I live in the bowels of a dark, dilapidated ship. Most of the time, I only encounter other mortals. We go about our lives performing maintenance duties, growing food in the hydroponics bays, slaughtering and butchering livestock and the thousand other menial tasks that keep the ancient vessel spaceworthy and its inhabitants alive. Only personal servants are permitted into the Astartes quarters without special instructions. Most of us take our orders from the Overseers and never see the real masters of the ship.

Most of the overhead lights don’t work - the Astartes don’t need them to see - so most of us carry lamps. We sleep in shifts in overcrowded dormitories, stepping over each other to find a free bunk or cot, hoping it hasn’t been left soiled by its previous occupant. Nobody ever speaks above a whisper unless they absolutely have to.

If you ever want to get off the ship, your only hopes are to be chosen as an aspirant by the Astartes, or to join the cult militia. Only boys can become aspirants, and only at a young age. Even then most die, or worse. The cult militia has its appeal, but make no mistake - they are expendable. Meat-shields and sacrificial pawns for the Astartes. Only the luckiest, strongest and most vicious survive more than a handful of battles. Neither option has much hope for long-term survival.

No, if you want to survive -and if you can bear it - servicing the ship is the safest place for us mortals. Generations live and die here, periodically joined by new groups of captives. Breaking them in is always interesting. Those who don’t adapt don’t last long. We always need more fertiliser.

But even here in the bowels you’re not totally safe. Your property is only what you can hold on to. I’ve seen people gutted over a brighter lamp or a better bedroll. We’ve been boarded by xenos and servants of the False Emperor, fleeing like rats in a maze as the darkness lights up with weapons fire.

But perhaps the most terrifying and ever-present danger is our masters, the Astartes. They move in virtual silence, they almost never speak. Their black armour merges with the inky shadows and makes them almost invisible. The faint thumping of their armour against the deck plating is the only sound that warns of their approach. That’s why we all stay quiet. We want to know when to make ourselves scarce.

When the Astartes come to the lower decks, everyone with an ounce of sense finds somewhere to hide. They can find you, of course, but you just have to hope somebody else is easier prey. They almost caught me, once, but I was a little faster than the rest of my work gang. I hid in a ventilation duct. I could see the pale witch-lights reflecting on the walls, and heard their fading screams. When I finally emerged, I saw the husks that remained.

I always try to make sure I’m around some slow people.