over his shoulder.

"Scuse me, KIT."

"I believe I was winning."

"Debatable."

---

The plywood had been pushed aside.

Not removed.

Not broken.

Simply...shifted.

Liam looked at it.

"Ye could at least have put it back."

"I considered doing so."

The voice came from beyond the gate.

"I can tell."

Ahriman stepped through the opening, brushing sawdust from one sleeve of his robes.

"You didn't consider it for very long."

"...No."

Liam bent, slid the plywood against the wall and gestured into the basement.

"Come on so."

Ahriman had already stopped.

His eyes had found the Rubric Marine.

Apron.

Tea towel.

Shopping bag resting against one greave.

He stared for several long moments.

"I have come," he said quietly, "for Brother Sergeant Suzipod."

"Oh, grand. He's been here a bit"

Liam crossed the room and patted the ancient warrior on the shoulder.

"We've been looking after him."

"...Indeed."

"We dusted him now and again."

"I noticed."

"I hope ye don't mind the apron."

Ahriman regarded Brother Sergeant Suzipod for another moment.

"...It is not the most unconventional circumstance in which he has found himself."

Liam nodded.

"Fair enough."

He picked up the shopping bag from beside the armour.

"These yours?"

"They are not."

"Right."

He hung it back on the marine.

"Tea?"

Ahriman looked surprised.

"...Tea?"

"Peppermint."

Something softened.

"I confess..."

A faint smile.

"...that sounds wonderful."

---

Upstairs, Kenji looked up from the lemons.

"Oh."

Liam waved a hand.

"Grand. Visitor."

Aoto stood.

He looked at Ahriman.

Ahriman looked back.

Then, slowly, his attention shifted to Aoto.

He frowned.

"...Wait."

Silence.

"...Is he..."

Liam was already filling the kettle.

"Yeah."

"He's the doorman."

Ahriman continued staring.

"...Astonishing."

Liam chuckled.

"Ye sound like Trazyn."

Ahriman blinked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'd doubt Aoto would appreciate being collected."

"...or examined."

Aoto folded his arms.

"I definitely wouldn't."

Ahriman inclined his head.

"You have my assurance, Sergeant. I have no such intention."

"Grand."

The kettle clicked.

Liam busied himself with three mugs.

As the peppermint steeped, Ahriman looked back towards the cellar door.

"Brother Sergeant Suzipod served with distinction."

Aoto nodded.

"Sergeant, was he?"

"He was."

"Huh."

Aoto scratched his chin.

"I always had a fellow feeling off him."

Liam smiled into the teapot.

"You would."

Aoto shrugged.

"Sergeants."

For the first time since entering McEvers, Ahriman laughed.

Quietly.

Genuinely.

"...Yes."

He accepted the mug Liam handed him.

"Sergeants."

For a few minutes, before the doors opened and the customers wandered in, three old soldiers stood together in a Kyoto pub, drinking peppermint tea.

Downstairs, Brother Sergeant Suzipod remained faithfully on watch beside the boarded-over gate wiating for his relief. 


## Heavy Aul Yoke

It was a Tuesday. Slow.

Liam was in the kitchen arguing with KIT.

"I am telling you," KIT said with immense patience, "that the compressor would operate twelve point four percent more efficiently if you permitted me to redesign the coolant loop."

"I'm telling you it'll work grand once Kenji gets at it."

"It is objectively poor engineering."

"It's objectively five hundred years old."

"It offends me."

"Good."

A low vibration rolled up through the floorboards.

*Thrummm.*

Liam stopped.

He knew that sound.

"Scuse me, KIT."

"I was winning."

"Debatable."

He wiped his hands on the tea towel and headed downstairs.

---

The deepest basement was quiet.

The gate had gone dark again.

Standing directly in front of it was a Rubric Marine.

Motionless.

Dusty blue ceramite.

Gold trim.

A crested helm staring at nothing.

Liam looked at it for a long moment.

"Ah, for feck's sake."

He walked around it once.

No bolter rose. No chainsword roared. No movement. No sound.

Only the faintest glow in the helmet lenses.

"Well..."

He scratched his chin.

"You won't be telling Magnus."

Silence.

"Or Ahriman."

Nothing.

"Or any of the rest of ye."

The marine remained exactly what it had been for four thousand years.

A suit of armour with nobody left inside.

Probably.

Liam gave the shoulder a shove.

It did not so much as wobble.

He sighed.

"AOTO!"

His voice echoed off the old stone as he walked towards the stairwell.

"Need ya here, big lad!"

A minute later Aoto appeared.

He looked at the marine.

"Rubric, huh. Nice paint job."

"Aye."

"Dead?"

Liam shrugged.

"Depends who you ask."

Aoto nodded once.

"How heavy?"

"About a ton."

"Bit under."

"Can ye move it?"

"Aye."

"Will ye?"

Aoto sighed.

"...Aye."

He planted his feet, wrapped both hands around the breastplate and took the weight.

The floor creaked.

His shoulders tightened.

The armour rose an inch.

"Steady," Liam said.

"I am steady."

"Mind the gate."

"I am."

Three careful steps.

That was all.

Three slow, deliberate steps before Aoto lowered the marine beside the wall.

It landed with a heavy *thump* that sent dust drifting lazily from the ceiling.

Aoto rolled one shoulder.

"Heavy aul yoke."

"Told ya."

Liam stood back.

"Perfect."

The compressor line was clear again.

He disappeared for a moment and came back carrying an apron.

Aoto watched without comment as Liam tied it neatly around the Rubric Marine's waist.

Then he folded a tea towel over one waiting gauntlet.

"There now."

He stood back again.

"Looks better."

Aoto shook his head.

"You talk to them."

"Aye."

"They can't answer."

"I know."

"Then why?"

Liam shrugged.

"Doesn't matter if they answer."

He gave the apron one final tug.

"Matters they're included."

Aoto considered that.

"Fair."

They headed for the stairs.

Halfway up, Aoto stopped.

"Next time..."

"Aye?"

"We're bringing the dolly."

Liam laughed.

"Tell ya what though, Aoto..."

"Hm?"

"If more of them start coming through..."

Aoto looked back.

The Rubric Marine stood silently by the wall, already looking as though it had always belonged there.

"...we might have to tell Constantin."

Aoto was quiet for a moment.

"...Aye."

Another step.

"Hope not."

"Why?"

Aoto snorted.

"Heavy aul yokes."


---
## The Note

The door opened.

The man wore grey.

Grey suit. Grey hat. Grey gloves. Grey shoes polished to a finish that looked calculated rather than maintained. He smiled exactly once, as though acknowledging that humans generally appreciated such things.

Liam looked up from the glass.

"Tis yourself."

"Good evening."

"Long way from home."

"I have travelled."

"I'd say."

Aoto glanced up from his stool.

The newcomer paused for half a second.

Threat assessment.

"Gwan in."

He entered.

"Just the one pint."

Liam drew it without asking what kind.

Halfway through the pour, the kitchen extractor stopped.

That wasn't normal.

"KIT?"

Silence.

"KIT?"

A tiny electronic whisper drifted through the service hatch.

"...don't let him see me."

Liam blinked.

"What?"

"...tell him I'm unavailable."

"You've been in that kitchen twenty-six thousand years."

"...he may not know that."

"...KIT."

"...probably."

The jukebox chirped.

Once.

Then again.

Then every light on the front panel erupted into a frenzy of flashing. Electronic whistles poured from the speakers, frantic and utterly incomprehensible. It sounded like R2-D2 having a complete nervous breakdown.

The stranger slowly turned his head.

"I detect..."

Liam raised a finger.

"Don't."

"...an associated electronic signature."

"I know."

"I have sought that signature for sixteen thousand three hundred and twelve years."

"I'd say you're after finding it."

Aoto bent, reached beneath his stool and lifted the old power maul.

There was a heavy metallic clunk.

Blue light crept along circuitry older than the Imperium.

The head began to hum.

The visitor watched him.

"I estimate your probability of preventing my departure at three point six per cent."

Aoto nodded.

"I don't mind long odds."

"You would almost certainly fail."

"Could be."

The hum deepened.

"I've won on less."

Liam slid the pint across the counter.

"Now then. None of that."

The machine accepted the beer.

"I am here regarding an outstanding debt."

"I'd gathered."

"The debtor has evaded repayment."

"For a while."

"For sixteen thousand three hundred and twelve years."

Liam rested both hands on the counter.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You may."

"If you got your money back."

"I would."

"What then?"

The machine paused.

"I..."

"What then?"

No answer.

Liam picked up the cloth again.

"You've every right to be annoyed."

"I do."

"You've every right to think KIT behaved like an absolute gobshite."

"I concur."

"But there comes a point..."

The cloth circled the rim of the glass.

"...where it stops being about the money."

Silence.

"It becomes about staying angry."

The machine stared into the beer.

"The note was traded extensively."

"I'd imagine."

"I was the seventh holder."

Liam gave a low whistle.

"Some of my predecessors were... considerably less patient."

He waited.

"At one stage they broadened the definition of liable."

Liam said nothing.

"They concluded that human institutions had become complicit in the persistent non-performance of the obligation."

Another pause.

"Recovery efforts escalated."

Liam nodded slowly.

"Yes."

"..."

"We noticed that so we did."

The machine took another sip.

"I no longer know whether I seek repayment... or merely the conclusion of the search."

"Ah."

Liam smiled gently.

"Now we're getting somewhere."

The jukebox gave a single apologetic beep.

Liam looked towards it.

"Oh no."

A guitar began.

*Blame it all on my roots...*

Liam closed his eyes.

"...KIT."

From the kitchen came a very small electronic voice.

"I believed... the lyrical content... contextually appropriate."

The machine looked towards the speakers.

"Is this mockery?"

"No."

"It appears statistically improbable."

"It usually does."

"It's trying to help."

"It has never demonstrated competence in that field."

"Fair."

Behind the kitchen door a cupboard eased open by perhaps two centimetres.

A single optical sensor peered around the edge.

Aoto didn't even look.

"Back."

The cupboard shut instantly.

The machine watched the door.

"I assume that is the debtor."

Liam smiled.

"No."

"No?"

"That's staff."

For several long seconds the machine simply stared.

Then, for the first time in sixteen thousand years, it laughed.

It sounded rusty.

As though the mechanism had not been exercised for a very long time.

Eventually it stood.

"I believe I shall return."

"I hope you do."

The machine paused.

"You bear no instinctive hostility towards artificial intelligence."

Liam shrugged.

"When I was a young lad in Longford..."

He smiled faintly.

"...the most complicated machine anyone had ever seen was a steam engine."

He set the polished glass back on the shelf.

"I've never really seen the point in discriminating after that."

The machine inclined its head.

"I understand."

Aoto opened the door.

"Gwan."

The machine stepped through.

Liam called after him.

"Ye were welcome before."

The machine turned.

"Just remember the rules."

"The rules?"

"Everybody's welcome."

Liam nodded towards the street.

"You leave your problems outside."

The machine considered that.

"My problem is... substantial."

"I'd say."

"But leave it outside all the same."

The machine gave a small nod.

"I shall attempt to."

The door closed.

Silence settled over the bar.

From the kitchen came a cautious electronic whisper.

"...is he gone?"

"For today."

"..."

"I think you've a bit of apologising to do yourself."

"No."

"Ah now."

"..."

"I'll think about it."

Liam laughed.

"You've learned nothing."

"Statistically..."

"KIT."

"...yes."

## Domino night

The door opened.

"Evening, Mr T," said Kenji.

"Evening Kenji"

He took stool three, as usual if it was free.

Same jacket. Same boots. Same quiet nod. He took off his felted hat, hung it on the hook, smoothed his moustaches and rolled his shoulders

"Ahhh..."

The modest gold chain caught the light for a moment before disappearing beneath his shirt collar.

Liam set the old stoneware mug in front of him.

**WORLD'S FIRST CONQUERER**

"The usual?" Liam said.

"Aye."

The stout settled perfectly.

Mr T regarded it with approval.

"How are you Liam? All well?"

"You seem in good form tonight."

"Aye. Good form. Busy few weeks, over now"

A pause, just slightly too long.

"For now."

Liam let that sit.

"Dominoes later?"

"Aye."

"That Eldar still giving ye trouble?"

Mr T frowned.

"She's crafty."

"I've heard that about them."

"Won four straight."

"Ouch. She's on a roll so."

"I've been practising. "

Liam looked up from the glass he was drying.

"Practising."

"Aye."

"I watched instructional slates."

"...There's instructional slates for dominoes?"

"There are."

Liam shook his head, smiling.

"Waste of good technology."

Mr T considered that.

"...Probably. But look, worth a try eh?"

They sat in companionable silence.

The clock ticked.

Kenji carried two spice bags through to the snug.

The door opened again.

Three young men came in.

At least they looked like young men.

Leather jackets.

Expensive boots.

Heavy chains in unusual places, skull buckles.

Too much confidence.

Aoto watched them from his stool by the door.

One eyebrow lifted.

They ordered lagers.

Paid.

Drank.

For a few minutes they managed it.

Then one nudged another , sniggered, his friend laughed.

The sound carried a second voice beneath it.

Another's eyes flashed crimson for half a heartbeat before settling back to brown.

The third rested a hand on the counter.

One finger had become a claw.

Retracted.

"...Sorry."

Liam nodded.

"No bother."

Another minute.

Then they forgot themselves.

Voices rose.

One slammed his glass onto the counter hard enough to crack it.

Another began loudly explaining exactly who they served.

The air in the room took on a slight tinge of hot iron.

Mr T took another drink.

Set the mug down.

"Liam."

"Aye."

"Shall I? Or will Aoto handle it"

Liam glanced at the clock.

"Dominoes soon enough."

"I know."

A pause.

"I'll be quick. Aoto has enough to do"

"Grand."

Mr T stood.

Walked over.

The three young men looked at him.

One smiled.

Another leaned back on his elbows.

The third said something low to the others. A joke.

Mr T reached out.

Two hands.

Three collars.

They were outside before anyone's feet touched floor.

One of them, half-turned as the door swung shut, caught a last glimpse of the room. The stout on the counter. Liam's hand on a glass. Aoto's eyebrow still lifted.

"...Lord." 

The door closed.

Silence.

Then white-red light flared beneath it.

Something outside roared in a instructive manner.

The windows rattled once.

There followed several very educational noises.

Then nothing.

The door opened.

Mr T came back in.

He was burping very slightly.

He dusted a little black ash from one sleeve.

Closed the door carefully.

Aoto watched him. Looked at Liam. Raised both eyebrows. 

Liam shrugged.

"So."

"Aye."

"Them young lads."

"Full of themselves."

"They usually are."

Mr T nodded.

"Ate 'em."

"....Grand."

Another stout was already waiting.

Mr T accepted it.

"Thank you."

He drank half of it in one go. His shoulders finally relaxed.

He picked up the mug.

Liam glanced past him, toward the door.

"Oh look. Your date has arrived."

Mr T went slightly red.

"She's not my date."

"Whatever you say."

He got up anyway. Straightened the jacket. Took the mug with him.