Vol 1 cover

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Interlude - Novitiate Jeanne

Jeanne Stirn had joined the Sisters of Battle six years ago, when she was barely sixteen. It had been a moment of... zeal, maybe? Religious fervour and youthful stupidity? That, and she wanted to escape certain things.

Little did she know that the beautiful, glorious warriors of the Emperor that she saw on all of the recruitment posters were only a fraction of the organization.

For every power-armour-clad Sister of Battle, there were ten more that would never put on any armour at all. They were the cleaners, organizers, and menials of the order, and she, like many others, was terrified of that fate. 

Not that it was all bad. Most sisters could only hope to be combat-capable for a decade, two at most. There were exceptions, those that rose in the ranks and whose specializations earned them expensive rejuvenat treatments, but those were the exception. 

So, that was her goal. Be part of the novitiate, do well enough to be noticed but otherwise not stand out, and then she’d be promoted to full sister. This trip was the culmination of that. When they arrived in the Sol system, she’d be able to behold Holy Terra itself, even if that wasn’t their final destination. 

Once they were at the enclave of the Order of Shattered Glass, she hoped to step up to full sister and finally be allowed to do good in the world, becoming one of those women she saw on the posters.

One of the few. She was... not sure how others in her cohort would fare. Some had the loyalty, but not the smarts, others lacked the perseverance, and others the physical capability. Others lacked... a lot more than just the one element.

This accident mid-Warp travel, therefore, was either a disaster, or an opportunity. The Novitiate had been sent out to assist in quelling what had at first seemed like a rebellion of lower decker mutants, but which had turned out to be far worse.

The voidsmen didn’t know what they were dealing with, clearly. They didn’t have to. Genestealers were an issue that cropped up in hive cities, usually far on the edges of the Segmentum Solar, but she supposed they had to get from one world to another somehow, and doing so via ship only made sense. 

“Sister Jeanne?” 

She looked up and into the eyes of a young voidsmen. He smiled back. The address was incorrect, but she hardly felt like correcting him.

If she proved herself in this situation, then a rise in the ranks was more likely. Not least of which because... well, she wouldn’t spit on the martyrdom of her sisters.

Octavia was... a royal pain in the ass. She didn’t listen, she shirked her duties and made light of serious things, but the woman had put in more effort in some things than ten other novitiates combined. She had had potential.

And now she was dead. 

She wasn’t even the only one. This batch of novitiates that made it to their sanctuary would be far smaller than expected. 

Jeanne hated that the thought had even crossed her mind, but she could do the math. 

Octavia had been a pain in the ass, sure, but she was kind of funny, sometimes. And Jeanne was rather fond of her, even if spending time in her vicinity often ended up meaning more chores than usual.

“Yes?” she asked the soldier.

“Ah, you told me to let you know what was going on?”

The young man was the temporary vox-operator for his squadron, a role he was trained for, but not prepared for. The original vox-operator was very dead at the moment.

They were taking refuge in a barricaded section of the ship, not too far from one of the Voidsmen armouries. There were mounted guns protecting every corridor around this place, and the bulkheads were double-thick. It was one of the primary fall-back positions leading into the lower decks. If a full-scale rebellion occurred, this was where it would be stopped.

Fortunately, that hadn’t happened yet. And it didn’t seem likely. The genestealers were expending people, resources, as though they had an infinite amount to call on, and that was starting to cost them. 

“Go on,” Jeanne said. She gave the boy a smile, the sort that had him blushing up a storm.

“W-well, ah, there was a big push towards the forward communications array, but it broke. A mutant push, I mean. It looks like the Mechanicus took out a good few of them.”

“Good, good,” Jeanne said. “What else?”

“Ah, well, there’s reports that a lot of genestealers are dying. I mean, just... keeling over, dead, for no reason. Like their hearts are giving out. It started in the mid-lower decks, near one of the big markets, and now it’s happening all over?”

Jeanne had no idea what that meant, but she nodded anyway. “What else?”

“Well, there’s two more things, Sister Jeanne,” he said. “First, we’re making a big push ourselves. The Mechanicus and even your order are going to help. That’s what I overheard when the Major... ah, nevermind. Looks like we know where their leader is, and we’re going to cut off the snake’s head.”

“Okay, good. What’s what other thing?”

“Well, you probably heard it already,” he said, a little bashful. “But there’s a saint onboard.”

Jeanne blinked. “A saint?” Her education had covered those fairly extensively.

A true Imperial Saint was a big deal. They were also unbelievably rare. One in tens of billions. They commanded the battlefield, bringing hope and the light of the Emperor where they went. The common saint, however, wasn’t nearly as uncommon. More like... people blessed with a bit of good fortune, or who became the centre of some local celebrity.

There were ways to respond to both written into the lex of the Order. A true Imperial Saint was for the Ecclesiarchy to handle. A local ‘saint’ was easier. Just someone guided by faith and the Emperor’s fortune. Or a charlatan. The latter was to be excommunicated and purged. The former was to be aided as long as their goal was righteous. 

“She’s actually coming here right now!” he said, becoming more animated as he did. “She’s been leading this quad around. No deaths so far, and they’ve been tackling the hardest missions and toughest enemy nests.”

“That’s impressive,” she admitted. The genestealers were... not the brightest of foes, but they were numerous and knew the ship well. There had been plenty of losses to ambushes and suicidal charges. She’d seen a few already. So far, her own contributions mostly involved shooting into the largest mass of them from behind cover, but it was more than nothing. “I can’t wait to see this saint,” she said.

“You won’t have to wait long, she-- oh!” he said.

Jeanne perked up and looked across the room.

It was a wide, open space. There were two Lemen Russes parked in the centre, with rooms along the edges that had tables and benches, there was even a mess hall of sorts, since this served as one of the training centres for the Voidsmen and enforcers. 

One of the side doors was opened and in stepped a dozen soldiers. They looked like they’d seen a lot. Singed clothes, covered in grime and blood, sweat-matted hair, and a few rips. Their dirty, dishevelled appearance made the woman stepping out from behind even more obvious.

Immediately, she commanded respect... of a sort. She was wearing pristine armour that almost glowed in the lumen light. It was the blue of the Order of the Shattered Glass, only unlike their old standards and banners, hers was so vibrant and bright that it caught the eye and kept it.

In her hand was a large bolter, and across her hips were a second gun and a long chainsword. None of it was marred, or scuffed, or even covered by a single speck of dust. Truly, she was almost the image of a saint.

Only two things broke that image.

First, she was only five feet tall, and Jeanne did not fail to notice the way her boots had rather thick-looking soles. 

Second... that was fucking Octavia.

“What in the Emperor’s name,” Jeanne muttered. 

She looked around, noticed that not everyone had seen the woman yet, then she darted across the room.

“Jeanne!” Octavia said, her expression lighting up. “You made it! It’s good to see--whoa!” 

Jeanne grabbed Octavia by the scruff of her armour and dragged her to a shady corner behind one of the old, parked tanks. “Octavia, what are you doing in that?”

“Uh, it’s armour?” Octavia said.

“I know that. Where did you get it?” Jeanne asked. She looked up and around. She had seen Mother Daydris earlier. Palatine Sister Androsa had been here, but she left along with some of the more experienced sisters to take care of something in the upper decks near the bridge a few hours ago. 

“The Emperor provides?”

“The Emperor doesn’t provide XXS-sized armour,” Jeanne hissed. “Is that even real?” She flicked the front and regretted it when it hurt her finger. Okay, so the armour was real. 

Octavia placed the large--and very pretty, Jeanne noticed--bolter down so that it was leaning on the tank, then she crossed her arms. “Well, maybe he made an exception because of how great I am?”

“Uh-huh, and maybe I’m the twenty-first primarch?” Jeanne asked with sarcasm so thick it dripped. “Are you calling yourself Saint Octavia now?”

“Technically it would be Saint Octavia the fourth,” Octavia pointed out rather smugly. “But no. Look, I can’t... okay, so I can but I don’t want to tell you where I got this kick-ass armour and cool guns. But I am trying to help. Mostly by having a lot of fun. And I’d rather you not ruin that.”

“Ruin that? Fun?! Are you mad?” Jeanne asked.

“Nope!” Octavia said, popping the P. “Insanely sane, actually. Tell you what, if you help me, I’ll give you a bolter? Can I do that? Can I give her a bolter?”

Jeanne blinked. “Who were you talking to, there?”

“Uh... the Emperor?”

Jeanne had no idea what her idiot friend was up to, but she knew that it was going to get both of them into trouble!

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