Tales of the Amber Vipers Chapter 246

As Zar-Quaestior plunged through the nightmarish deeps of the Empyrean Kerubim was busy exploring his new state of being. He stood in a firing range, gripping a Mark 2 Bolt rifle in his silver hands. The intricate perfection of his metallic skin was mesmerising, every detail recreated, right down to the fingerprints. He could spend hours staring at his skin, and had, but right now needed to concentrate. Further down the range twin lines of Servitors lobbed clay discs into the air, which he tracked. Gently he lined up the length of his rifle and squeezed the trigger, producing an ear-shattering bark. The bolt rifle thundered with each squeeze, emptying the magazine and sending thirty bolt-rounds down the range. Clay discs shattered, exploding bits of pottery across the blank servitors, but to his utter disgust barely half of them were struck, the rest hitting the floor intact.

The echoes of the rifle faded away as Kerubim lowered his arms and snarled in frustration. He stepped back and grimaced, crinkling his silver face. Kerubim's altered form was a rank offence, the purity of the human body polluted by strange archeotech, his mutation obvious to any who looked upon his naked skin. It violated Imperial doctrines of genic purity and the sacred mysteries of the Emperor's genecraft. But what truly galled him was his lack of skill. For weeks he had been tested and probed, every inch examined inside and out as he was put to the test. His endurance and strength had been greatly improved and yet he found it hard to control his limbs. He had been required to learn to walk from scratch yet he still tripped over his own feet and dropped things, his reflexes were blindly fast but his hand-eye coordination was appalling. In a practice range like this a Space Marine should expect a hundred percent success, fifty percent was insulting. And there was something very strange happening to his eyes.

"That was pathetic," he growled.

"It is within acceptable parameters for an Imperial Guardsman," a mechanical voice wheezed.

"Exactly, I am no guardsman. I am a Space Marine, excellence is not optional."

"Your body has been greatly altered, your autonomic reflexes must adapt to new conditions. You learned to walk in days, give it time and your subconscious will adapt to the new paradigm."

Kerubim turned about and found Belisarius Cawl standing off to the left. The Archmagos had been obsessed with learning everything about Kerubim's transformation, covering him in biosensors and spending hours scanning with strange machines, plumbing the secrets of the Nanocytes. Kerubim had been more interested in recovering his motor coordination, yet had discovered a strange phenomenon. When he looked at Cawl he saw the Archmagos as he had been, yet there was a faint shimmer throughout his being, flowing lines of current travelling between internal capacitors and motive fibres. Kerubim had experience of Autosenses, infrared and ultraviolet spectrums of vision were no strange to him, but this went deeper. If he squinted he could chart every electrical impulse that travelled through the Archmagos, seeing a web of bright currents more than living being. He could even magnify his sight to astonishing degrees, seeing the molecular bonds that held Cawl together. This disturbed Kerubim greatly and he did his best to ignore the new feature whenever he could.

Kerubim wanted to curse the Archmagos but forced his voice into calmness as he asked, "Have you made any progress in getting these… things… out of me?"

Cawl shook his head and explained, "All my readings confirm the same thing: the Nanocytes are binding your cell membranes together, repairing genic decay as it occurs. To remove them is to kill you."

"I might consider that an acceptable outcome."

"I didn't go to all the trouble of saving you only to listen to you whine nonstop," a gruff voice echoed.

Kerubim turned his head and saw Brontes standing near the wall while nearby stood Jordig and Wulfe, watching intently as the trials continued. The Cadmus was strange to his eyes, a swirling galaxy of Motive Force, with electrons swimming through his limbs. His internal circuits were breathtaking, Brontes' behavioural engrams were so sophisticated that Kerubim had almost started to think of the machine as a person, but now could see the dizzying complexity of the matrix that simulated personality. Kerubim felt deep resentment towards the robot for making him a freak, but found the infinity complexity of the artificial mind mesmerising, but wasn't going to admit it.

Kerubim faced Brontes and snapped, "I'll whine all I want, you made me a freak! No world of the Imperium will accept me now."

"I've seen your deviant Chapter's handiwork and your aberrant Brothers," Brontes snorted, "You'll fit right in among the other Amber Vipers."

"Don't laugh, I can never return home like this."

Wulfe snorted, "Worse things happen among the stars. Wear a helmet; they'll never know the difference."

Kerubim blinked in surprise as he said, "Armour? How can I… I mean, do I even need armour anymore?"

Jordig was skimming through a dataslate in his hands and explained, "Our readings confirm your skin has been toughened by a metal/ceramic compound, making it nearly as durable as Ceramite, but that's not the only reason we wear armour. Your skin can shrug off a knife or a glancing hit, but a bolt round to the chest will still penetrate. This is important, your epidermis has been changed, but your internal organs remain as they were. Your lungs can't breathe vacuum, your cells still require oxygen. Radiation tolerance is improved, but not remarkably beyond Astartes' norms. And you have no vox inside your head."

"What he's saying is, wear the damned armour," Wulfe chuckled.

"You'll return my plate?" Kerubim asked tentatively.

"Your old plate won't fit anymore," Jordig stated, "You have the height and girth of a Primaris now, you'll need Mark X plate. Thankfully your import sockets were unchanged, I'll requisition a suit and have it painted properly."

Kerubim was relieved to hear it, his skin still an offence but if he wore armour it may not be too obvious. With the filter of autosenses his strange eyes may not even be an issue. He sighed as he handed the bolt rifle to a waiting servitor and said, "I suppose I can learn to live with that. But I still don't understand what went wrong."

"The Rubicon is still in beta testing," Cawl confessed, "To ascend an adolescent to Primaris I can do, but a Space Marine is a mature being. To prompt an adult body to restart growth cycles already concluded was a challenge. Your tissues could not cope with the demands placed upon them and rejected the process. The Nanocytes compensated for the rejection and they are still compensating. This is remarkable, I am learning so much with every passing hour, this data may well make the Rubicon a reality!"

"I'm glad you're happy," Kerubim muttered sarcastically, "But why am I silver?!"

Brontes answered, "The Nanocytes were tasked to find flaws and repair them. They perceived your fragile skin as a flaw and moved to correct the error, as they would any machine. At the microscopic level the difference between living tissue and machinery is imperceptible.

Kerubim glared at the Cadmus, "And the next time they next find a flaw. What if they perceive my inability to look backwards as an error and decide to put a third eye on the back of my skull?! Am I going to wake up one day with a third eye?!"

Brontes stood suspiciously silent as his eye lenses glinted, then suddenly said, "No."

Kerubim caught the momentary pause and hissed, "Did you just reprogram them not to make any more changes?"

"Don't ask questions to which you already know the answer," Brontes snapped.

Jordig stepped forward and said, "We've learned a lot the last few weeks and you need to grasp the reality of your situation. The Nanocytes are keeping you alive, but they can only do so much. A cut or a bullet wound will heal like any other Space Marines' would, your skin is tougher than before, but you are in no way unkillable. Someone puts a bolt round in your skull, or shoves a sword through your chest, you die permanently, don't believe for a second you can grow you a new head."

"I go into battle with the same odds of survival as any Battle-Brother," Kerubim sighed, "That's… oddly comforting."

But Wulfe grunted, "That be the good news, now tell the lad the bad."

"Bad news?"

Cawl sank low on his legs to bring his eyes nearly level with Kerubm's as he said, "Nanocytes are self-replicating, maintaining their numbers as they wear out. But I have determined your body lacks key elemental materials needed for their replication cycle. Each generation is smaller than the last, fractionally so, but measurable. We can reduce the decay rate with metallic supplements to your diet, but we cannot escape the reality of diminishing returns."

Cold dread stole over Kerubim as he asked, "How long till they run out?"

"Insufficient data," Cawl sighed, "It could be a year, ten, a hundred, but the final conclusion is inescapable. You will continue as you are for a finite measure of time and then, barring major injury or immediate termination, you will simply… stop living."

"Less than a century," Kerubim groaned, "You can't be more specific?"

"Welcome to mortality," Wulfe scoffed.

Kerubim's head swam, a Space Marine could live for centuries, millennia even, their lifespans determined not by ageing but by death on the field of battle. To know his days were numbered was shocking, he couldn't remember what it was like, his life before gene-forging a hazy smear of memory. He wanted to rage and weep, but his hypno-indoctrination held firm. He was alive today, and he was going to make the most of it.

Cawl put a finger to his lips and mused, "Cyro-stasis could be a remedy. We could pause your life cycles for extended periods, preserving you while a solution is sought."

Kerubim however said, "No, not stasis. It wouldn't buy me more days, just break up the remaining ones. I don't want to spend my scant life on ice, awakened only to be test-vermin, I want to fight and make a difference."

Jordig argued, "There may be a way to fix this we haven't thought of yet."

"It doesn't matter," Kerubim spat, "It's not about the amount of time you have, but what you do with it. Some of the greatest heroes of the Astartes didn't make it to their first century. They didn't bemoan their lot, they grabbed the chance to make a difference and wrested all they could from each moment. It's all moot anyway, I could get shot a week from now. If I die in battle or just fall down dead one day, I want to go to my grave knowing I did all I could, while I could."

"Well said," Brontes uttered, "I knew I was right to save you."

Kerubim looked up at the Cadmus and declared, "I want to talk to Brontes, alone."

"There are still so many tests to run," Cawl protested.

"Five minutes," Kerubim stated, "Then you can run whatever tests you like."

Jordig replied, "We still have much data to analyse, let us review our findings before pressing on."

The others filed out, leaving Brontes and Kerubim alone. The altered Marine looked up at the ancient war machine, built for destruction and death, and yet one that had saved his life. He had to know more and said, "You deserve to know there's something I haven't told you. It wasn't for knowledge or comradery I was sent along with you. I had orders from Chapter Master Coluber to make sure you didn't come back. I was to be your watchman and executioner."

"I know," Brontes snorted, "That idiot is as subtle as a brick. I knew from the start you were sent to find a way to destroy me, it was amusing to watch you try to figure out a way to do it."

"You knew all along?" Kerubim gasped, "Then why did you save me?"

The Cadmus stood silent for a moment, cogitating a response then said, "Honestly, because you remind me of my makers."

Kerubim was confused and asked, "The Hegemony?"

Brontes elaborated, "All the ancient humans. The people of my age were open to possibility, unfettered by dogma or superstition. They sought knowledge, trusting science could improve quality of life for all, but they did not fear death nor seek immortality. You share that desire, a hunger for learning unbound by fear of the unknown. Cawl owns this to a degree, but that freak is tainted by the thinking of this era, he has unmade himself in his quest for immortality. I doubt there is anything left of the original Belisarius Cawl in that quagmire. You aren't like him, you aren't afraid to die, you don't want to erase who you are to add a few centuries to your lifespan. This sham of an Imperium is obsessed with death, either glorifying it or fleeing from it, but you embrace life. You are a rare breed in this degenerate age. If there is to be any hope for the future, it lies with people like you."

Kerubim was stunned by the revelation and said, "I don't know what to say."

Brontes retorted, "Say nothing: act. Whatever you plan to do with your life, get the hell on with it. You don't have time for idle naval-gazing."

Kerubim stated firmly, "I want to fight Ruuka and stop his scheme. Then become a true Techmarine and return to the Amber Vipers, to help them become a real Chapter."

"Then cease wasting time talking to me."

Kerubim grinned as he collected the bolt rifle and slotted in a fresh magazine. He set it to his shoulder and aimed down the range. The Servitors reloaded clay discs and prepared to throw them high. Kerubim sighted down the length of the rifle and muttered, "Step one: learn how to shoot straight."