Day 36, Continued

Powered joints whirred and a power generator hummed, barely able to be heard over the sound of heavy stubber fire. The corridor was filled with hundreds of corpses wearing Malum PDF uniforms, cut down in waves like a scythe harvesting wheat. Bodies laid in pieces and pools of blood mixed with a sticky yellow substance, some were blown apart by the powerful kinetic rounds, others had been seared to a crisp by the rarer lascannon and plasma fire.

However, this corridor was not producing the sounds of battle. The only living things within it were genestealer drones, each wearing air filters to deal with the invisible threat of spores.

Outside it, hiding on both sides of its entrance, were four fireteams of black-armored ODST's. They made no move to attack, however. Instead, they waited for the final individual holding outside to move in.

The Spartan took its position, just before the entrance. Perhaps the genestealers were surprised by the calm movements, perhaps they expected some kind of trap, perhaps they didn't want to waste even a few seconds of ammo when only one enemy would die in exchange. Regardless of their reasons, their weapons only tracked the armored figure, but did not fire. They waited, readying themselves for the preparation of a new wave.

Still, the novelty of this new foe drew the attention of the genestealer brood's controlling intelligence. They were not the only hive mind with a portion of its attention focused on this being, however. Nor were those portions anywhere close to equal.

In other hives, flesh-bound factories slowed as their processing power was redistributed. Puppets in areas where they didn't require constant management had their normally flawless masks diminished. And, in two hives that held nothing but dead flesh given new purpose within its spires, a powerful intelligence bent its will towards a single, power armored figure.

Twenty percent. That was roughly the amount of processing power of the total that the Flood possessed which had been bent towards the task of operating this one, single Spartan. Not out of necessity, but out of the desire to exploit a rare opportunity to its utmost and… as a test. A test of the best of what the Flood… no, of what Tide and his allies could bring to bear.

The Spartan strode forward, its every step, every stretch of a muscle, every one of its movements perfectly precise and deliberate. Its hand hovered over the sole weapon it possessed, a plasma gun that hummed with a full charge.

Well… Not quite its only weapon.

An invisible line was crossed, one known only to the Brood Mind, but the results of crossing that line were easy to see.

A hundred and fifty meters inside the dimly lit tunnel, a drone made the final correction of his heavy stubber and began to squeeze the trigger.

Begin.

The Spartan ducked low, a hail of stubber fire crossing through the air where it had been less than a second ago, the gears of its armor groaning at the speed of the movement, of being nearly wrenched into its new position by the powerful musculature contained within it. The drone corrected and pointed the stubber slightly lower, but the Spartan was already moving, sprinting forwards at a speed something so large and armored shouldn't have been capable of.

One second had passed. 142 meters to target.

The Spartan threw itself to one side, just as the finger around the trigger of the lascannon tightened. In an instant, the now empty air was seared by the bright red bolt, which slammed into wreckage a moment later. Autogun rounds sliced through the air around it, each slug's trajectory already calculated from when the barrels themselves had moved into place.

Two seconds had passed. 134 meters to target.

The Spartan leapt up, flipping around, just as a new flurry of lasgun fire lanced forwards. Stray autogun rounds crashed into it, the first hits, only for them to flash like stars as they slammed into the conversion field protecting the armor, turning the kinetic energy into harmless light.

Three seconds had passed. 130 meters to target.

The Spartan fell back to the ground, tumbling as it did, narrowly avoiding a flash of plasma that burned through the air. Its plasma pistol was in its hand, protected by its back as the armor absorbed the shot of a lasgun and a stray stubber round, once more accompanied by a flash of light. In a moment, it rolled into a crouch, barely holding that pose for an instant before pushing off the ground and bounding forwards into a sprint, raising the pistol as it did so and squeezing the trigger, already knowing where the shot would land.

Four seconds had passed. 122 meters to target.

A white-hot flash illuminated the tunnel, travelling like the strike of a lightning bolt. A trio of genestealers, two with lasguns and the third handling the heavy stubber, were unable to even feel a moment of pain as their existence ended in burning flames that seared them to charred corpses, still gripping their weapons. The one on the heavy stubber collapsed, dragging the stubber down with it, tearing a vicious line through the rockrete walls as stubber rounds erratically fired away, until the charred fingers snapped off and crumbled into ash. The Spartan was still running.

Five seconds had passed. 112 meters to target.

Another leap by the Spartan, this time twisting in the air like an acrobat to avoid the trajectories of yet more autogun rounds as well as bringing its heavy feet around to absorb the energy of its jump, internal hover engines firing for just a moment to reduce its weight. It crouched against the ceiling, almost as though gravity had reversed, then pushed, striking downwards like a meteor, just as a lascannon shot melted the spot on the ceiling where it had 'landed'.

Six seconds had passed. 105 meters to target.

It skidded across the ground, using its engines once more, not to slow down, but to accelerate into a roll, letting the back of the armor take the brunt of a las shot, continuing the roll and bringing its arm with the plasma pistol up again. Another flash erupted from the barrel and, this time, the drone operating the heavy stubber turned to ash, as well as an unfortunate drone that had been too close. Even as that drone collapsed, another had gone to take up the lascannon.

Seven seconds had passed. 94 meters to target.

Second by second, the Spartan closed on its target. Another four shots of plasma cooked each drone seeking to operate their heavier equipment, before the continuous use threatened to overheat the weapon. Some shots struck the Spartan, but far more were evaded with efficient movements that would have been beyond the ability of any mere mortal. Meanwhile, those rare shots that made contact either had their kinetic energy devoured by the conversion field or were like water against the powered armor.

Eight seconds, 84 meters. Nine seconds, 72 meters. Ten seconds, 61 meters. Eleven seconds, 51 meters. Twelve seconds, 43 meters. Thirteen seconds, 31 meters. Fourteen seconds, 20 meters. Fifteen seconds, 9 meters.

Sixteen seconds. Target Reached.

The Spartan leapt upwards, carried over the barricade by inhuman strength, the plasma pistol fastened once more to its side as it descended towards the first foe. The genestealer hybrid, likely of the fourth generation of their reproductive cycle given its more human appearance, roared as it revved a chainblade in its hand, screaming a wordless prayer to a god that would have devoured this world if given the chance. It swung the brutish weapon towards the Spartan, well within reach now.

The Spartan ducked low and rushed forward in a crouch. Like a lightning bolt, its arm lanced out and speared the genestealer through the chest, breaking through flesh and bone with raw power. The next genestealer, a drone using the butt of its autogun as a club, rushed forward, only to have its swing intercepted by the screaming hybrid as it was wrenched bodily between the new attacker and the Spartan. Bone crunched and the hybrid fell silent, its skull slightly crumpled in as blood spewed from its nose and mouth.

The Spartan ripped its gore-covered arm out of the hybrid, just in time to catch the descending club of another genestealer, who wielded it one-handed while its other hand fiddled with the pin of a frag grenade. Reaching forward, the Spartan crushed the hand of the genestealer around the grenade, ripping it away and tearing off the genestealer's hand to do it, pulling the pin in the same motion. The grenade disappeared, along with the hand, further into the tunnel, exploding and taking several genestealers with it.

More came at the Spartan and more fell in a series of lightning blows, each strike and even the slightest movements calculated by a mind powerful enough to view even this fast-paced fight as though it were occurring in water, moments slowed to their utmost.

The Spartan did not limit itself to mere hand-to-hand combat, however. It took the weapons of its kills, using them for as long as they were needed, then discarding them, often in a violent enough manner to acquire a replacement.

The genestealer horde was numerous, but it was far from endless. This static defense had only a limited number to defend it, after all. There'd been no need for more, or so it had been thought.

The Brood Mind had thought wrong. In the end, there wasn't even a need for the Spartan to turn to the only weapon it had actually brought along with it in the coffin.

Prototype Faux-Mjolnir Mk.0 was the full title given to the armor by Vidriov. Tide could respect the Tech-Priest's admittance that this suit wasn't quite like the armor it was based off of, hence the 'Faux' part of the name. It was still Imperial technology inside it, after all, and the appearance was more like a hybridization of MJOLNIR and a regular suit of Imperial power armor, with much of it taken from the Inquisitor's armor. The only completely new piece, in fact, was the helmet.

However, Vidriov had spared nothing in this armor's creation. And, as Tide brought more Tech-Priests into the fold and they learned of the project, many were interested in contributing certain rare technologies they'd had hoarded away that could prove useful in such a set of armor. The Mechanicus was certainly a very reclusive organization, one that wasn't normally so prone to sharing. It was not lost on Tide that the majority of those who parted with their treasures and 'sacred' artifacts were of the half who considered him to be, in some way, divine.

Vidriov had initially been planning on having a power pack on the back of the armor, as was the norm, but one of the artifacts had solved that. It was a rare piece of archaeotech in the form of a miniaturized power generator that could replace the entire pack and even extend its total operating time. Tide had reluctantly allowed its installation, as such a device could be quite useful if reverse engineered. He had only accepted it because its owner had absolutely refused to part with it for any other reason than to contribute it to the creation of a 'sacred armor' brought by the supposed Chosen of the Machine God. Fanatics could be quite stubborn.

That, and he was aware that at least four other power generators of similar capabilities were on Monstrum that he could give to those tech-priests more willing to take things apart to learn from them. It was not a pressing issue and it allowed for a higher performance from the prototype, so he didn't mind too much.

What do you think of its performance?

Around thirty tech-priests, each contributors of varying degrees to the project with Vidriov at the lead, resided within his Domain, watching and analyzing the Mk.0 as it figuratively and literally ripped the Genestealer drones a new one.

The tech-priests communicated silently with one another. It wasn't through the noosphere, as that system simply didn't exist within this place. Instead, Tide acted in its role, allowing them to have that semblance of normalcy.

"It will not always be so effective," Vidriov determined, acting as the voice of the group. Given his role in the project, it was fitting. That had been the thought of the rest of the tech-priests, anyways. "You cannot always expect to provide such an amount of your processing capabilities to a single unit in the future."

Of course. Nor do I intend to. This was merely a means to test the armor's capabilities with a Flood-form operator to their fullest.

"Of course," Vidriov said, bowing. Around half of the other tech-priests followed suit, while the other half, which had notably chosen to group together and give themselves a bit of distance from the others, did not.

"A question," Another voice spoke up, one from the irreligious group. While Tide technically had a final say over how a person looked within his Domain, as well as virtually everything else in this place, Tide had chosen to let these tech-priests decide how they appeared. Most simply chose how they looked in the Materium, while Sathar chose the form Tide had initially had him appear here in, seeing it as almost a holy blessing or something. Not this one, however. Not Logis Sathar.

They wore the red robes of the priesthood still and they maintained a vague humanoid shape, but Sathar's real body still had scraps of flesh visible, bits and pieces that Tide knew they loathed. Secretly, Sathar deeply wished to cast off the human form entirely and while they had not chosen to appear as what they truly wished to be in Tide's Domain, there were signs.

In place of two legs were four, arrayed like a spider's, each well-armored enough that they looked like they could withstand autocannon fire. The torso was a reactor with an exposed core that burned with the fury of a sun, topped by a mechanical head that was spider-like with all the sensor bulbs that covered it. Their arms were certainly human, though Tide knew each contained enough weaponry to level a hab block contained within each of them.

In that last part, at least, Sathar was like the others. All of them had included vastly greater quantities of hidden weaponry in the forms they'd chosen to appear here in, more than was practical or even necessarily possible had they been in the Materium.

There was no reason. Rather, every tech-priest's reasoning was 'why not?' even after Tide had explained to all of them that there was no point in having such an excessive amount of firepower when their bodies were essentially illusions here made for convenience.

He really shouldn't have been surprised.

Ask away.

"What purpose does this prototype serve? Especially now that so many rare components that we lack the means to recreate have been contributed to its crafting? We will not be able to mass produce such armors or even have limited numbers of them if we cannot find such rare technologies."

"The creation is divinely inspired, Sathar!" Vidriov cried, as though astonished his fellow tech-priest could even say such a thing. "That alone is reason enough! It is not for us to question the Machine God's Chosen."

Excellent questions, Sathar. While the original desire to create the armor was Vidriov's own, I did support and encourage it. I did so because I wished to have an idea of what was feasible. While mass production of any form of power armor is presently impossible for us, we do possess an abundance of already created sets.

It took a moment before any of them realized what he meant. It was neither Vidriov or Sathar who understood first, but Logis Calarn, highest ranking tech-priest of the Order of the Cleansing Rains.

"You intend to convert the Sororitas' Wargear into Faux-Mjolnir sets like this one?" He asked, bringing the rest of the tech-priests up to speed. Tide found it privately amusing at the use of the word 'convert' in such a context.

Yes and no. The bulk of the Sororitas or, rather, their minds currently reside here, in my Domain, as I teach them to remember their own humanity and the humanity of others. As such, they have no need of their wargear. Before that, however, I intend to make use of those sets given up by many in their Order before they even left Deimos for war.

"The Sisters Repentia," Calarn said. He shook his head. "Why anyone would give up armor created by the grace of the Omnissiah is beyond me."

Nonetheless, we shall take advantage of their choice. I have already secured the gear and begun its transportation. Roughly a hundred, in total.

There was a quiet ripple of awe and excitement through the gathered tech-priests.

Each of you will receive a set to work upon personally, as gratitude for your contributions. Modify them, take them apart, I only ask that you seek to learn all you can from them and share that knowledge between yourselves freely.

That had certainly gotten their attention. Power armor was one of the most sacred forms of technology by the Mechanicus' reckoning. Few on Monstrum got to work on such things and even someone as senior as Calarn had never been given free reign over a set. It was probably asking a bit for them to actually share any findings, but it wasn't like they could hide such things from Tide in any case.

The rest of the armor sets will be utilized in a collective effort, both as a means of understanding and enhancing the technologies within them. I hope it will allow us to create a design that is not only powerful, but one that can be produced within Monstrum's factories.

Tide was well-aware of the fact that what he was saying would have been heretical – heretekal? – in most Mechanicus circles. However, these were the individuals he had cherry picked from thousands of Monstrum's tech-priests and their subordinates, not only for their intelligence and capability, but also for their willingness to push the boundaries of their doctrines, if not outright discard them. While they might have disagreed with one another on the exact nature of his supposed divinity or lack thereof, not a single one of them considered the fact that what they were doing would be seen as wrong by others as anything more than a reason to maintain secrecy.

I will deliver each of you your suits to wherever you wish in the coming days. However, I intend to have the ones for our collective use be sent to Deimos' underhive. I have an… idea I wish to try. One that could ensure none of you are endangered by our search for knowledge.

It would be wrong to say the Brood Mind resided within the Genestealer Patriarch itself. That missed the key point of a hive mind. Rather, the Patriarch was the central node in a vast network that had once spanned a quarter of this world and more, both the leading voice of a choir and its conductor.

True, that was insignificant compared to the incomprehensibly vast size of the God Mind's own power, which spanned the space between whole galaxies. However, it was still larger than what the Brood Mind had been reduced to. A single hive city. No, not even that.

Whatever had been growing within the hive spires had continued to expand outwards, like a bubble of disruption. The Brood Mind had been forced to abandon hastily prepared defenses near the towers, fourth and fifth lines that were being readied against the ongoing invasion of the Enemy. It had lost scores of drones to the phenomena and been forced to put them down like feral beasts.

Fortunately, the bulk of the Brood Mind's forces remained far away from the strange occurrence, safe in the defenses it had constructed within the tunnel to Enyo. For now, anyways. The Patriarch itself was there, behind the heaviest of weapons. It wasn't accurate to say the Patriarch was the Brood Mind itself, but it was definitely the most valuable component, the piece the Brood Mind couldn't afford to lose or risk dissolution.

That fate seemed to be increasingly likely, however. Despite the strange change in tactics by the Enemy, it was only slightly slower in its onslaught and push into the hive. The Enemy did not seem aware of the location of the bulk of the Brood Mind's forces, instead opting for a general push everywhere into the hive, particularly towards the spires.

There was a possibility that whatever had disrupted the Brood Mind in the spires would do the same to the Enemy. The Brood Mind desired such an outcome with an alien feeling that its drones interpreted as both hope and fear.

The Brood Mind considered its Patriarch for a moment. As long as it survived, there was the possibility of contacting the God Mind, once the Warp Storm fell. Would the defenses it had be enough?

It already knew the answer to that question. The Patriarch rose to its feet and a pack of purestrain genestealers rose with it. It could not flee to Enyo. It could not flee to Mania. And it could not stay in Whiro. The wilderness then. But could it survive out there, on its own? Perhaps. But it would need food and it didn't know how much there was out there.

Hence the purestrains. They would provide sufficient biomass until such a time as the Warp Storm subsided.

They had to.