Manflayer - Josh Reynolds Read online

Page 4


  Glaive frowned. ‘You found them.’

  ‘You’re older. It’s your responsibility.’

  ‘Only by three seconds. I’ll fight you for it.’

  She laughed. ‘Not this time.’

  Glaive cursed, but didn’t argue further. ‘Fine. Let’s go. Soonest back, soonest done.’

  They strode quickly along the rusted gantry. Spar was certain that they were being observed the entire way back to the next hatch, but said nothing. Glaive would insist on investigating, and she had no interest in tempting fate any further.

  ‘One thing puzzles me,’ Glaive said suddenly.

  ‘Just one?’

  He ignored her. ‘What did it mate with?’

  Spar grimaced. ‘Best not to think on it. We did as he asked. We found its lair. It is up to the Benefactor to decide what happens next.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll be pleased?’

  Spar shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

  Glaive fell silent again, but not for long. ‘I don’t think he’s been pleased for a very long time. Not since she left…’

  ‘We don’t talk about that,’ Spar said quickly. She glanced about, seeking eavesdroppers. There was always someone or something ­listening here.

  ‘Come on.’

  Fabius Bile opened his eyes as the vox chimed softly.

  He checked his battleplate’s internal chronometer and grunted in satisfaction. His scheduled restorative cycle was completed. He could safely return to work without risk of fatigue compromising his mental faculties.

  The vox chimed again. He blink-activated the flashing rune super­imposed over his eye. ‘Enter,’ he said. The hatch creaked open, admitting two of his Gland-hounds. He groped for their names. Spar and… Glaive. That was it. Twins. His creations ran to twins, through some quirk of the process. They were of the third generation born to the vats. Cloned from his first generation of augmented humans, refined in utero and perfected.

  ‘Report,’ he said.

  They looked at one another. Finally, Glaive cleared his throat. ‘We tracked it, as you requested, Benefactor. Found the… the lair on sublevel three, access corridor alpha-tertius.’

  ‘And?’

  Again, they shared a look. ‘It has reproduced,’ Spar interjected.

  Fabius paused, digesting this. ‘Well. That is unexpected. Thank you. That will be all. Return to your duties.’ He dismissed them with a gesture.

  When they had departed, a number of vatborn scuttled from the shadows to unhook the chem-hoses and bio-conduits from the contact nodes of his armour. The tiny creatures, clad in concealing robes and rebreather units, crawled across his diagnostic throne, warbling to each other in their own tongue. Compressed air spurted as the last hose was disengaged, and he gave the nearest vatborn an affectionate pat on the head as he stepped down from the dais.

  The throne had been constructed to his specifications. Besides the chem-pumps and bio-transfer conduits that reinvigorated his corpus, it emitted sub-audial pulses that served to place him in a state halfway between waking and dreaming. In this state, the constant pain of his affliction receded, leaving him able to recuperate mentally and physically. It was only a stopgap measure, but it had reliably increased the long-term viability of his cloned flesh. And the longer each body lasted, the closer he came to completing his work.

  A cocktail of pain suppressants, dermal regenerators, stimm-slugs and antiviral agents circulated constantly through his system these days. His body was a machine and the drugs were the oil that kept its workings clicking smoothly. He’d managed to stave off a cerebral transfer for almost a century longer than any previous effort. This body, despite its extensive modifications, wouldn’t last forever. But the next one might.

  Two of the vatborn shuffled forward, holding an ornate display case of brass and bone. Fabius opened it, and studied the artefact nestled within. The skull-topped sceptre thrummed with daemonic power. It was aware, in some fashion, but not truly sentient.

  ‘We will have no trouble from you today, Torment,’ he said firmly, as he removed it from its case. It squirmed briefly in his grip before settling down, like a recalcitrant child.

  Despite its often intractable behaviour, the artefact was well named. It acted as a pain amplifier in some fashion that he had yet to fully understand. It was useful for keeping unruly test subjects under control, if nothing else.

  Leaning on the cane, Fabius activated the chamber’s hololithic array and motes of cold light coalesced into images of the world he now called home. The images fluttered about him like startled birds.

  A cursory glance at the data showed him that all was as it should be. And yet he felt something. A faint niggling at the back of his head, as if he’d missed something. A familiar sensation these past few decades. He felt as if something were dogging his steps and hindering his best efforts. Small setbacks, mostly. Little things like tainted samples and equipment that suffered catastrophic failures at the exact moment he needed it; revolts from the mutant castes or even among his own Homo novus; the constant attacks of attrition by opportunistic raiders and enemies alike. It felt as if the universe itself were mobilising against him.

  He knew what had to be done. He simply didn’t know if he had the courage to do it. He’d known since he’d returned from Commorragh almost a century before. The Dark City had been an inspiration in more ways than one. It had shown him the value of an ultimate redoubt, a place in which a chosen people might hide from their foes until they were ready to take their place in the galaxy. But there was a danger to such isolationism. The drukhari were a twisted, inbred race – wraiths haunting a galaxy they had once owned.

  Care would have to be taken to avoid such a fate. Years of work, of preparation had gone into it, occupying all of his time and resources of late. But he had done it. And now it waited, silent and empty but for those few trusted servants who oversaw its day-to-day running.

  ‘Passcode Omega-Nihilus,’ he murmured. Holo-displays winked to life before him, live data-feeds from across Belial IV and every cache-world. There were spots of darkness too, representing caches lost or destroyed. Too many to count. All it would take was one order, one command, and soon every data-feed would be dark. The web he had spun through the galaxy would come apart as if it had never been.

  There was a sort of freedom in that, he thought. The urge to move on to new things. To leave the weight of the future to sturdier shoulders, and burrow himself away into some forgotten place. To leave the galaxy to those willing to fight for it.

  But not yet.

  Something clattered in the darkness, startling him. A moment later, a peculiar spider-scorpion shape scuttled into view across the grimy floor.

  ‘And where have you been?’ he murmured, as it approached.

  The chirurgeon made a sound that might have been a reply, or simply a reflexive twitch of its segmented limbs. The ancient medicae harness circled him like a cat, dermal nodes clicking. He could not recall when it had first displayed the ability to move independently of him. One more mystery.

  He spread his arms and the contraption climbed up his back. Articulated chem-hoses and neurofibre bundles emerged from its belly and sought the contact nodes inserted into his spinal plating. Thin metal hooks slid through the specially designed gaps in his battleplate and sank tight into the reinforced length of his vertebral column, anchoring the harness in place. Fibrous filaments spilled through the corridors of his spine, seeking nerve endings to graft onto. He blinked as data overlays momentarily filled his vision.

  Some of them, disturbingly, were new. And not housed in the chirurgeon. After a moment, he realised he was receiving the sensory feeds from the device’s offspring. He stroked one of the serrated blades with his finger. ‘I knew you were changing in some way, but I never imagined it would be so… drastic. What am I to do with you, hmm?’

  A blurt of data streamed a
cross the cogitator screen. Fabius smiled.

  ‘No, I’m not disappointed. Surprised, but not disappointed. How long have you been…’ He gestured, trying to think of the appropriate word. The chirurgeon responded with another stream of data and Fabius nodded. ‘Intriguing. And your offspring – are they viable? Will they breed true?’

  Another clatter.

  ‘Well. We shall see, I suppose. But try to keep them under control in the future, eh? And find other prey, if you require sustenance.’

  The chirurgeon settled into its perch with a soft hum. It was changing in ways he could not predict. Down the long corridor of years since he’d first assembled it, it had taken on a crude sentience – if not self-awareness. It had taken to vanishing for long periods of time, always responding to his sub-sonic signal, but never sharing data of its explorations. At least now he knew what it was up to, however disturbing the answer was.

  Such a thing should not have been possible. And yet, it was. It was changing in other ways as well. Parts of it were no longer metal as such, but more resembled supernaturally hard chitin. Fleshy sacs nestled in the hollows of its frame, filled with self-derived excretions that he could not see a purpose for.

  Part of him knew that the wisest course would be to vivisect the harness. To lay bare its secrets and lobotomise whatever abominable intelligence was festering within it. But the scientist in him refused. He wanted to see what it might become. And it was far more useful to him now than it had once been. A simple device had become his most trusted partner.

  He pushed the thought from his mind, and turned his attentions back to the data-feeds. His current demesne, Belial IV, rested at the spinward edge of a crone system – one of eight extrasolar planets that floated on the hellish tides of the empyrean in this part of Eyespace. All had once been part of the Aeldari Empire. They rested far from the well-travelled routes of the Legion worlds, in the howling wilderness where even daemons trod warily. Hungry things prowled the stars here, things which had no fear of gods or men.

  The isolation suited him. It kept unwelcome visitors from his threshold, and interruptions to a minimum. Not that some interruptions weren’t welcome. A rune flashed, indicating an internal vox communication.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Fabius. Come to the crèches.’

  ‘Is something wrong, Zargad?’ Zargad Ket had come late to the arts of the Apothecarion, but he’d been a quick study, grasping the most difficult concepts with ease. Fabius had chosen him for crèche-master for that reason. And he’d proved an able one, stolidly maintaining the sanctity of the crèches even when Fabius was indisposed.

  ‘Just come. Sooner rather than later, preferably.’

  Zargad cut the link without further explanation. He was a curt sort, with little inclination to observe the niceties of rank. Fabius, who had little time for such things himself, was willing to overlook such dis­respect so long as there were results to be had.

  Vatborn scuttled in his wake as he left his chambers, vanishing one by one as he assigned them tasks. Thousands of the creatures inhabited the facility, breeding in the catacombs below among the scavenged generators and forgotten chambers. Though the first of their number had been little more than crude homunculi, more than a thousand generations had passed since then and they’d become something else entirely.

  Watching them, Fabius wondered what they might become with enough time. Already, they had their own language, their own culture – he was certain that they no longer required the rebreathers, but instead wore them for ceremonial reasons. He also knew that they vied amongst themselves for the opportunity to serve him. The losers of these contests often contented themselves by seeing to the needs of the other members of his Consortium.

  The stone corridors beyond his chambers echoed with the familiar sounds of scientific inquiry. The tormented roars of experimental subjects mingled with the thrum of esoteric technologies. The structure had once been a palace of some sort – a redoubt around which the ancient aeldari city spread like the spokes of a wheel. Now it was a bastion of enlightenment for those whom he was privileged to call his students.

  Several of the latter were in evidence as he made his way to the nearest transit shaft. They had claimed chambers for themselves throughout the palace. Some preferred isolation, and set up their laboratoriums as far away from their peers as possible. Others, more enamoured of collegial discussion, congregated in crowded corridors. And a brave few made their stand as close to his private chambers as possible.

  These were the oldest of his students: those who’d been with him since Urum or even before. Some were expatriates of the III Legion, but not all. Several of them had gathered in the widest section of the corridor, and were conversing amongst themselves. When they spied him, they scattered like startled vermin. Only one stood his ground.

  Fabius greeted him. ‘Ah, Marag. How go your investigations into capillary regrowth?’ The Apothecary wore stained penitent’s robes over his black armour, concealing everything but the profusion of serpentine dendrites that coiled and flexed about him like aggravated serpents. As ever, he was accompanied by several bond-slaves. Their scarified bodies were tattooed with hundreds of routine physiological observations.

  ‘Well enough,’ Marag said. ‘It’s getting them to stop growing that’s the troublesome bit.’ Fabius detected the whirr of prosthetics beneath Marag’s cowl. The Apothecary experimented on himself as often as he did his slaves. ‘Advice is always welcome.’

  Fabius smiled paternally. ‘Send me your data and I’ll take a look. I might be able to offer a few observations.’

  Marag stepped aside, bowing slightly. ‘My thanks, Chief Apothecary.’ Fabius knew that as soon as he was out of earshot, Marag’s fellows would come scurrying out of their holes, looking for any information that might be of use to them. Competition was encouraged among his students. It was considered a high honour to work alongside the Clonelord. Such matters were settled in a direct, often volatile, fashion.

  Fabius paid little attention to such goings-on, so long as the sanctity of his apothecarium was maintained. A bit more blood in the corridors was hardly a matter of concern, and the occasional cull served to remind his more ambitious followers of their place in the scheme of things.

  Of them all, only one never needed such a reminder. Arrian Zorzi had been with him the longest, and had served him best. The former World Eater was waiting for him at the entrance to the transit shaft. ‘Chief Apothecary,’ he said, in greeting.

  Fabius didn’t ask how Arrian had known to meet him. He’d long ago grown used to the World Eater’s ability to predict his needs.

  ‘Arrian. Do you know what this is about?’

  ‘Zargad didn’t say.’

  Arrian was both the epitome and antithesis of his Legion – his power armour, once blue and white, was now almost a uniform, bare grey. A sextet of cracked and yellowing skulls, dotted with cortical implants, hung in chains from his chestplate like a savage tabard. More chains were looped about his bare arms and waist. Beneath them, he wore the tools of his trade – the narthecium and medical kit of a Legion Apothecary. He wore no helm, exposing blunt, scarred features that might once have been handsome. Cortical implants streaked back from his skull like braided hair, and service studs dotted his brow. His hands rested on the pommels of the Falax blades sheathed at his sides. They were the only weapons he carried these days.

  ‘It might be another revolt,’ Arrian said, as the transit platform began to descend.

  ‘It isn’t.’

  Arrian grunted. His disapproval was palpable, though he would never voice it. Fabius sighed.

  ‘Say what you wish to say, Arrian.’

  ‘You have not been yourself, of late.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You have been… absent since your return from Commorragh.’ Arrian didn’t look at him. Instead, he tapped his skulls, each in their turn.
‘The others have noticed. There is talk.’

  ‘And what do they say?’

  ‘That you are planning something. Something we are not privy to.’

  Fabius peered at him. ‘And if I am, what of it? We all have our pet projects.’ He tapped one of Arrian’s skulls with Torment. ‘Rest assured, Arrian, if you needed to know about it, I would tell you.’

  ‘That implies that you are up to something.’

  Fabius didn’t have a chance to reply. The noise hit them as the transit platform juddered to a halt, and the hatch slid open.

  The crèche was loud. Infants wailed as mutant nursemaids padded among them, snuffling at any who seemed truly distressed, rather than simply noisy. Tech-thralls stood at the edges of the immense, pillared chamber, taking notes and samples for later study.

  The children were left to roam free, where possible. They grew quickly, and learned even quicker. Survival was hardwired into them. Only a few hours after birth, Homo novus could see and hear, as well as digest solid food. By a few days, they could hunt on their own, and he had the vatborn ensure that the vermin population was maintained for just that purpose.

  At six weeks, their education began. It started simply enough, gradually increasing in complexity as they reached their first year. Those who showed an aptitude for the hard sciences or sociological studies were separated from the rest and taken for further training.

  The New Man, for all its increased aggression, had an equal capacity for the retention and processing of information. They were smarter than their predecessors, as well as being stronger and faster. But intelligence took many different forms. Some proved to be natural engineers, while others had a startling grasp of human nature. Many were simply very adept killers. The species had yet to find an optimum balance.

  Initially, he had overseen arranged integration of select bloodlines, in order to improve the general population. Sometime after the twelfth generation, he had ceased, realising it was largely counterproductive. His creations were perfectly capable of managing such matters on their own and did not require his attempts at matchmaking. The children who now swarmed about him were evidence enough of this.

 

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