"I was born and raised on Tera, beneath the golden shadow of the Emperor and his transhuman warriors," The Astartes said, eyes unfocused. "I fought and lived fiercely and, in time, I was recruited into the War Hounds Legion. We were sent out to conquer world after world, in campaigns that spanned hundreds of solar systems. You will forgive me, Lord Primarch, if I know little of how the Imperium is run or its history; I can tell you, however, how it conducts its wars. I was a warrior – a butcher, a killer. Nothing more."
Argall's eyes narrowed. The Astartes referred to him as a 'Lord Primarch'. He had no idea what that title meant or why the creature thought it belonged to him. They'd certainly never met before. And the title... Argall had never heard of it before – not once in all the history books he'd seen, read, and collected from the Scrapyards. The addition of the word 'Lord' meant that the title was important, even within the Imperium or, at the very least, within the ranks of this creature's legion. Very interesting. Argall knew that he wasn't entirely human and that, more than likely, he'd been bio-engineered for some great purpose that he was not yet aware of. His mind raced, a thousand thoughts appearing, a thousand branching possibilities considered, until he arrived at a single conclusion about a moment later.
And his eyes widened.
A Primarch was a general of some kind, meant to lead a legion of Astartes. Angron, the leader of these creatures, was a Primarch. Because, despite what Admiral Jadan might believe, no insane brute, no matter how strong, could possible lead and organize an entire Empire, especially an interstellar one. Therefore, this Angron fellow was likely just a leader, a very important figure, perhaps, but was not the leader of the Imperium, likely not even a governor of anything. So, his best guess was that Primarchs were, in essence, generals.
Interesting. He wasn't entirely sure what to feel about that, honestly. But it made the most sense. A quick review of the Astartes' genetic makeup, a piece of information that was already within Argall's mind, confirmed his suspicions. Though very distant, it appeared that tiny parts of them were, in fact, related, which meant the means with which an Astartes was created was through some form of genetic implantation, using the genes of a Primarch. In this case, Teleron's Primarch was Angron and many of his genes likely came from Angron.
"Tell me more about Angron," Argall said. "Tell me how your legion conducts its wars."
Teleron huffed and almost chuckled. "There is no grant strategy, no planning – nothing. That wild beast sends us down and we conduct slaughter. We raze and kill entire worlds, killing every last member of the population before moving on. Our rabid animal of a Primarch joins us in these butcheries. Many of my brothers, including Angron himself, prefer the usage of melee instruments in war. There is not much to say, in truth, Lord Primarch. Angron is a rabid dog and acts like one; he forced these nails into our heads to force us to act like him, stripped of reason and mercy, stripped of all that made us human. My brothers became little more than feral animals. My memories of what came after the surgery are... hazy and I've forgotten many of the things that happened before."
Argall nodded. That the World Eaters preferred melee was not too surprising; all the anger, surging through their system couldn't possibly contribute to shooting accurately. "Yeah, that aligns well with the reports I've received. You don't remember anything. Alas, you're useless. But, I must know; what exactly is a Primarch? You call me Lord Primarch as though that is a title that belongs to me. I can only make conjectures, but no more than that."
Teleron gave him an odd look, before shrugging. "I know little, in truth. But, I know that a Primarch is a son of the Emperor, gene-forged to perfection, meant to lead a legion of Astartes to conquer the stars in his name. But, for one reason or another, the Primarchs were scattered across the cosmos, deposited in random worlds. The Emperor seeks them out... he seeks you out."
Argall raised a brow. "How incredibly dramatic."
Teleron's expression hardened. "You jest, but it is true. The Emperor's gaze is vast and unyielding. If you are a Primarch, he will find you. He will demand your loyalty, and he will use you to further his conquests. Resistance is... futile."
Argall smirked. "We'll see about that. Now, tell me more about the Imperium's military structure. I need details, Teleron, not vague allusions to an omnipotent Emperor."
It was nice, Argall mused, to find that his captive seemed all too willing to talk.
Teleron's eyes flickered with curiosity. There was no defiance in his gaze. It seemed that, Argall mused, the Astartes held no real loyalty for the Imperium. And, based on Teleron's story, the lack of loyalty was quite understandable, really. In fact, Argall would be surprised if Teleron held any sort of loyalty towards the Imperium at all, considering all he'd suffered for in their name. "Like I said, Lord Primarch; I know little. And, even then, all I know comes from my time as a War Hound, before Angron. And that was... almost a lifetime ago. The number of legionnaires and ships will have been altered, alongside secret codes and protocols."
"Outdated," Argall nodded. It was entirely possible that, given the degeneration of his mind, Teleron would have absolutely no idea what was going on around him before the effects of the nails were canceled out. What a poor fellow. Already, Argall no longer saw the Astartes as just a creature, but a broken man, who once fought for something he believed in, before his leader twisted him into something monstrous, something rabid and bloodthirsty, turning him into little more than an animal. And he did become an animal. Before Argall countered the effects of the nails, Teleron was about as lucid as a rabid rodent. "I suppose that makes sense. All that you know now would essentially be outdated by now. What can you tell me, then, Teleron."
"They will offer you no quarter – no mercy. No terms will be given. They expect full and complete subservience and assimilation. Offer them, then, no mercy and no quarter, in turn. Do not hesitate. Do not bother with such pleasantries as honor. The World Eaters will wage total war upon your... nation. You must be ready, Lord Primarch, to make use of all that you have if you wish to remain independent." Teleron's eyes dimmed. Argall figured the combination of the nails and the counter-device were frying up the Astartes' neurons, gradually shutting down his brain. "And, if you can... please, kill Angron. That wild beast deserves nothing but death. So many worlds... so many lives lost... because of him."
The Astartes' eyes darkened and his features drooped and loosened, skin becoming deathly pale and dry. Teleron's brain had shut down entirely, Argall noted, having sustained too much damage. If he tried – if he wanted to – he could've probably come up with a way to save the Astartes' life. But, honestly, he didn't care enough to do that. And, if his understanding of the... man was even remotely close to the truth, then Teleron wished for death more than anything else. To force him to live seemed like the crueler option, honestly. Besides, Argall had taken all that he could from Teleron anyway. The man was useless.
Sighing, Argall gave a mental command to have the Astartes dissected and thoroughly studied. If the genes of one of his apparent siblings, something Argall found oddly exciting, was to be found within the flesh of Teleron, then it was only right that his cadaver be carved open and examined in its entirety, in and out. Besides, by definition, Teleron was superhuman and many of the organs he possessed were entirely different from what Argall himself had concocted for his Enhanced Soldiers – of course, the ordinary citizenry had no need for redundant organs. But the differences in development and design were interesting enough to warrant a closer look. Of course, his machines would do that for him; the World Eaters would notice, soon enough, that they lost one of their ships.
War was looming over the horizon.
With a sigh, Argall turned and walked away. This little interrogation bore little fruit – at least, no fruit that'd aid their war effort. He knew now that he apparently had siblings and if Teleron's warning was any indication, he would have to kill one of them as quickly as possible. That was an interesting thing. No, not siblings, but mere biological relatives. The only sibling he had was Syreen, that old bitch who still refused to take rejuvenation treatment and was rapidly aging into a giant brown grasshopper like an idiot. His watch started beeping. Frowning, Argall looked down.
"Ah," He'd almost forgotten about his lunch date with said fool and her grandchildren. He thought of it for a moment and figured two hours of family time wouldn't hurt. After all, if he did not attend to his personal life every now and then, then there really wasn't anything worth fighting for in the end; his father taught him that. And, ultimately, he trusted his people well enough to manage things by themselves – at least, for now, when the war was just at its skirmishing stage. They had a plan and it was a good plan: lure the Imperium into dead space and engage in asymmetrical warfare, keeping them from ever using their gargantuan, lumbering vessels and preventing their massive, infantry-based armies from ever making a difference. His people did not need his direct guidance for such a simple plan. "I wonder what I should cook for lunch..."
Some secrets, Jadan seethed, were better left buried and forgotten – dark deeds done from the greater good. She understood that well enough, actually. The Volimar Republic was a democracy, but she could never have made the claim that her beloved former-government had not engaged in clandestine operations, committed grievous crimes, for the good of the people, for the sake of peace. Things that were done for the sake of the greater good. She understood that and she accepted it. Jadan herself had done... many things she'd rather forget about, things that would've been considered crimes if brought before the Volimari Court of Law, but were necessary acts regardless.
Some secrets had to remain buried.
The supposed cure that'd been administered to the Volimari People, her people, in the beginning of their assimilation into the Hyperborean Nation, now the Hyperborean Collective to honor the presence of the Volimari Culture, hadn't been just that. Lord Chancellor Argall claimed that it was a cure for all diseases, genetic or otherwise and he'd been telling the truth. Her people were now immune to disease – immune to cancer, to viruses. They could live full and healthy lives and never have to worry about pathogens ever again.
What Argall did not tell anyone, something she discovered only now, was that the supposed cure had a secondary function.
Hyperboreans were not... entirely human – not quite. In the simplest of terms, they were better – stronger, faster, more resilient, barely aging, and smarter. They were more resistant to radiation, possessed nigh-indestructible bones, and near-infinite stamina. And these were just civilians, ordinary people who lived relatively ordinary lives, possessing physical and genetic enhancements that placed them firmly above an Astartes in terms of biological complexity and efficiency. Quite literally, a Hyperborean's physiology was so freakishly robust that they could survive for a whole month without sustenance for as long as there was water. And all these traits were coded into their very genetics, ensuring that their offspring would be born superhuman.
And Argall etched all these genetic enhancements into her people, without their knowledge, without their consent. When the new generation of Volimari were eventually born, they would be physically identical to the Hyperboreans – a new race of humans, far better than their ancestors. Jadan only found out about this because, quite literally, being an admiral granted her access to pretty much every single classified document, one of which detailed the very same plans that led to the forced evolution of the Volimari.
A part of her was appalled, of course, as – for better or for worse – people, human beings, should retain the final word on what was to be done with their bodies, their genetics. But then, from a more logical, rational, and pragmatic perspective, Jadan couldn't really see a single downside to this. Because, no matter how much she tried to come up with a counter-argument, the tangible benefits of Argall's actions far outweighed the ethical costs. And, ultimately, her people would never know until it far far in the future when it simply no longer mattered. Some secrets, indeed, needed to remain buried.
Breathing in, Jadan stepped forward and was ushered into the Hyperborean War Council by a soldier in Power Armor. "Announcing the presence of Reserve Admiral Jadan Nkash!"
Now, it was time to wage war. Now, it was time for vengeance
AN: Chapter 39 is out on (Pat)reon!