"Captain Sigrens, you really must try this."
A naval rating waved a bone-in cut of meat, offering it excitedly to the Captain standing beside him. "I've never tasted meat so tender."
The officer known as Captain Sigrens removed his gloves with practiced reserve, then picked up a fork from the long table and skewered the cut. The prongs sank deep into the succulent, snow-white meat, drawing out a bead of rich juices.
"Lex, don't lie. You've never tasted fresh meat in your life," another soldier nearby mocked, nudging the man who had offered the cut. "Last week, you were raving about how Type-7 meat-ration cans were the finest meal you'd ever had. You know Captain Sigrens comes from noble stock, he isn't as unrefined as you."
Sigrens said nothing. He picked up his dinner knife and carefully deboned the meat with practiced precision. His blade was sharp, his hand steady. When facing the enemies of the Emperor, his chainsword was equally capable of tearing through anything that stood in his way, though, admittedly, he found the dining experience significantly more pleasant.
As a naval officer, Sigrens rarely mingled so closely with his subordinates. But this was shore leave, or as close to it as they would get. Even if this break was mandated by the Iron Men, it was an opportunity not to be wasted. If the esteemed Chapter Masters and the Primarchs themselves had given the order, they would obey, even if this reprieve lasted only a few hours.
They were about to face unimaginable perils. This banquet might well be the last nutritionally dense meal they would ever consume.
Sigrens carefully brought the meat to his lips. It was a flavor profile he had never encountered before, exquisitely tender.
"Lex is right," the Captain admitted. "This is excellent. Far more tender than any steak I've ever tasted."
Hearing their Captain's praise, the surrounding naval ratings immediately turned their attention back to the massive trays of bone-in meat. Sigrens polished off four pieces, then picked up the delicate remaining bone, examining it curiously. "What kind of beast is this? It's incredibly tender. I've never experienced a texture like this; the skeletal structure looks like the leg of some small animal."
Across the long table, other naval troopers were scrambling for the offerings: steaks, pastries, fruits they couldn't name, and other delicacies they had never seen before. Each bite felt like a revelation of goodness they had never known. Some were tossing purple fruits into their mouths, chewing greedily to savor the intoxicating sweetness. Others tore into soft, honey-glazed pastries or loaves of oat bread entirely free of the usual coarse husks.
Even for a noble-born officer like Sigrens, he could identify less than one-tenth of the items laid out before him.
"A pity there's no wine," Sigrens murmured. "That would complete this banquet."
A nearby attendant-automaton stepped toward the table. "I am pleased that the roasted chicken legs are to your satisfaction."
"We offer a selection of spirits, including tequila, vodka, whiskey, malt beer, as well as various mixed cocktails and fruit wines."
Sigrens froze, staring at the machine. "What is a 'roasted chicken'? And what are those spirits you mentioned?"
The attendant displayed a holographic image. It depicted a feathered, avian creature, a beast that existed only in the pages of the most ancient history books. Sigrens scrambled through his memories, trying to recall the name from his limited formal education.
"It is called a chicken," the attendant replied. "A Terra-native animal. According to our database, this species is extinct on Terra."
"As for the spirits, these were common during the Federation era. Please refrain from mixing these beverages with stimulants or hallucinogens. Non-compliance with drug regulations will result in a breach of Federation law."
Sigrens' brain short-circuited. "I... I just want a bottle of fine Amasec."
"Querying composition. Added to the production queue. Please wait."
The attendant vanished, returning in less than three minutes with a bottle of expertly packaged Amasec. Sigrens recognized the label; he had once seen it in the private collection of a corrupt superior officer. This was the highest grade of Amasec, a vintage reserved only for the Emperor's most favored servants.
The Iron Men's database would not have known that, but it mattered little. The ships the nanite swarms had processed into raw matter were never short on the extravagant supplies hoarded by high-ranking officers and generals. One ship had even contained several bottles hidden in the private quarters of a Ministorum Priest.
At the same time, an anti-gravity tray glided past, laden with various wine bottles. Sigrens could not read the script on the labels, but the silhouettes of the bottles were unmistakable. Through the glass, the liquid within glowed with clarity.
Sigrens hesitated, then pointed to a particularly exquisite bottle. "Could I try that one, please?"
The attendant did not refuse. "Certainly. However, that specific vintage is allocated for the rest area of the Space Wolves and White Scars a kilometer away."
"I can queue a fresh bottle of the same vintage for you. It will take several minutes. However, given the specific biological requirements of the Astartes, I suggest you allow me to re-calibrate the alcohol content, flavor profile, aromatic notes, and spice level."
Once Axion had cleared the crew from their respective ships onto the Void Sword, he had partitioned a massive, climate-controlled plain to house the three million souls. The Space Wolves' crew numbered in the hundreds of thousands, and the Khan had brought an entire sub-fleet. Given their destination was the heart of the Warp, the Khan had brought few mortals; the Immaterium was simply too lethal for the unaugmented.
Yet, even so, the aggregate of ship crews and naval troopers numbered in the millions. Jaghatai had originally resisted bringing the mortal auxiliary, but Guilliman had authorized the Departmento Munitorum to deploy an Imperial Guard regiment to accompany them. The Khan, honoring his brother's wisdom, raised no further objections.
The regiment was recruited from the ruins of Cadia. They possessed an inherent, near-supernatural resistance to the forces of Chaos, and their hatred for the Ruinous Powers was etched into their very bones after centuries of guarding the Eye of Terror. In the grand scope of an imperial crusade, a million-strong Guard regiment was a mere speck, no more significant than crumbs falling from a biscuit. To the Void Sword, they were negligible.
The Void Sword, a planet-sized vessel, already housed nearly a hundred million Imperial psykers, a number that continued to climb. Sometimes, when a fleet of Guardian-class ships arrived to offload personnel, they would deliver a million souls in a single day. The Void Sword's corridors and transit arteries were designed specifically for such mass movement; a single ecosystem chamber was more than enough to contain this temporary population.
Axion had put little effort into the arrangements. The troops arrived without weapons or tactical gear, marching off their ships in orderly files. Axion's only mandate was a massive feast for millions and a patch of land for rest.
Vast rest facilities were printed into existence in minutes, destined to be reclaimed by nanites the moment these troops returned to their ships. Endless tables stretched across the artificial landscape, groaning under the weight of Federation-era sustenance. These were synthesized from biomass, data profiles loaded into the fabricators, fed with raw mineral matter. Axion hadn't possessed these files until he had synchronized with the Eternal Soul, where he had harvested the data on a whim.
The food provided far exceeded the imagination of anyone present; the psykers delivered to the ship would never truly understand the significance of what they were consuming. In truth, not even the highest-ranking Imperial nobles enjoyed such a diverse and bountiful menu.
Meanwhile, in the Astartes rest zone, the Space Wolves were wrestling and drinking with the warriors of the steppes. Compared to the bland or foul-tasting swill typically found in the Imperium, the alcohol provided by the Iron Men was divine. The Astartes carefully regulated their physiology to avoid triggering their detoxification organs, allowing the spirits to take full effect. They drank deep, stumbled, dragged their brothers into brawls, and collapsed into heaps, roaring with laughter.
When they scrambled up, they immediately engaged in gluttonous eating contests at the long tables. Steaks and roasts were consumed by the thousands of tons. Axion noted with a flicker of calculation that these "burdensome" guests had a truly startling requirement for caloric replenishment, especially the small but ravenous pack of Space Wolves, and the White Scars, who were only marginally less voracious.
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