Chapter 66: Tainted Air

Chapter 66: Tainted Air

Standard Terran Date: 005.M31

Aboard the Gloriana-class Battleship, the Ironblood, a woman sat in a cramped, dark lower-deck hab-unit, clutching her infant daughter, Liliana.

The walls were slick with rust and grime. The air was a thick, foul soup of machine oil and decay, and every breath was like swallowing a cloud of tainted fog.

The woman's hands trembled, her eyes fixed on the child in her arms. The baby, not yet a year old, was pale, her skin so thin that the fragile veins were visible beneath. She was a tiny, weak thing, her small hand clutching her mother's tunic. Every rattling cough seemed to take the last of her strength.

The mother's heart was a cold knot of pain and helplessness. She knew the ship's foul air was slowly killing her child.

"Shh, my baby," she whispered, her own voice trembling. "It's alright. Mama is here."

She used a metal spoon to try and feed the baby a thin, watery gruel from a cracked bowl. But a weak cough brought it all back up, a stream of thin milk and gruel, now tinged with blood. The sight was a knife in her heart.

She knew it wasn't just the air. There was a deeper sickness in Liliana, a frailty that was eating away at her life.

The single lume-strip in the hab flickered, threatening to die, casting long, grim shadows. The mother, Aelia, looked around for any sign of hope.

Her gaze fell on a small medicae-box in the corner. It was her only hope. Her son, Petros, had stolen it for her, returning with his face bruised and swollen from the fight it had cost him.

She gently placed Liliana on their ragged cot and hurried to the box, fumbling it open.

It was almost empty. A few basic painkillers, some antibiotics, sterile gauze, and a vial of disinfectant. It was nothing. Aelia felt a wave of despair. She knew this ship had medicae-bays that could regenerate lost limbs, but none of that was for them, the slaves of the lower decks. Not even for the families of the very Olympians who had become the Astartes of this Legion.

But she had one last hope. Petros had gone out again, to find better medicine.

Petros moved silently through the narrow service-ways of the lower decks. He had to get to the mid-decks.

He reached the lift, a lift reserved for the ship's ratings and armsmen. He was wearing a stolen, ill-fitting uniform. It was enough, he hoped, to pass in the dim light. He pulled his cap low, obscuring his face, and hit the activation-rune.

The lift doors hissed open. He stepped inside, his heart hammering. He could feel the other passengers' eyes on him, but he kept his gaze fixed on the deck. No one challenged him. The lift arrived at the mid-deck.

Petros stepped out into another world. The corridors here were brightly lit, the air was clean, and the bulkheads were polished. He passed halls decorated with strange, unsettling sigils that made his eyes itch.

He found the medicae bay. He slipped inside. The room was full of high-end supplies and advanced equipment, but it was in disarray, with crates and canisters piled on the floor, unsecured.

He didn't waste time. He began to search, grabbing antibiotics, potent painkillers, and—his true prize—a personal oxygen-tank and rebreather.

He heard footsteps. He dove behind a large diagnostic-shrine, holding his breath.

The door opened, and two robed medicae-adepts entered, their voices echoing.

"Why was this new shipment just left here?" the female adept complained. "More nutritional supplements?"

The older adept sighed. "It's for the next muster of eligible boys from the lower decks. They're all riddled with malnutrition and basic diseases. We have to stabilize them before the transformation."

"Don't worry," the older adept continued, "we don't have to perform the real surgeries. We just have to get them healthy enough to survive the initial treatments."

"Should I call a servitor to clean this up?" the woman asked.

Petros's heart sank. If a servitor came, he'd be found.

"No," the older adept said. "Leave it. The supplies will all be used soon enough. We have to go prep the real surgical theater. It's going to be a long shift."

The two adepts left. Petros let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

He scrambled from his hiding place, grabbed the stolen supplies and the oxygen-tank, and fled. He had to get back. His mother and sister were waiting.