Tales of the Amber Vipers Chapter 237
As Tezla steered through the Warp Brontes rested. The Cadmus robot was incapable of sensing the roiling horror beyond the hull, blind to the Empyrean's currents, but the ship seemed to be doing well. The Noosphere was placid, the crew relatively untroubled, save for the typical increase in suicides and the internal systems pulsed with pleasing regularity. It helped that this trip was a short one, only a handful of lightyears. They were only skimming the shallowest parts of the Warp, or so the Navigator's status reports indicated, a quick hop between stellar systems to meet with Zar-Quaesitor.
Brontes took the opportunity to make some repairs. He was slumped against a wall in their billet, studiously ignoring the boy and their gaoler, as he dedicated processing power to rebuilding his frame. Many had marvelled at the wondrous ability of the Cadmus to repair himself, but they would have been astounded to learn how he did it. Brontes' frame was infused with Nanocytes, microscopic machines capable of rearranging atoms. An evolution of the rapacious Omniphage world-devourers, more refined and advanced than those mindless multiplication machines.
Under Brontes' direction the nanoswarm surged through the matter of his being, rearranging atoms in precoded positions. Torn wires were rewoven, shattered quantum circuitry rebuilt and motive fibres restored. Faster and more accurately than any fumbling Tech-Priest could dream Brontes' systems were restored, but his armour was another matter. He would never admit it but the Jathyr had damaged him badly and he'd lost much precious mass in the battle. For all their skill a Nanoswarm could not weave matter out of nothingness, so Brontes was forced to resort to stealing. The wall he was leaning against contained most of the materials he needed so he sent Nanocytes into the mass of it, collecting atoms and returning them to his frame. Those he could use were inserted like bricks into a hole in a wall; those he couldn't were left to drift on the air. Only a molecular level spectrographic scan of the wall would reveal what he had done, a faint weakening in its structure left by his thievery.
After a few hours Brontes was nearly back into peak condition. There were a few snags, certain atomic elements he lacked and couldn't produce. Nanocytes could break down water into hydrogen and oxygen, but they couldn't change one element into another, no transforming lead into gold for them. Nothing short of a Hegemony auto-repair bay could restore Brontes totally, so he elected to ignore the damage and end his repair cycle.
Awareness came back slowly as processors shifted to sensory input. He noted little had changed, the pair of so-called Space Marines were fussing over trivial details as usual. Yet Brontes's auspex sensed two life forms outside the door. They were bleeding heat and their breathing was loud enough to be detected by his audio pick-ups. Brontes shifted his vision mode to x-ray frequencies and saw through the door that one was slight and heavily augmented, the other was short and broad. The Famulous and the Squat, just what he didn't need.
"We have visitors," Brontes spake suddenly.
The boy started in shock as he exclaimed, "How can you…"
A moment later a chime rang out and Kerubim's head snapped about. He glanced back at Brontes and glared but was ignored. Annoyed the boy stalked over to the door and opened it, revealing Treya and Wulfe, both standing patiently. Kerubim waved them inside and the Famulous nodded in gratitude.
"You do us great honour," she said demurely.
"Stow the small talk, we have business to discuss," Wulfe muttered sullenly.
"How may we help you?" Jordig asked from the corner.
"Na with you, with the rustbucket."
Brontes was surprised to hear that and took a moment to scan the Squat. His injuries were considerable, internal bleeding held back by stitches and broken bones fused by recent surgery. A human would be laid out for weeks, but Squats were notoriously durable, hard to kill, harder to make stay dead. As Brontes knew from bitter experience.
Brontes glared down at the stout warrior and spat, "I have nothing to say to you."
"Well I have!" Wulfe hissed, "Ye can shut up and listen, so I can get out of here."
"I'll save you the bother," Brontes retorted, "Whatever it is, I say no. Now go away and leave me alone."
Treya stepped between them urging, "Please, do not be hasty. This discord can only bring shame and woe. Ignorant pride and bitter hate, is this what two ancient societies amounted to? You both speak of your forbears as intelligent and rational beings, would they not counsel reason and discourse?"
"Ye don't know the Rotundus very well lassie," Wulfe scoffed.
"You should have met a Soulbound, every last one of them was an arrogant grox-anus," Brontes snorted.
To his surprise Wulfe let slip a faint chuckle and said, "I have to say something… in private."
Jordig took the hint and said, "Come Kerubim, we'll go for a stroll."
The pair departed and Wulfe watched them go before spitting out, "Back on that ice-cube, you saved my life.
"Wasn't me, it was the boy," Brontes deflected.
"Dannae fob me off. I watched the armour logs. You carried me out of there, I only breathe because o' you. I owe you a debt."
Brontes didn't breathe but feigned an exasperated sigh through his voice emitter, "I genuinely do not want anything from you."
"Not up to you," Wulfe spat, "You have incurred an honour debt, for a Rotundus that is no laughing matter. There is a geas upon me, I must repay you, no matter how much it hurts both of us."
"That's a stupid cultural obligation," Brontes growled, "Whip me up a gravity cannon, a big one. Then I'll call us even."
"Doesn't work that way," Wulfe retorted, "I am bound to protect you, to keep you from harm. I am stuck with you, until I save your life in return."
Brontes saw how annoyed the Squat was and could not help but taunt, "Save my life, that must stick in the caw. How does all that bile taste?"
"Why I ought to…" Wulfe began.
Suddenly Treya spoke up, "It is a marvel, to speak to one who witnessed the Dark Age of Technology firsthand. I must know, what was it like?"
Brontes sank back as he lamented, "It was… better. Better than this ramshackle Imperium of yours. We built shining cities, silver pinnacles reaching for the stars. Ecosystems were carefully preserved but our industry was second to none. Science and discovery led the way, and our leaders listened to those who knew what they were talking about. Our mighty armies held the borders secure, alien races were driven out or brought to heel, nothing threatened us. Trillions of humans lived in peace and plenty, safe in the knowledge that their defenders were equal to the dangers of the galaxy."
"And then you were lost and missed the fall of your civilisation," Treya whispered with a note of sorrow that would make a statue weep.
Brontes mourned, "It was Chaos, a threat we could never have anticipated. It infested our automated armies, starting a galaxy-wide mutiny. Then it came for our people. Chaos spelt our doom."
Brontes wallowed in misery but then Wulfe spat, "Wannae the end of it though."
"I don't follow."
"The Rotundus were there, we saw you rustbuckets turn against your makers. Watched your Hegemony implode and Old Earth fall into anarchy and Old Night begin. But the final nail in the coffin were the Solar Knights."
Brontes turned all his eyes upon the Squat and exclaimed, "No, not them!"
"Fraid so," Wulfe said without rancour, "I seen engravings, in the oldest Holds. Those genefreaks tried to fight back Old Night, at first, but then they got to thinking. They were losing see, couldn't fight what they couldn't understand. So they tried to figure out Chaos, control it, master it. Didn't work, of course, all they did was let it into their hearts. Told themselves they were the masters, but they became the slaves. The things they became… the twisted monsters that came to reave our worlds… They say making the engravings drove the artists mad. Your best and brightest became rabid mastiffs and we put them down for it."
Brontes sagged as he whispered, "In the end even the last line of defence proved not enough. The destruction of all our ideals is complete."
Treya however pressed, "So, how did the Rotundus survive this calamity?"
Wulfe snorted, "By keeping our heads down and minding our own business. We didn't hare off galaxy-conquering and colonializing every last scrap of dirt we could find. We stayed close to home, defended our corner and watched our young carefully for any sign of taint. We knew what was out there and we'd be damned if it got its roots into our Holds. We held true through Old Night and gave the Great Crusade a bloody nose when they came along to tell us we were joining the Imperium, whether we wanted to or not. Ha, fought them to a standstill we did, then sat down and hammered out a deal to keep them out. We let them tell themselves they'd won, a 'diplomatic' victory they called it, but we knew the truth. Then there was that whole scrap with Horus..."
"Who?" Brontes asked.
"Dannae matter," Wulfe sniffed, "The Imperium fell down on its face and became the stagnant mess you know today. We left them to it, lived on, endured. We endured everything the galaxy could throw at us… until the damned bugs came along."
"Tyranids," Treya whispered sadly.
Wulfe's eyes darkened as he growled, "Accursed insects, coming out of the dark in endless waves. While the Imperium were distracted fighting Kraken they missed another Hive Fleet, slipping into the galactic core from above. It hit us out of nowhere, overwhelmed our hearth-worlds before we knew what was happening. I was there, I saw them obliterate every fleet sent to stop them. We rallied and fought to hold the line, we killed billions, trillions, but they bred faster than we could smash em. Constantly changing, constantly evolving, never seen anything like it. Planets and fleets and Holds, they ate them all. They took us to the damned brink, to the very edge."
Despite everything Brontes was intrigued, to hear his old rival's woes and pressed, "What happened next?"
"Cawl turned up," Wulfe growled, "We were down on our knees, a fraction of our colonies were all that were left. We drew our lines and readied a last stand, when he came at the head of a Cogboy fleet. Course we knew a few more guns would make no difference, but he had some strange gene-tech, a mutagenic poison. Heard they'd used it at Tarsis Ultra and broken the bugs before. The plan to deploy it… well… it were hair-raising, there's a three-day opera about it, but you don't care for details. Suffice to say Cawl's poison worked and the Rotundus lived."
"And so you signed up to work for Cawl?" Brontes enquired.
"We traded for our lives," Wulfe confessed, "He offered us the means to retake our worlds. Drew up plans to terraform dead planets, sent us Forge-ships to restore Holds, even provided Vitae-wombs to replenish our populations. In return we gave him our secrets of Gravitic tech. Those Repulsors he's so proud of, it were the Rotundus who made them possible. He'd have nothing without us, we gave him our secrets and blood, we gave him our finest veterans to work in his Explorator fleets."
"You don't sound very happy about it," Brontes observed.
"He ain't doing it out of the goodness of his hearts. He only came to us became he wanted something, still does. I serve to fulfil the oaths of my Hold, but I don't trust him. Got transferred to Pycelo's ship soon as I could. Cawl would sell out the Rotundus for a credit chit, we all know it."
Treya softly said, "Who would have thought the two of you would have so much in common. A shared rivalry, a shared suffering."
"We don't…" Brontes snarled but then relented, "I suppose we do. Both remnants of a fallen past, both mourning a fallen people."
"Your lot are gone, ours are on the brink," Wulfe agreed forlornly, "Two fading embers of a dying fire. If things don't change the light will go out and all that will be left is these lanky streaks of piss."
Brontes was silent as he chewed upon it. The Squats had been a bitter rival to his civilisation, but their fate was no kinder than his people's. In an era filled with strangers and madness, an old enemy was strangely comforting. The Squats had been indomitable, unbreakable, fierce and defiant to the last. To see them reduced to beggars relying on charity was shameful. Somehow it took whatever joy was to be found in taunting Wulfe.
Brontes relented and said, "I'll honour your debt. If you must fight to protect me, then do so."
"I was gonna anyway," Wulfe said with the defiant tone of one who has nothing but pride left to him.
"Don't think this means I like you," Brontes said firmly, "You grit-sucker."
"Same, ye overflowing pisspot," Wulfe replied with an amused tone.
Treya clapped her hands together and exclaimed, "I am pleased to see we could forge an accord. Your ancestors, your makers, would be pleased to see their virtues live on."
"Don't make a fuss, you'll spoil a good cussin' match," Wulfe snorted as he walked for the door.
"You call that cussing?" Brontes quipped, "You insult like a goat bleating!"
Wulfe and Treya left without another word, leaving Brontes to muse upon what had just occurred. Another piece of his lost past had been filled in, but he wasn't sure what it meant. The more he found of this strange age the more confused he became, he wasn't sure what the next encounter would bring but he was near certain he wouldn't like it.