Custodial servitor drone Alpha-Rho-34 shambled into the designated cleanup area. Its ocular implant, a dull red laser, flashed briefly as it surveyed the space. When it finished, Alpha-Rho-34’s cheek twitched involuntarily. What the drone saw filled it with disgust. This reaction was atypical in a servitor, but Alpha-Rho-34 frequently exhibited such nonstandard behaviors.

  Twenty-one standard years earlier, the biotechnician who performed the court-ordered lobotomy on the drone had, after a particularly unpleasant dispute with his spouse, botched the routine procedure. The result was that the servitor retained, in addition to its motor skills and basic powers of cognition, an emotional aversion to all disordered states of being. Had Alpha-Rho-34 remained capable of processing irony, it might have regarded this situation as darkly amusing.

  The drone received an electrobionic impulse via the crude implant in its brain at twelve-hour intervals. These pulses identified which area of Administratum subcomplex B-299 required basic custodial services. The latest such instruction directed Alpha-Rho-34 to sublevel AX-7, a financial computation office, where the servitor currently stood.

  The disorder was considerable. In addition to the usual issues—dirty cogitator screens, filled waste baskets, desktop clutter—the drone identified overhead structural damage, several ongoing fires, and unusually high levels of aerial carcinogens. There were also approximately eighty-seven dead biological entities.

  Going briefly rigid, the servitor sent a simple ping to its handlers, indicating that additional cleanup units were required. Then, per its programming, Alpha-Rho-34 proceeded to empty the bins.

  The south entrance to the office hissed open behind the drone. A young human male wearing gray coveralls pushed a mop and bucket into the space. The moment he did, he began to cough and choke, his eyes watering as smoke and the stench of burnt flesh washed over him.

  “Throne, Ay-Ar, what happened?” He gasped. “There’s a kregging hole in the ceiling!”

  The human’s designation was Miles Absalom, not that the servitor particularly cared. The creature executed his duties at a sub-standard level and had done so since the drone’s handlers had hired him four months earlier.

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  The human continued babbling inanely to himself. Something about how they hadn’t planned to make another attempt this year. After a few moments, his mounting agitation made him vomit. Seething in silent disgust, Alpha-Rho-34 added cleaning human sick to its task list.

  Something moved in the rubble.

  “Oh, God-Emperor,” the human swore.

  An armored shape heaved itself off a shattered cogitator bank and climbed to its feet. The figure’s gray armor was smeared with soot and ash. Reaching down, the giant glanced around, its eyes lingering briefly on Alpha-Rho-34 and its human assistant before turning to scan the area needing its feet. After a moment, it seemed to find what it was looking for. It bent down, its fingers closing around something metal. It tugged the item free from the ashy detritus.

  “A Space Marine,” Miles Absalom murmured in awe. “An actual Space Marine.”

  Alpha-Rho-34 added cleaning human urine to its checklist.

  The Space Marine clamped its recovered weapon to its hip. Then, it began approaching the custodians. The drone, programmed not to impede business functions, stepped respectfully aside. The giant loomed over Absalom.

  “Identify yourself,” the giant ordered, its mechanized voice crackling on the first syllable of the second word.

  “I’m—I’m Miles,” the man croaked, eyes wide.

  “Can you lead me out of this place?”

  “I…Yes! Yes, I can! Are there more of you? Has the Emperor come to save us?”

  The Space Marine was silent for a moment. Finally, it spoke again. “You remain loyal to the Throne?”

  The young grew a shade paler. His hands trembled when he replied, “I do.” He clenched his fingers into fists. “Destroy me, then, if you work for the Duke.” He closed his eyes, his whole body shaking now.

  But the Space Marine did not raise his weapons.

  “Get me out of here, Miles.”

  The two figures departed through the south exit. Dutifully, Alpha-Rho-34 logged that its associate had departed work early. Then, having reordered the day’s tasks, it set down the waste bin it was holding. Shuddering with disgust, the drone began using its hands to scoop the vomit into it.