Viper's Gift

Lord Tyranno was pleased and had good reason to be. Great was his power and feared was his name. Neverborn flocked to his summons and scores of Traitor Marines marched under his banner. Millions of slaves dwelt in the dungeons of his mighty fortress-asteroid, which was protected by fleets and guns and sorcerous wards. Worlds for light-years in all directions feared his attentions and even the Primaris Marines had been bloodied by his mighty armies. Lord Tyranno was a rising power among Red Corsairs and he enjoyed the favour of Huron Blackheart himself.

Long had his Warband plagued the edges of what had once been known as the Maelstrom, pillaging and raiding as his greed waxed strong. Tyranno's throneroom was covered in stolen artworks and riches from scores of worlds. Slave-eunuchs attended his wanton appetites and trophy weapons rested in niches along the walls. Captured Sisters of Battle lay upon the cold steps of his throne, naked save for their chains, weeping from the defilements piled upon them nightly. Shrines to the Four Powers rested in corners, carefully arranged so none enjoyed more praise than another, Chaos gave Tyranno power but he would be no slave to the Ruinous Powers. Tyranno was a master, not a tool.

Tall was he and proud, his red and black armour gleaming and with spikes lining the pauldrons. Screaming faces protruded from armour, only to sink back in a constant cycle gifted by the Changer of Ways, while the power of the Blood God had swollen his muscles. Poisonous venom dripped from the crown of thorns growing out of his scalp, a toxic gift of the Grandfather, while powerful soporifics wafted around his frame, befuddling the eyes of his foes with visions of the Prince of Excess. Tyranno's face was scorched black by old wounds, his lips and nose missing. The razor sharp sword of a Star Phantom has taken them from him, but Tyranno had taken more in return. That sword still hung at his hip and its former owner lay buried at Badab, left to rot for eternity. Tyranno told the tale he survived the fall of the Astral Claws due to his stubborn refusal to die, but in truth it was his cunning that saw him escape alive. Cunning that today was seeing his power grow.

"Your payment has been delivered," Tyranno informed his guest.

"As promised," the other replied, "I was half expecting treachery."

"Treachery has its place, but never rely upon it. Too much treachery makes one predictable."

"Wise counsel," the other replied, "Your shipment is accepted, enough fuel and munitions and ship parts to sustain my Chapter for five years."

"And yours has arrived too. My sorcerers report no malignant conjugations, my pet Warsmith reports no explosive traps. Exactly as promised."

"A most profitable exchange, for both Red Corsairs and Amber Vipers."

Tyranno paused to examine his counterpart. Portrayed in Hololithic light was a Space Marine but one of a very different order. His armour's hue was washed out by the projection but hinted at deep shades of umber. Great effort had been made to make his plate gleam with polish but that couldn't hide its poor state of repair, frayed fibre bundle muscles visible at the joints and microfactures at the edges of Ceramite panels. One shoulder was blackened but the other bore a serpent and goblet icon. His face was stern, harrowed by loss and a dangerous glint of ruthless pragmatism lurked in those grey depths. This was Coluber, Master of the Amber Vipers, a Chapter dancing on the edge of Heresy, and in Tyranno's opinion further over that line than the Imperial scum suspected.

Tyranno grinned, "I was surprised when you offered to treat with us."

"You have resources I need, survival demands uncomfortable decisions."

"But to give away such a prize, you weren't tempted to use it yourself?"

Coluber looked pained, "The knowledge has value, but demands much to implement. Primaris Gene-types required exotic materials and skilled expertise I simply don't have access to."

Tyranno enjoyed how much it pained Coluber to say that, "So you decided to trade it for something better."

Coluber looked vexed, "Don't pretend you haven't longed for this. The secrets of Primaris creation have long been sought by the Red Corsairs. Lufgt Huron has tried to take the secret by force before and failed."

Tyranno laughed, "True! And he has let it be known he who brings him such bounty will be rewarded lavishly. With this trove I shall ascend to his right hand!"

"And then replace him?"

That shut Tyranno up, "No one speaks so of Lord Blackheart, not openly anyway. He knows all his underlings plot against him, one would have to be very sure of success to dare to cross the lord of the Maelstrom. I shall bide my time and curry his favour… but in time we shall see."

Coluber nodded off to the right, "Our payment is secure. The Revenge is leaving orbit. Do not try to stop us."

"I wouldn't think of it, not when you might be back for future trades. But I must know, does it not trouble you: a loyalist Chapter arming the enemies of the Imperium?"

"Loyalty to an idea is not the same as obedience to every regulations and prohibition," Coluber snorted, "How obedient to the Administratum were the Astral Claws before Badab?"

Tyranno's smile vanished, "Do not question our honour. We were loyal to a fault, before the simpering High Lords turned on us. We fought a war to prove our loyalty."

"A foolish blunder," Coluber retorted, "If you had been more cunning in your dealings then war would never have been necessary."

"You speak like a coward."

"Bravado is small compensation for lack of intelligence. The Amber Vipers are wise enough to hide our dealings, something the Astral Claws never mastered."

Tyranno snarled, "You call yourselves wise yet try to play both sides. You can barely lift your head from the mud. I have heard of you flying about in a tin can fortress, with hand-me-down gear. The Imperial scum sneers at you, while I lord over armies. Go then, back to your thin-blooded masters, back to slavery. I will toast your ashes, when the Imperium finally grasps what you are doing."

Coluber's reply was a curt, "Goodbye Tyranno, and do give my regards to Huron, when you see him."

The Hololith shimmered and returned to its base state. Instead of an individual a series of floating pict-images, rotating around a column of light. Images of Tyranno's warband about their daily tasks. There were images of them at rest and working on their armour, bullying mortal slaves or offering sacrifices to the Dark Gods. Some boasted twisted faith in chaos, others laughed in scorn at any form of worship, some were innovative or dogmatic, some rebellious or leal, but all knew Tyranno's eyes were ever upon them. Even his fleet circling the asteroid was under constant surveillance. He had not survived the fall of Badab and risen high among Red Corsairs without instilling paranoia into his underlings.

His eyes sought an image of orbital tracks and he saw the Viper's Battlebarge racing for deep space. He didn't blame them. Impressive as a Battlebarge was it was no match for his Fleet alone, he'd have made a swift exit himself, were the roles reversed. For a moment he toyed with ordering his followers to open fire, but elected against it. The Amber Vipers were desperate enough to trade with Heretics, and a line once crossed was easily crossed again. They'd be back the next time they needed something, Tyranno was sure.

A noise drew his eye to the throneroom doors, where a party was entering. Six Astartes bearing a cyro-casket between them. At their flanks marched hedge sorcerers, just in case of surprises, not that he expected any, he'd had the box meticulously scanned for every type of known explosive and hex-curse. At the head marched a burly figure in steel-grey armour, adorned with a single red pauldron and a servo claw hanging over his shoulder. Plesio the fleshweaver, once of the Iron Warriors but of late in service to the Red Corsairs.

"They are gone?" Plesio asked as he closed.

"Took off like the hounds of the warp were upon them," Tyranno chuckled.

"I don't like them," Plesio retorted, "Rough they may be, but they carry the stink of self-righteousness only Throne-lackeys know."

"They all do… at first, but the road to Heresy is slippery. The Amber Vipers will join us soon, I can smell it. But enough of them, let us open up our prize and see what we've got."

Plesio stiffened, "This is for the Blackheart."

But Tyranno scoffed, "Huron can wait, I want what is mine first."

"The Tyrant is not one to cross."

"He'll get his due, in time. But I intend to plunder the lore for myself too. Tell me you don't yearn to know the secrets of the Primaris and I'll call you a liar."

"I cannot," Plesio grinned wickedly, "The Imperial's vaunted New-Paradigm, ours at last. I will make armies of superior Marines, they shall sweep aside any who oppose us."

Tyranno grinned in return and waved his servants to lower the casket. He looked upon the box and his hearts grew avaricious. The secret to creating superior Marines, the Imperium's brief resurgence would be halted and the Red Corsairs would ascend to supremacy over all renegades and Traitors. Tyranno would be the vanguard of this new army, and in time… Well, Huron would find his position not so secure as he thought.

The box opened and steam billowed forth. Tyranno leaned in to examine the contents, only to stop in shock. No vials of enhanced gene-seed awaited, no humming cogitator cores and gene-template dishes. Instead a bulbous device squatted within, multiple coiled cables sprouting from a black sphere, only to loop back. The surface was reflective and yet betrayed no sign of onlookers, reflecting the room alone and not the witness. It looked evil, like a venomous spider lurking in its web, waiting for prey to stumble into reach.

"What is this?!" Plesio yelped.

Tyranno's jaw fell, "It's a…."

Before he finished the device activated. A pulse of red light, a crackle of potential and then a shimmering wave of dimensional distortion swept forth, engulfing the room and passing through solid walls to grow unchecked beyond. Tyranno gasped as a tingle swept over him, then doubled over as his guts clenched in fire. Writhing sickness grew in his belly, like his intestines were wrestling with his organs, moving inside him as if alive. A snarl of pain saw him drop to his knees but that was nothing compared to his followers.

Across the room mortals collapsed as their flesh betrayed them, eunuchs and slaves alike deforming in moments. Fat swelled, muscles grew obscenely, spines rippled and eyes grew out of sockets on stalks. New mouths opened among piles of growing blubber as the slaves lost all semblance of humanity. It was like watching Chaos Spawn be created, save they were growing into each other, flesh running together into one amorphous blob of skin and fat. Any sense of individuality was erased as screams of madness rang loud. Even Astartes were not immune, expanding flesh bursting armour apart from within as they joined the growing lake of organic soup.

The Red Corsairs had scanned for explosives and spell, but there was no way they could have known to look for an Etherflux bomb. Science from the Dark Age of Technology, not a weapon but an instrument of global torture. Devices meant to inflict suffering and woe such as to make a virus bomb seem clean and quick. Technology dreamt in mankind's soaring hubris and then consigned to be forgotten. Humanity had done its best to forget the nightmares wrought by its own hand, clinging to the delusion that the past had been a golden Age of Enlightenment, instead of a cauldron of horror.

Plesio's hand was growing out of his wrist, an eel of skin covered in eyes as he gargled, "Whaaa… helpppp…." Tyranno has no help to give, flesh broiled and his organs were trying to break out of his chest. The others were gone but he fought on. No stranger to the gifts of Chaos he knew how to hold himself together, refusing to yield through sheer will. He clung to himself hissing, "No…. I won't change… I am the master of my body…. No."

A flash drew his eyes to the Holo-pillar and he saw madness sweep his base. His army was devolving into a primordial stew, legions of proud warriors conjoining in mad profusions of skin and bone. Master and slave, warrior and dung-hauler, it made no difference, all were caught in the Etherflux and all doomed to become part of a singular horror. Even his fleet was not immune, ships falling out of formation as their crews were enveloped in an ever expanding nightmare.

Tyranno's eyes alighted on the fleeing Battlebarge, racing for safety. He hoped they had been caught too, but knew it was false spite. The Amber Vipers has fled at top speed, they knew what was about to happen. Coluber's last words came back and he hissed, "Give Huron our regards."

Tyranno saw then he was not the intended target, the Amber Vipers thought to assassinate Blackheart from afar. Tyranno had merely been the vector, intended to smuggle the Etherflux to his master. His own greed had doomed him, and a sizeable Warband of the Red Corsairs, a small victory for the Imperium, but a victory at his expense. If he had been less avaricious he would have survived, ascended to replace Huron even, but his greed had cost him all.

That knowledge cut deep and Tyranno screamed as he lost control. His cells began to mutate, multiplying beyond all bounds of sanity. Organs twisted, bones became rubber and veins spilled out like ropes. Tyranno the conquering warlord ceased to be as his body enjoined with the horror sweeping his base, every last renegade and slave condemned to become a seething single mass of flesh. No thought remained, no last promise of vengeance to mark his passing. Tyranno disappeared into that living swamp, unmade by the Amber Viper's poisoned offering. It was a bequest they would share with others, renegades and Traitors far and wide would soon learn to beware Vipers bearing gifts.