Author's Note: For those interested, there are now eight advance chapters on P-atreon (remove the spaces and dash): p-atreon/ SkySage24.
The private facilities of the Emperor's Biotechnical Division were nothing less than a marvel.
Buried in the depths of what had once been called the Bai-heng hive but was now increasingly known simply as the Imperial Palace, the vast laboratories of the Biotechnical Division sprawled for a mile underground.
The security in the labs was among the highest in the entire Imperium, protected by blast doors that could withstand nuclear warheads, and guarded by members of the Emperor's Ten Thousand, not to mention the Lucifer Blacks that served Malcador. Of course, the Lucifer Blacks were not as powerful as the Custodes, but there were significantly more of them, and they had impressive augmentation, conceived in these very halls.
In stark contrast to the ostentatious decorations and gold that covered every inch of the public parts of the Imperial Palace, these facilities were scrupulously sterile, gleaming white in every direction.
There were humming power lines laid through every wall, and shimmering displays from holo-monoliths everywhere, depicting various images of the human body and its biological systems. There were tall tubes with men and women inside, suspended in shimmering green liquid, and at a glance, one could not say if the people inside were dead or alive.
Scientists in white coats clustered around the displays or various tables, discussing and arguing their work. There were subjects, both dead and alive, strapped to various, kept sedated as they were studied and considered.
This was the birthplace of the Thunder Warriors and of the Space Marine Legions, of every augmented soldier that had ever served the Imperium. The Emperor had conceived ideas for all of them, of course, and passed down basic designs to his servants, but the actual creation of those super soldiers had happened here. Only the Ten Thousand, each of whom had been personally augmented and altered by the Emperor, had undergone the process in the Emperor's private labs rather than here.
The Emperor visited this place, to be sure, to supervise, to give commands and suggest ideas so sublime that even the brightest minds of the Biotechnical Division were stunned by them. But for the most part, the actual work in these labs was left to the discretion of Amar Astarte, who had been among the Emperor's first recruits and perhaps the most brilliant.
Dressed in her white robes, with an emaciated shell concealing the fact that her internal organs all functioned flawlessly, Astarte drifted through the corridors of her domain like a ghost, even the most outspoken of her subordinates quieting as she passed.
Not out of fear. Astarte had neither the authority nor the inclination to have any of the scientists executed or removed from duty. She did of course reprimand them when they failed or stepped out of line, but higher punishments were the Emperor's purview. Not even Malcador had direct command over the Biotechnical Division, though he certainly had the Emperor's ear as he did in all other matters.
But in the end, despite his habit of delegating matters to subordinates to focus on matters of greater importance, the Emperor kept a closer eye on the Biotechnical Division than most.
Astarte wondered, sometimes, if that was because of his passion for genecrafting or because of how critical augmented soldiers were to his plans.
Both, most likely.
Most would have assumed that it was primarily the latter, but Astarte had known the Emperor long enough to notice that he had a certain passion for the biological sciences and gene engineering. He paid attention to them and seemed interested in the discoveries of the Biotechnical Division in a way that he was in few other things.
But then, perhaps that was merely an illusion he projected. For what purpose, Astarte could not say. The Emperor had always been enigmatic and private, and she would never claim to truly know him.
Only Malcador did, and perhaps Lady Isha, who seemed to share more of the Emperor's confidence than anyone could have imagined a xeno psyker would.
But that wasn't Astarte's place. She found Lady Isha intimidating and she wasn't sure how much she trusted the alien, but she wasn't an Imperial courtier to dwell on pointless gossip.
Astarte had chosen long ago to place her faith in the Imperium and the Emperor, not least because of Isha's work. After the Primarchs had been scattered, Astarte had harboured deep doubts about the Imperium and her place in it. She had been unconvinced the Primarchs ever lived, despite the Emperor's insistence. And beyond that, the Emperor had seemed intent that the Space Marines - named in her honour supposedly though she sometimes wondered how much of an honour it was - would be the foundation of his empire.
And Astarte had feared that the Space Marines without their Primarchs were only unstable weapons waiting to be misfired, ones that would turn on the Imperium, on humanity, in the end.
But Isha had provided a suite of tweaks, stabilizations and fixes to the Space Marine process that Astarte had not believed would exist.
And so, Astarte had put aside the plans of treason that had been whirling in the back of her mind and decided to see this through to the end.
She continued through the corridors at a brisk pace, passing by the various labs. She ignored the screaming of grown men and women as they were remade into Space Marines, the snarling of the monsters from the Ethnarchy from within their cages.
Astarte did make a note to reprimand one of the junior subordinates later as the smell of blood drifted out from one of the labs. They should have known to sterilize their work better.
But that was something to think about later. For the moment, Astarte passed into the deepest reaches of the facility, which were virtually abandoned, finally arriving in a narrow, private corridor at the end of which there was a room sealed with steel doors.
Astarte made her way to the door and pressed her hand against the palm scanner even as another sensor shone a light in her eye, which she endured without flinching.
Finally, the scan ended and the steel doors slid open to reveal the room inside.
The room was largely unremarkable: the same sterile white as the rest of the facility, with a cot in one corner with a small table next to it. There was an advanced cogitator opposite the cot, a wooden closet, a few steel shelves lined with books, and a small door leading to the bathroom.
It might have been better described as a cell than a room.
And the occupant of said cell was the man hunched over the cogitator's screen in a wheeled chair.
Basilio Fo wore the appearance of an old man and had taken to wearing the same uniform as a normal member of the Biotechnical Division: a white lab coat over a light blue shirt and pants.
Despite wrinkled skin, bald head and withered frame, Astarte knew it was just an illusion. He was just as old and helpless as she was, perhaps less so.
And as he stood at the sound of her footsteps, turning to her with piercing grey eyes that were as sharp and cold as ever, no one who had met him would ever mistake him for harmless.
"Director," Basilio inclined his head softly, speaking in the low, raspy voice of his that might have been difficult for Astarte to make out if she had not long ago augmented her hearing. "Time for our weekly check-up, then?"
His words were polite, but his voice was mocking, almost condescending.
Of course, condescension was nothing compared to what she knew he was capable of. Astarte did not use the term monster lightly, well aware of her crimes and atrocities, and those to whom she had pledged her service before the Emperor. The very facility Astarte currently stood in and the work ongoing there meant that she could hardly throw around the title monster at other people.
But her experiences meant that in a way, Astarte was qualified to truly understand what a monster was, and Fo fit that description in a way few others did.
Malcador, yes. Cardinal Tang. The worst of the Terran warlords.
Astarte might have counted the Emperor among them as well, not long ago. But he had always been difficult for her to read, and he had softened in recent years in a way that made her unsure if he truly belonged on that list.
But Basilio Fo most assuredly did.
"It is time," She agreed coolly. "What further progress have you made?"
Fo sat down on his cot, lounging almost insolently. "I went over your designs for the hypno-indoctrination. Impressive work, but I'm afraid I had several improvements to recommend."
Astarte didn't bother to respond, crossing the room to the cogitator and sitting down to review Fo's work.
She pulled up the relevant files, looked through them…and was forced to admit that Fo's improvements were all correct. He had systematically refined the hypno-indoctrination process, which would ensure that the Space Marines were more loyal than ever to the Emperor and Imperium.
She would have to dissect it piece by piece over the next few days, of course, to make sure there were no hidden traps or flaws. But there had been nothing in the previous work he had given her, and she doubted it be here either.
Yet, there was always that niggling doubt, the paranoia which had saved Astarte's life many, many times.
Basilio Fo surpassed Astarte in many ways, as loathe as she was to admit it.
He was not intellectually beyond her, of that Astarte was certain. She had an ego, one did not reach the heights she had without developing one, but she knew when someone was simply beyond her. The Emperor, Lady Isha…those were transcendental geniuses in a way that Astarte knew she could never hope to match.
Some of the Primarchs might be as well if any of them ever chose to specialize in bio-engineering. Astarte had enhanced herself in many ways, even her brain, but there were limits to the toll a human body could endure. The brain most of all, was too delicate for the sort of tampering that might even theoretically bring her up to the same level as an adult Primarch.
But Fo? The man's only edge over her was simple experience and age. He was centuries older than her, older than anyone she had ever met save Malcador and the Emperor (and possibly Isha, though Astarte remained unsure as to the alien's age.)
However, Astarte could not deny that edge was formidable. He had been creating armies of super soldiers before her grandparents were born, and he had plundered troves of knowledge all across Terra.
She was confident she could catch up to him given time, but that was time she didn't have.
And so she was reluctantly forced to work with him, unable to deny Malcador's insistence that he would be useful.
Truth be told, Astarte wasn't sure why Malcador and the Emperor were so keen on employing Fo. Undeniably brilliant as the man's work was, he was as far behind Lady Isha as anyone else in the Biotechnical Division.
Not that Astarte didn't have her suspicions, but that didn't mean she didn't find Fo utterly repugnant.
But she would catch up to him, she promised herself as she downloaded the files onto her wrist computer, at the same time adding new files to the cogitator.
Once she was finished, she stood, turning to look at Fo.
"I will see you next week," She informed him. "Your new assignment is on the cogitator. See to it."
"Of course, Director," Fo said, bowing his head, a barely hidden sneer in his voice.
Astarte merely gave him a cold look, before leaving.
Fo remained lounging upon his cot for several minutes more, before leaping to his feet with a grace that betrayed his appearance.
He made his way to the closet and opened it. Inside were several copies of his outfit, but he ignored it, instead pressing a hand against the back of the closet.
Hidden sensors read his DNA, and then the back of the closest slid open to reveal a passageway. Fo slipped in, the closet closing behind him.
Walking up the narrow stairs, Fo arrived at another door soon, pushing it open to arrive in his true dwellings.
An ostentatious suite awaited him, large and comfortable. There was a central chamber with a dining table, carpeted with lush white fur and the walls painted in silver, crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceilings. From the central chamber, there were several other rooms, including a luxurious bedroom, a well-stocked library and a large bath.
But for the moment, Fo only cared about the man sitting at his table.
Malcador the Sigillite sipped serenely from a glass of silver wine as Fo sat across from, glowering.
"How much longer must I maintain this facade, Malcador?" He snapped. "Having that upstart woman constantly peering over me, checking my work, daring to give me assignments…"
Malcador didn't respond, taking another long sip from his glass. Finally, Malcador lowered his glass before flicking a wrist.
The bottle on the table rose, moved by an invisible hand, pouring the shining silver liquid into a fresh glass.
Once the glass was half-full, it moved towards Fo while the bottle settled back into place.
"Drink with me," Malcador said softly.
Fo's scowl intensified. "I don't-"
"Drink," Malcador repeated a hint of steel in his voice.
Grimacing, Fo took a small sip from the glass. It was good, he had to admit. A finely brewed example of Albian hyperwine, a full glass capable of knocking him into an intoxicated state that would last days.
Malcador, the bastard, of course, seemed entirely unaffected. Fo had more than once wondered how true the rumours that Malcador had been alive since before the Old Night, that he had seen the fall of the Golden Age, really were.
It would certainly explain the hidden physical prowess he possessed, potent enough that even Fo was unsure how Malcador could have them despite his augmentations being effectively invisible.
But then, it also might just be some hidden sorcery that only the Sigillite knew.
One never knew with Malcador. It might be either, both or something else entirely.
"You knew this was going to happen when I explained the terms of your deal with me," Malcador said calmly, finally. "I can't conceal your existence from the Emperor entirely, so it is best if he believes you are working under Astarte's strict supervision. And he would never settle for assigning anyone who isn't Astarte as your supervisor, because he is well aware you can run rings around every other genewright in the Biotechnical Division."
Fox nodded, grudgingly accepting the compliment. "I am aware. But can't you do anything? I loathe having to spend time in that boring little cell."
Malcador simply raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Don't be spoiled. I arranged this suite for you, and the time in the cell is needed to maintain the illusion that you are a prisoner working tightly under Astarte's supervision. A few hours a week in there won't kill you."
Fo grumbled under his breath but didn't object further.
Truth be told, they had had this discussion before and Fo understood and even agreed with Malcador's reasoning. But his pride wouldn't allow him to accept all these conditions without at least a token show of grumbling.
"Now, onto the actual work," Malcador said. "How are the modifications to the Silver Knights project?"
"The hypno-indoctrination you want for your precious knights should be impossible without outright melting the subjects' brains," Fox said bluntly. "Impossible for anyone but me, of course. You should be grateful, without me, you'd need centuries to accomplish what you need," He added with a smug smile.
"You've done it, then?"
"Of course. I passed the final notes to dear Director Astarte just now. She just needs to finish reviewing them," He added somewhat contemptuously.
Malcador nodded calmly. "What of our other project?"
"That will take more time, but I am making steady progress. I should have solid results within five years, though I will need proper test subjects to verify my theories."
"Good," Malcador replied, steepling his fingers. "And that will be arranged, in due time."
Fo was briefly tempted to demand them now but squashed the urge. No need to test Malcador's patience further today.
"Anything else, my King?"
"No," Malcador replied. "You may go,"
Fo accepted the dismissal with bad grace, scowling, but obeyed, disappearing into the bath.
For a long moment, Malcador simply sat there, seemingly gazing at nothing. Then, opposite from him, at the end of the table, the air shimmered before a figure appeared.
The Emperor of Mankind sat in the chair, dressed in a simple white toga, sipping from his glass of hyperwine, albeit to fit in his hand, it was large it would have been considered a mug by most people.
"Fo remains as oblivious to your schemes as ever, I see," the Emperor observed. "I must applaud your cunning, Malcador."
The Sigillite smiled graciously. "You honour me, my friend. It is hardly one of my masterpieces, truth be told, but Fo is not as clever as he believes himself to be."
"Indeed," The Emperor agreed. "But he would never have consented to work for me willingly. I could have broken his will easily enough, but that would have been counterproductive. It might have shattered his mind. As long as he believes he is working with you against me in a secret scheme, that risk is avoided."
With another nod, the Emperor vanished in another shimmer of light, as if he had never been there at all.
Malcador sat for a moment longer. His scheme had worked, better than the Emperor knew. By telling the Emperor of almost everything of his plans involving Basilio, the Master of Mankind suspected nothing else.
He truly thought it was just a ploy to manipulate Fo into working for them.
And it was. Malcador had no intention of betraying the Emperor or going against him. His old friend would likely not understand if he knew the full plan, which was why Malcador had not told him.
But in the end, Malcador's plan was simply to stand shoulder to shoulder with the Emperor as an equal, to share at least some of his burden instead of forever running behind at a distance.
Only then would the Emperor truly heed his words and his warnings, instead of letting loneliness overwhelm him.