Speculum Enigmate Chapter 18

Memnos couldn't help but admit he was impressed. The Genic Council boasted some of the most advanced facilities he had ever seen, their Laboratorium-domes were sites of hallowed science and revered technologies that put the Storm Herald's Apothecarions to shame. In the last few hours Memnos had seen Genic readers and gene-splicers of surpassing quality and Binaric prognosticators that could predict the outcome of breeding matches with astonishing acuity. Flesh-vats that could grow new limbs, diagnostic machines that could discern a virus' mutation long before it became dangerous and deconstruct the molecular chains of poison to create an antidote in minutes.

The Apothecary was currently standing above a sterile Laboratorium, observing from a high balcony behind an airtight glassic window. Below a white room was filled with buzzing equipment, that clicked and whirred as they conducted unknowable processes. Men and women in enclosed red suits tended to these devices, their heads and shoulders covered in metal plates with a single strip of glassic for vision and breathing through small respirators so they did not contaminate the sterile machines with their moist breath and shed hair. In the middle of the room and man stood in a glassic cylinder as lights passed over him, probing his physical qualities in microscopic detail.

Beside Memnos a voice said, "As you can see we can parse the Genic code with absolute precision, identifying potential flaws long before conception."

"Yes," Memnos allowed, "Do you do this for every individual on the planet?"

Matriarch Tyvis laughed, "Why no, such intense scrutiny takes time. We have millions of people to process every day, usually a simple Genic sample suffices to determine a match."

Memnos frowned as he said, "You determine the traits each caste shall focus upon: better eyesight, increased intelligence, height and manual dexterity."

"Nothing so crude," Tyvis demurred, "Selective breeding for lone traits can be useful but tends to create secondary health risks. The earliest generations of Pascum suffered terribly from congenital defects and psychological flaws. We have since learned that change must be slow, traits can only be introduced over ten generations or more. Thankfully we have had millennia to steer our society towards perfection, now each caste is Genically tailored for its assigned role without undue health problems."

Memnos returned his attention to the man below and said, "A remarkable achievement, yet you haven't explained why this individual warrants such attention."

Tyvis smiled under her black robes as she replied, "This demonstration is for your benefit. We are laying the first steps for the creation of a new caste, Genically designed to be offered to your service as recruits."

Memnos' head turned slightly as he asked, "You offer your sons to join the Adeptus Astartes?"

Tyvis nodded demurely, "Pascum would make an exceptional recruiting world for the Storm Heralds."

Memnos found that doubtful, an Astartes required ferocious will and ruthless drive and a purity of purpose lacking in most souls. It could not be bred; it had to be instilled through conflict and strife. His own Homeworld impressed that upon its people through its unusual climate, the Emperor's Storm hammering the populace as regular as clockwork. In the whole Sector only the feral world Trux also met that requirement, the primitive people fighting daily battles against the predators of their jungle world to survive. By comparison Pascum was a haven of peace and tranquillity and Memnos could not imagine this planet produced sons fierce or strong enough to survive the gene-forging process.

Memnos thought Tyvis was kidding herself but spied an opportunity so said, "There are gene-seed compatibility issues."

It wasn't a lie but Tyvis thought he was seriously considering it so proposed, "With time we can produce offspring born to meet your requirements. How many pass your trials only to be turned away for some Genic incompatibility, forty percent, seventy? We can make that irrelevant."

Memnos found her eagerness disquieting but slowly mused, "I must examine your equipment before making such a decision."

Again it wasn't a lie but Tyvis thought he was agreeing so held out an arm and showed the Apothecary to the door. The pair walked out of the balcony into a white corridor that ran high above the domes. As they walked they passed over many Laboratoriums, where red-suited workers tended to an astonishing variety of devices. Memnos had already seen sights that a Genator of the Adeptus Mechanicus would have sold his implants to examine, marvellous examples of the Machine God's benevolence and power. Truly this place was a wonder of Archeotech, boasting machines that may well date back to the Dark Age of Technology. Yet Memnos could not help but note the lack of shrines and devotional icons to the Emperor. There were no skulls or Aquila on display, no chanting adepts or sacred incense being burned, not even a blessed Cog. There was no sign that these people owed any fealty to Terra or Mars, they worked on their devices with clinical disinterest and disregard for Imperial doctrine.

Memnos looked over the heart of the Genic Council and commented, "I am surprised your order has not been subsumed into the Mechanicus."

Tyvis proudly explained, "It was one of the conditions of our entry into the Imperium. As you know our world was never conquered, we entered by peaceful negotiation. One of the concessions offered to us was that our people's society remained unchanged and Genic technologies would remain proprietary. The Tech-Priests of Mars may petition to examine our Archeotech but not make demands or confiscate anything."

Memnos was well aware those negotiations had been conducted at gunpoint but the Imperium must have offered some concessions as face-saving measures. He probed, "And the Ecclesiarchy?"

Tyvis' lip curled as she spat, "Zealots and brash idiots, shouting for blood and slaughter, turning the people to odd ideas. The Genic Council has steered Pascum for millennia, the people should obey me, not them!"

Memnos noted the vitriol in her tone and realised he had hit a nerve but could not investigate further. They had reached a sealed door that rolled open, revealing a chamber filled with humming devices and bubbling chemicals. Black cogitator stacks loomed along the walls and strangely contorted glassic vials squatted on low benches. The walls were lined with fire-suppressant nozzles while microscopes and Genic readers rested on desks. A number of red-suited individuals looked up as they entered but Memnos growled, "I require privacy."

"Of course," Tyvis allowed, "Everybody out."

The workers filed out and Memnos waited for Tyvis to depart. The second he thought he was alone he hastily moved to a Genic reader and opened a pouch on his belt, removing the incriminating cloth. He placed this into a slot on the machine and muttered the Litany of Awakening then turned it on. The Machine Spirit stirred and began scanning the cloth and comparing it to Genic records held in the Cogitator stacks. Memnos stepped back and waited for a result. The Genic Council held extensive records on the population, vast stores of data on every individual. The amount of data-storage this must require would be staggering and he suspected these Cogitators were Noospherically linked to vaster archives elsewhere. It boded well, the chances that the culprit he sought would be on record were high.

As he waited he looked around the room and shuddered. The chamber reminded him too much of those secret experiments his order had conducted… that he had conducted. Tormenting trusting boys who thought he was making them Astartes, while in truth he had riddled them with cancers and exploded blood vessels in their brains. His hand brushed the Chains of Shame and their faces swam up in his mind's eye. Vetar dead of a cardiac arrest, Linkara his guts dissolved by his overstimulated stomach acids, Resho dying screaming as his bones grew and grew and grew unstoppably. Thousands of names and their individual tortures, Memnos had memorised them all and would never let them go. He carried this shame eternally, there was no possibility of redemption for him, no way to ask for forgiveness. He knew he didn't deserve it. This burden would never pass from him, yet he laboured on regardless, to do otherwise was unthinkable.

In a minute the machine beeped and Memnos blinked in surprise: that was fast work. He stepped up to a screen and examined the result but was disappointed to see only one result: Odrin the First Secretary. Useless, the man had handled the cloth and had contaminated it with his gene-imprint. The sample was spoiled and…

Memnos paused as another thought occurred. There should be another trace; the killer would have left some mark. The only reason Odrin would be the only result would be if nobody else had touched the cloth. Odrin had told them of the heir's loss, Odrin had given them the sample, Odrin who had smiled when he heard the Space Marines were going into the undercity. Odrin, who was at the heart of everything.

"Odrin," Memnos breathed, "He's sent my Brothers into a trap."

"Oh well done," a shrill voice cackled, "You're as sharp as a brick."

Memnos spun about and saw Matriarch Tyvis standing inside the doorway, surrounded by men in heavy metal masks and red suits, who carried lasguns and flamers in their hands. Her hostility was obvious but her eyes glittered darkly, a hypnotic gaze that drew the observer in and pinned them like vermin before a predator. Memnos felt her will slam into his mind and his limbs tensed as the power grasped tight. Chains of mesmerising hypnosis wrapped themselves around him, weighing down on his soul and it was an effort for him to hiss, "You… you're working with Odrin."

Tyvis smiled around her glittering eyes as she boasted, "How little you understand. The Kiith are everywhere, we own Pascum. This is our world and we shall wrest it from your hated Imperium."

Memnos struggled to utter, "You never meant to offer your sons to us."

Tyvis sneered, "Quite the opposite, it is you who shall service us. We shall breed a compatible host, one whose genes are married with your Emperor's Genic secrets. A superior breed of warriors, born to defend our world and offer it to the One God when it comes to claim its due."

"Never," Memnos spat, "I'll never help you."

Tyvis sneered, "Your help is not required, we shall claim your Genic secrets from your corpse."

"No," Memnos growled, "You have forgotten something."

"What's that?" Tyvis chortled.

Memnos snarled, "That. I. Am. Astartes!"

As he spoke his anger surged into a raging inferno of hate and sacred revulsion. He was more than a genetically engineered warrior, his mind and soul had been forged by the harshest and most terrible training regime imaginable. His spirit honed by duty and devotion, becoming a razor blade of pure determination. Memnos was a Space Marine and his will was diamond-hard, but more than this he was fired by the memory of his victims, their accusing stares clawing into his soul. Guilt did not slow him, it drove him onwards, never letting him rest, never letting him know peace. Memnos could not stop, not now not ever. His mind was a juggernaut of purpose and it tore through the hypnotic chains like they were wisps of gossamer.

Tyvis screamed as the power of her gaze was broken and her guards hastily brought up their weapons but Memnos was faster. His bolt pistol was in his hand before anyone could react and he fired off a single shot. The round sailed past the guards, touching none of them as it went high and impacted the nozzle of a fire extinguisher. The round detonated and blew apart the metal cone, releasing a torrent of carbon dioxide onto the heads of the guards. The mortals yelled in outrage as they were doused in thick white gasses, fogging their masks and blinding them instantly. They fought to get their bulky helmets off but before any of them could free their heads Memnos was among them.

The Apothecary charged into their midst with his fists and elbows flying, as his Multi-lung filtered the air effortlessly. He could only see blurred outlines through the thick gasses but he could hear his foes perfectly, their struggling efforts to clear their sight betraying their positions. He moved through them with consummate ease, his hands deadly weapons and his blows guided by his exacting knowledge of anatomy. Spines broke under the force of his punches, ribcages were crushed inwards and hearts ruptured as he struck. One man had his side hit so hard his lung collapsed, another died with his hands clawing at his neck, trying to prise away his mask which Memnos had driven inwards to crush his larynx. One opponent managed to let free a blaze of lasfire, that shot randomly into the room, but Memnos was on him in a moment braced fingers ramming into the back of the neck to shatter the spinal cord.

The last foe fell and Memnos listened for Tyvis, but she had disappeared, fled the moment her spell was broken. Momentarily safe the Apothecary took a moment to reach for his helm and fitted it with a solid click. The armour's spirit awoke and filtered the air while its autosenses cut through the swirling gasses with ease. Monochrome images swam before his eyes and Memnos saw the chamber was ruined, the bubbling tubes shattered and the precious Cogitators holed by lasfire. Memnos cared not, these were the tools of Traitors and he would not hesitate to destroy this entire place if he had to.

He was about to leave but something made him pause. He knelt by a corpse and noted the odd placing of the muscles, and the elongated posture of the shoulders, which was not quite human. His suspicions roused he reached down and ripped off one of the boiler-plate masks, revealing a face with pointed teeth, ridges down the forehead and black eyes. One less versed in biology might have mistaken this for a mutant but Memnos had studied many forms of Xenos and learned their vile threats in great detail. He instantly recognised what he was looking at and hissed in revulsion, "Genestealer Hybrid!"

He looked over the rest of the bodies and saw the same aberrations on them all, making the scale of the threat clear. This was no lone infiltrator; this was a full-blown infestation, a canker working at the heart of Pascum. The Genic Council was nothing but a front for a Genestealer Cult. Memnos snatched up a flamer from the floor and stood up, striding from the Laboratorium with hatred in his hearts and cleansing flame in his hand. This vile conspiracy must be torn out at the root and before he left he intended to burn this entire facility to the ground.