9-1 BYRGENWERTH: Reunion

Provost-Biologis Willem, Archmagos of Xenos Acquisition Fleet 9-1 BYRGENWERTH, xenarite radical and future arch-heretek, was excited.

Such emotion rarely broke through Willem's carefully cultivated logical detachment and the chemical suppressants pumping through what was left of their organic body, but this was a momentous opportunity. Outwardly, the only sign of this was an occasional twitch of a mechadendrite and increasingly frequent glances between the SANGUIS VETERIS PRUDENTIA's isolation vault's surgical tools and the vault's content. A curt noospheric command sent his attendants and their attendants from the observation chamber in an orderly procession, leaving only Willem and a handful of servitors, slaved to monitoring conditions inside the vault, deaf and blind.

The vault's sole occupant, bound to an operating slab by dozens of Inquisition-rated restraints, did not move. If Willem didn't have access to constantly updating medical readouts, they could easily believe the creature was dead. It had certainly sustained enough damage in the skirmish with the Cadian 1080th, and more pointedly, their abhuman shock troopers. Multiple cracks in its carapace had only stopped seeping a near-black ichor in the last four hours, and one of its four arms was pulverized beyond recognition. What remained, a vaguely limb-shaped slush of shattered exoskeleton and pulped muscle tissue, had been removed and held in a sterile canister along one of the vault's walls, ready for further study.

"I have a suspicion," Willem said, aloud and in low Gothic. Speakers in the iso-vault crackled to life microseconds later. "I suspect that you can understand me, Subject 108. I have suspected this since you were first acquired, and am almost certain you were able to understand when we brought you here and let you loose. I am also certain-"

(98.667% certainty, in fact, but Gothic is too clumsy to efficiently communicate the nuance) 

"-you understand our relationship, and the importance of this ...reunion. Do not attempt to answer with your witchery, the vault will automatically incinerate you. You will signal once for yes, two for no. Do you understand?"

Click. A single claw tapped the ceramite of the operating table. A slight movement, near imperceptible, as the genestealer patriarch matched Willem's hungry stare. Its eyes were black.

"Excellent," Willem said. Willem's original vocal chords had long since been replaced with a more durable and precise augmentic, a masterwork converting thought to speech with unmatched speed and clarity. Even this wonder, one of dozens that made up Willem's body, could not fully scrub the excitement from their words. In an annex of the PRUDENTIA, kilometers sternwise, a small army of scribes and servitors-gnostic catalogued every measurement one could possibly imagine. This moment, when the wretched tyranid bowed before the knowledge and ingenuity of humanity, would live forever. In a just universe, work on votive icons of Willem would have already begun across the Imperium.

"We seek mutually non-exclusive outcomes. You wish to expand your influence and continue your genetic alterations of the population of Durance, and I wish to study those alterations. This process normally takes decades, if not centuries, but the intervention of the aeldari has forced you into the open. And now you are beset on all sides, forced into direct combat with potentially superior forces."

Click.

"Your defeat and eventual euthanization runs counter to my goal of expanding human knowledge. Thus, it cannot be allowed to happen. You and your organization will receive material support from the SANGUIS VETERIS PRUDENTIA and direct military aid from my Skitarii. In exchange, you will willingly provide examples of your genetic manipulation, both alive and dead, for study."

Click.

"Satisfactory. As a final matter, I suspect that you will regrow your lost limb, in time. What if I told you that I could grant you one, stronger, better, now, after several hours of surgery?"

Click.

+++

Djura flexed his new knee joint. The augmetic, expertly installed but of abysmal quality, groaned. It was a skeletal thing, the color of rust and exclusion zone grit, with visible servomotors that shuddered to life at Djura's command. He nodded in thanks to the Mechanicus tech priest and groggily looked around the makeshift hospital, hoping to brush away the last few cobwebs of anesthetic. Blood washed the floor. Red, iron rich and human. Viscous and black tyranid ichor. The quicksilver of augmetic fluid leaking from shattered bionics. An effective triage, but unpleasant. Djura reached for a lho stick as he hauled himself out of the building and into the light of day, atrophied by the farewell gift of the Blessed Avarice.

"See, Ariana? Nothing can kill the Hero of Hab Seven!" A pair of women, faces streaked with dust and ash and the detritus of battle, came bounding towards Djura, relieved and ecstatic. Djura had earned that particular title early on, a duel with a narco baron's enforcer turned into a standoff that left six corrupt Civil Security enforcers dead. Djura weakly tipped his hat and moved on, heading nowhere in particular while he replayed the miscalculation that cost in his leg over and over in his mind.

"What do you mean the engine's shot? You're a fucking enginseer, right? See if you can fix the damn thing's engine!" Djura could tell from the yelling that he was nearing the Choir's makeshift motor pool. The bizarre crab-tanks the Mechanicus brought with them loomed over more mundane vehicles, mostly goliaths and ridgerunners stolen from worksites, a handful of chimera troop transports and a single poorly maintained Leman Russ. A pair of particularly disheveled ridgerunners had place of pride: force recon BLACKSKY. BLACKSKY's crew were the best in the business, but pushed their ridgerunners hard. Pyotr, the gunner for BLACKSKY One, was haranguing a beleaguered techpriest, gesticulating with all the theatricality one would expect from someone from Craiva Arsenal.

"I cannot comply. The damage is too great and the replacement parts are of insufficient quality," the techpriest monotoned, shrugging.

"So, what, I should just head on over to the Achilles depot and steal another?"

"Yes. Or make peace with the reality that the drive system is damaged and mobility will suffer without a full motive system refit."

"Oh, get the fuck over here you cogbrained fu- Djura!" Pyotr waved him over. "Djura, please explain to our esteemed ally from the Cult Mechanicus that he needs to fix my goddamn ride."

"Pyotr," Djura said around his lho stick. "Tranq down, eh? You're making a scene. Our friends are doing the best they can."

"Yeah? Then why does your leg look like something the orks built out of scrap, as a joke?"

Djura looked down at his new leg, exhaling smoke. "I don't remember much after I lit up that barker, camarada, but I do remember seeing them pull this leg off one of their own. Show some respect." Pyotr glowered, inhaled, about to launch into another tirade, and began coughing. Not too bad at first, as if Pyotr had swallowed something unpleasant, but increasing in ferocity until Djura clutched his chest in sympathy. Durance's menial population was riddled with maladies of all sorts, caused by non-existent safety regs and regular handling of hazardous materials to be converted into weapons for the Imperium's war machine. Most menials didn't live to see 50, killed on the job or rotted from within by rad exposure, black lung, or something more esoteric.

"And remember to take your damn rad-suppressants. You don't want any new tumors from our new aliati, seiza?"