9-1 BYRGENWERTH: Gifts

The specimen annex was Dores' least favorite place, not just on the PRUDENTIA, but anywhere he had ever been.

The annex, a cube two kilometers to a side, was suspended in a cavernous void deep within the innards of the PRUDENTIA. A lonely bridge, lit by a flock of lumen-cherubs endlessly chanting warding hymns, was all that connected the specimen annex to the rest of the Ark Mechanicus. This was a defensive measure; should invaders attempt to breach the annex, the melta charges placed along the underside of the bridge could be detonated to confound attackers. This same failsafe could also be used to isolate the annex should any experimental subjects pose a danger to the ship. Were it up to Dores, he'd blast the supports instead, and smash the whole hellish place to pieces.

Another defensive measure, which Dores loathed, was that the specimen annex was completely info-quarantined. Reports were physically transcribed and delivered via servitor to the SANGUINE VETERIS PRUDENTIA at large, and new orders and shifts in priority similarly required hand delivery. As the liaison between the Cult Mechanicus and the PRUDENTIA's skitarii cohort, and ranking skitarii prefect, it fell to him to communicate priority directives.

Dores could feel the apertures of his ocular augmetics rapidly shift as the annex doors ponderously slid open into a decontamination chamber. Past that formality, the interior of the specimen annex was a sterile, blinding white. The research hall stretched before him, primary transport arteries wide enough to comfortably fit the largest specimen haulers the Mechanicus had on offer, lined with isolation vaults, surgical theaters and spaces for other, less well defined avenues of research in neat rows. White robed xenobiologis adepts, their augmetics appearing almost black against the relentless white, flitted between iso-vaults in a way that reminded Dores of eusocial insects. Above and below were dozens of identical floors, all under the control of one (absolutely vile, Dores thought) woman, all filled with nightmares.

Dores sighed, a habit he had yet to break despite not strictly requiring to breathe for nearly a decade. He knew that every augmented soul in the annex was aware of his presence, but protocol dictated that he must announce himself. A xenobiologis adept would have to do the same elsewhere aboard the PRUDENTIA, should they ever leave the annex. Within microseconds, he was acknowledged, welcomed and warned not to touch anything. A trail of red light coagulated into existence, a noospheric invitation from the Arch-Examinatrix. Dores grudgingly followed it as it snaked through the annex, fighting the urge to order the deployment of a sterilization team.

The Arch-Examinatrix was currently deep in some esoteric xenobiological experimentation that Dores couldn't hope to understand the purpose of, hunched over a display of the iso-vault below. Dores was skitarii, he understood experimentation to learn about the enemy, the tolerances their bodies could withstand, the proper areas to target to maximize damage. He did not understand what he saw, in the slightest. Dores was no biologis adept, but it appeared the "experiment" was cataloging the effects of replacing human cerebrospinal fluid with genestealer ichor. The most visible effects were... unpleasant.

"Skitarius Dores," she said, without looking up, as he stepped into the iso-vault's observation chamber. "Pardon me for using audio, I am overseeing six other experiments at the moment. My noospheric bandwidth is accounted for in its totality. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

"Updated directives from Provost Willem," Dures replied. "A recent engagement with the aeldari on the planet's surface has resulted in both cadavers and live captives. I have a list of procedures the Provost would like performed. They are being unloaded as we speak and will arrive within the hour."

The Arch-Examinatrix looked up from her display, an eyebrow raised. "Oh? What a wonderful surprise. It has been some time since I've practiced my aeldari."

"The Provost has also ordered the remaining specimens from the Pthumeru moon brought to the surface of Durance, effective immediately."

"Have they." The playful tone was gone. Her words were like ice. "Our dear Provost comes to visit so infrequently. It appears they are unaware that the Pthumeru specimens are no longer available."

"I have orders," Dores said, carefully, "to seize them by force if needed. Provost Willem has authorized me to deploy kataphrons to the specimen annex, should the need arise. Please, don't push this."

The Arch-Examinatrix stood. She was lightly augmented; a handful of noospheric receptors at her temples, a set of mechadendrites along her spinal column, an augmetic arm stuffed with surgical tools and equipment for medical diagnostics. She had pulled back her blond hair, an aesthetic affectation that annoyed more doctrinaire tech priests. Something about the way she held herself put Dores on guard, despite innumerable physical advantages, including height; the Arch-Examinatrix only came up to Dores' shoulder. She craned her neck and glared.

"Iosefka-" Dores started.

"Do not," she snapped. "Call me that."

"Then stop wearing her face," Dores said, sharply. He took a moment to compose himself before continuing. "My apologies. I am simply communicating the situation as directly as I can. The Provost will have his genestealers."

"You don't understand," the Arch-Examinatrix growled. "The Pthumeru genestealers have already been rendered into their component parts and used in biological augmentation prototypes. There are no genestealers left aboard the PRUDENTIA for me to give."

+++

Brador knelt in a circle of votive incense burners. Mildly hallucinogenic and extremely carcinogenic smoke filled the room. The pageantry and incense wasn't strictly necessary for Brador to partake in communion, but the ritual of it felt proper to him. Before him, he had laid out the Gift he had been granted by the blessed Orphan. A very fine rifle, its stock made with real wood, but what Brador was focused on were the rifle's ammunition. Brador set the bullets, silver and hollow and filled with a mixture of mercury and the Orphan's most holy ichor, in a rough facsimile of the Choir's emblem. He inhaled deeply, emptied his mind, and allowed it to be filled.

There.

In the dark, a vastness. Miles high, coiling, encircling a foreign moon. Brador couldn't make out any real details. In fact, it was only in the absence of stars that Brador could see it at all. It was very large and very, very old. It existed beyond the pettiness of physics, the false bonds of time. 

Brador lost himself in contemplation. The vastness expanded, engulfing the moon, filling the sky. Brador could not exist without being immersed in it. Seconds stretched into  weeks.

A burst of sensation. Brador felt crushed by pressure, felt his skull vibrate uncomfortably, ego and language blasted from consciousness. A feeling of intense hunger and even more intense belonging. It spoke.

+++

Choir scholars were still debating aspects of this shared dream, but the consensus was that this was the lost family of the blessed Orphan, Mother Kosm. The Choir mourned with the Orphan, felt its longing to return, ached to be its surrogate family. This was the foundation of the Choir, in Brador's estimation. The more temporal aspects of the Choir's doctrine were secondary, lesser. Brador didn't trust those who had not partaken in communion, or worse, denied it.

One such untrustworthy sort stood in the doorway to Brador's spartan room, empty but for a cot, the incense burners, and Brador himself. It was Valtr, the foreign convert. Brador had been an early convert, a simple scavenger scraping by in the depths of the exclusion zone. Much of the Choir shared a similar background; the bottom of society, out-castes and menials, scavengers, criminals and mutants. Brador, and other hardliners, mistrusted Valtr and his bionics and his strange accent and his preternatural skill for tactics and logistics.

"Valtr."

"Sorry to interrupt, sanctus. I wished to check in on your after your ordeal," Valtr said.

"I am no worse for wear," Brador replied, rising from his knees. "Your concern is noted. You may go now."

Valtr smiled. "You'll not be rid of me that easily, old man. I have news. Our allies in the Cult Mechanicus have delivered us a gift."

Brador pushed a hand through his graying hair. "Fine. Let us inspect this 'gift.'"

+++

Valtr explained the reasoning behind the creation of these... things, but Brador wasn't listening. How could he?

"...an attempt to bring mankind closer to the ideal presented by the Orphan," Valtr concluded. "The Cult Mechanicus calls them metamorphs." He gestured to the figures, arrayed in neat ranks.

The metamorphs were not particularly pleasant to look at. A fusion of flesh, augmetics and tyranid exoskeleton grafted in place of, or in addition to, limbs. Several twitched uncontrollably, others seemed to linger on the verge of catatonia.

Brador turned to face Valtr as calmly as he could. "What they are, friend Valtr, are blasphemies made flesh. They are corruption itself. They are vile."