Day 7
Tide considered his growing size and power.
The wasp hive had been the largest source of new combat forms, a hundred and twenty-seven new soldiers added to his arsenal. The wasp queen was the first to eat from the slain pods and thus the first to fall, swiftly followed by the young and then the rest. The queen and young made poor combat forms, so he simply added them to his Proto-Gravemind.
With these wasps, he had a small army of dedicated hunter-gatherers. He adopted their tactics, sending out small squads of three to five wasps to scout and bring down greater and greater numbers of prey.
The spiders and centipedes were more capable as defensive units, so he kept them around his Proto-Gravemind. He moved his central body, protected throughout the journey by the entire swarm of wasps and horde of other combat forms, into the now emptied wasp hive, taking residence on Level -2. He also had increased the number of spiders and centipedes, to eight and forty-three respectively, that he felt safe in no longer needing the protection of the human combat forms. So, he added the rest of the former factory workers as well to his Proto.
The addition of the wasps, young, and infected humans were the first time he felt a noticeable increase in his intelligence. It wasn't that he could think faster per se, it was that he could think more. He could multitask better, was able to coordinate his many forms easier.
Even with the added intelligence, coordinating his horde of nearly two hundred combat forms and hundreds of infector pods, many of which were spread out across the Underhive, was not an easy task. To a degree, every flood form was capable of some level of independence from the Proto, which eased his burden, and operating the flood forms in squads was easier as well. The Altered humans were also in need of negligible amounts of focus unless he wanted to specifically look through one of their minds or take direct control of a few of them and even with their rapidly expanding numbers they were no issue. It wasn't a problem yet, but he recognized that if the number of his combat forms continued to increase he was going to need to continue to increase his central intelligence's size and intelligence to keep them from getting out of hand. In simpler terms, he needed more biomass.
Greater amounts of biomass would also further enhance a certain ability that Tide knew would be crucial to his survival in this grimdark universe. Neural Physics.
The ability of the Precursors that could essentially allow wielders to alter the universe like editing lines of code. He already could utilize Neural Physics to a very minor degree. It was an inherent part of the Flood, it was what allowed them to connect to one another. It wasn't truly a hive mind so much as Tide was an extradimensional intelligence with the Flood being his physical forms.
Beyond simply connecting to his forms, what he could do now was essentially limited to listening to and altering local radio waves. There weren't too many vox communications he could listen in on at the moment, but it would be a useful power, he was sure. However, with sufficient amounts of biomass he could perform greater and greater feats that would make such things seem like party tricks.
At their height, the Precursors were able to move galaxies around at-will. That kind of power beggared the mind, but Tide knew he could do it with sufficient biomass. Although, he wasn't sure what 'sufficient' biomass even was or even if that much of it existed in this entire galaxy. Perhaps the Tyranids had enough, but he doubted tossing galaxies at his enemies was in his immediate future. The Flood at the height of their power in Halo lore, during their war with the Forerunners and having consumed a good chunk of the nearly three million worlds that made up the Ecumene, weren't even close to that level, although they were able to use Neural Physics to a great enough degree to nearly wipe out the Forerunners. The Imperium was supposedly made up of only one million worlds, but that number was more of a guesstimate than anything else. Although he'd never heard of Forerunner hive world equivalents, so perhaps it was possible?
He understood Neural Physics to a degree from his past life's knowledge and that was further reinforced by his new status and the inherent knowledge that had come with it. However, to a large extent, he still didn't know what his true capabilities were or the requirements for them. How much biomass would he need to create something like a star road? A million humans? A billion, a trillion, a quadrillion? He couldn't say, but something told him that he would learn as he grew. He needed that biomass, but the road to getting it was not clear to him.
The Flood in him told him he had plenty of biomass on hand if he was just willing to take it. The numbers of his Altered had increased to just over six thousand in just a week and over six million on their way to becoming fully infected.
It was an insane and, frankly, terrifying experience to see just how many beings he could infect in just a few days of trying. This was partly due to how packed the hive city was and how poor the conditions were. It was a perfect environment for disease to flourish, but it was still so rapid of a spread that he wondered how the Flood hadn't managed it in the Halo universe.
The realization of why they hadn't had disturbed him deeply. The Flood could have managed it, had they not wished to cause suffering more than they had wished to win. If they'd appeared beneficial or even just benign, no one would have blinked an eye at their spread. Some might even willingly become infected. Then, at the flip of a switch, the Flood could have taken everything.
It was the Flood and the Primordial's own bloodthirsty nature that had stopped them from winning, from spreading as he was doing now. Ironically, Tide was more effective as the Flood than the actual Flood simply because he wasn't as monstrous as it was!
And that number of infected, already in the millions, was increasing at an exponential rate, spreading like wildfire across the lower levels of his hive spire with a few tendrils reaching upwards and even already into another of the spires. If he wished it, he could take control of all six thousand of those Altered in a moment and draw them down into his proto-gravemind. Those who were only partially infected would soon be capable of spreading Flood spores with their breathing, meaning the spread would continue at an only slightly diminished rate.
He ignored that side of him, for the most part. He wasn't interested in committing mass slaughter.
However.
He wasn't above taking from the dead.
Jace had lived a long life, longer than most. Seventy-three years, or so he believed. It was a guess, as his parents were the last to know the precise day he'd been born and they were long dead, so he took the start of each new year as the day he'd thank the God-Emperor for the life he'd been given. He'd only learned how to count so high by annoying a Tech-Priest long enough that the red-robe had taught him, if only to get him to shut up, teaching him all the numbers up to a hundred. He was the only man he knew who could count so high, other than priests and the few learned men that cared to go so far below into the hive.
He was considered ancient by those around him. Most didn't last until thirty, dying either to some plague, accident, or simply from being worked to death. Long enough for them to have a few children, who would start the cycle all over again.
Not him though. He'd had children, and they'd had children, and those children had had children, and he'd outlived all but the last of them. It was a strange thing, a painful thing. They had grown frail and sickly as they grew older. The years had weakened him as well, cursed him with aches in his bones, but he still had strength in his arms. Could still work in the factories, at least until recently.
He knew that some of the other hivers thought his age to be unnatural. He knew that they whispered when they thought he couldn't hear them, but his hearing had remained sharper than all his other senses. Some of the younger ones thought he was blessed by the God-Emperor, thought he had lived a good and pious life and so had lived longer than others.
Jace was not a particularly pious man, never had been. He prayed and believed in the God-Emperor's power, all of them did, but he'd never thought of himself as fervent as the priests and other sermon-givers.
Others whispered that he was a mutant or a witch. Perhaps even a xenos masquerading as a man. They were just whispers and Jace ignored them. Perhaps they were envious of his many years, but he doubted it. Life was not something so precious.
That thought had been with him more and more often these past years. The first time the thoughts had come had been after the death of his wife, Emella. She'd died in childbirth after their thirdborn, Allacia. He'd seen the life leave her eyes and despaired at the thought of life without her, despite the assurances of the priest that gave the last rites that the souls of she and the rest of the dead being recycled were now in the God-Emperor's loving embrace. He'd pushed the thoughts aside, however, instead focusing on being there for his children.
Ilam, Wilber, Allacia. His two sons and daughter had been the pride of his life. Hard workers, caring, and above-all faithful to the God-Emperor. He'd thought he would die happily, surrounded by them and perhaps even their own children. Yet, the red rot had taken Allacia before she was even twenty and the thoughts had returned. The despair.
However, when Ilam and Wilber had daughters of their own, Ellia and Allay, Jace had found renewed purpose. He threw himself into caring for them while his sons were hard at work, enjoying the change in pace from the monotonous shifts of the factory, day after day. He was the only man he knew who had grandchildren and it was something he took an odd pride in.
Ilam and Wilber had led long lives, nearly forty years both before they passed on, yet Jace and his granddaughters remained. Eventually, those granddaughters grew up and went on to have their own lives. They visited him, occasionally, and his heart was always gladdened at their visits. He'd been nearly sixty, older than any but a few of the priests who always seemed to live long lives, and had expected himself to pass any day. He'd gotten sick a few times, nearly been killed in a few accidents, worked himself to the bone after he'd returned to work in the factory.
Yet, he had lived, and his darling granddaughters had died. Ellia was crushed by the heavy machinery of the factory she worked in, Allay was killed in the crossfire of a gang war. He didn't know their children well and they didn't know him.
So, when he felt the aches begin to grow greater and greater, felt his heart pound with every step he took, he'd been glad, happy to know his time was coming. That, perhaps, he could join his Emella, his children, and his grandchildren at the God-Emperor's side.
The process was a slow one, but he had soldiered through the pain to continue working at the factory. If he didn't, he couldn't be sure he would be allowed to rejoin them. It was like that for weeks, every day more pain, more aches, yet he had fought on with a grin on his strained face.
Until today. Today he couldn't get out of bed. It was not that his pain was too great, his body simply refused to move, to obey him. Despite this, he felt surprisingly well. Very well. In fact, better than he could ever remember feeling. The pain, the aches that he'd had for so long that he'd almost grown used to them, were gone. His lungs, which had struggled for every breath, felt clear. His heart, which had been pounding and irregular for weeks now, thumped strongly in his chest. Just from what he felt in his body he should have been able to leap out of bed with a youthful spryness that he hadn't had in decades.
Yet, he knew this time, this time he would not get out of bed again. He would not work another shift in that factory, would not have to spend another fourteen hours sucking in the smell of oil and grease and incense of the machines or hear their clanging.
This time, he would die.
It was a meandering thing, death. It took its time for him even now. Were it anything other than the God-Emperor's divine will that he perish, he'd almost have called it hesitant to take him.
When it had finally made up its mind, so to speak, he could feel its approach. It travelled along his fingers, along his toes, making its way up his arms and legs, up his spine. It was not a bad feeling, simply the cessation of it.
His thoughts drifted as his breathing slowed. They turned to his loved ones. Of holding his children on those cold nights when the block's heating was offline, using his own body heat to keep them warm. Of meeting Emella, of proposing to her. He thought of his mother, whose face he could barely remember, yet could picture her so clearly now in his mind's eye. She was smiling, reaching out for him with a hand.
He smiled and took that hand.
Jace's life left him peacefully. For a long moment, his body was still.
Then, it rose and the corpse left for its new grave. The first of many, many more.
