Neoth leaned closer to the dying subject, the thick odor of antiseptics and hot metal settling around him. Tubes coiled from the table's edge into the subject's arms and chest. Pale light from overhead lamps glinted off steel trays, each crowded with scalpels and syringes. The subject heaved once, and a ragged sound rattled in its throat. Blood bubbled at the corners of its mouth. The displays around Neoth pulsed with readouts detailing every organ spasm, every failing vital sign.
He set a hand against the subject's flank, feeling the tremor of muscles fighting to remain alive. The experiment had lasted nearly five and a half minutes—longer than the last one, which seized in under four. Its neural pathways had shown promise at first, a fleeting surge in responsiveness and reflex times. Yet those results collapsed when the brain tissue began its irreversible breakdown. He watched red foam spill over the subject's lips, its body jerking once more, and then growing still. A final burst of data scrolled across a console.
Neoth reached for a battered recorder and murmured his observations: "Subject Three-Seven fails under combined neural and cardiovascular strain. Conclusion: neural augmentation remains inefficient, leading to compromised brain function."
He clicked the recorder off and pressed a switch on the console, silencing the monitors. The hiss of the air scrubbers filled the sudden quiet.
He straightened, wiping spatters of dark fluid from his gloves with a piece of cloth. A row of sealed tanks along the wall hummed steadily, each containing partial successes or partial horrors, depending on one's view. He shook his head, recalling the vision of the future he had laid out for himself: half a thousand Thunder Warriors produced in a year's time from grown adult stock. The idea held promise, but each day's experimentation revealed new complications. The gene-crafting alone was precarious. Artificial organs refused to cooperate, leaving the body riddled with tumors and failures. Mad fits, violent proliferations of cells, spines twisted by sudden growth spurts. The blood stabilizer remained his greatest obstacle, the elusive puzzle piece that would unite these unnatural augmentations.
He turned toward the sealed exit, its edges lined with faint copper wiring. Behind it lay the rest of his facilities, the labs and the data archives, the corridors leading to places best left unremarked. A soft beep signaled the approach of someone on the other side. The door slid open with a pressurized sigh. Neoth did not turn. He already knew who stepped inside; he had known since before dawn.
Yordan, his ever-present attendant and one of the very few souls who might see behind the curtain of Neoth's ambitions–alongside Neoth's partners, of course, who were busy with their own projects, though they all worked towards a singular goal. Erda with the Primarch Project and Astarte with the aptly named Astartes program, the soldiers who–in time–will replace the Thunder Warriors.
"What news?" Neoth said, gaze still on the dead form on the table.
Yordan halted a few steps behind him. "Our scouts report that the tribe of the Golden Bull can no longer pledge their allegiance."
Neoth stared at the console readouts, lips in a tight line, though his voice remained steady. The tribe's leader, Akhatun, had pledged himself, his sons, and his warriors to the cause of the Great Revelation. Neoth had intended to use many of those warriors for the Thunder Warrior project, prime stock for the kind of body that could endure these augmentations. The tribe of the Golden Bull had healthier-than-normal citizens. Their male specimens were as close to ideal as Neoth could hope for–minimal cancer from the ambient radiation, somewhat healthy, and moderately sane.
He tapped his gloved fingers against the console, the dull clack echoing in the sterile chamber.
"And why is that?" he asked.
"Their stronghold has been decimated," Yordan said. "Destroyed to the last structure. No survivors. At least, not ones that stayed behind to try and rebuild. The cause remains unknown. There were no traces of explosives used. No corpses either. Not a single trace of life–former or otherwise."
Neoth glanced at the subject's lifeless face, its eyes wide, clouded by final pain. He gestured for an assistant to begin clearing the table. Tubes and restraints retracted, leaving the body limp on the blood-slick surface.
"That is certainly odd," Neoth said. The tribe of the Golden Bull was not particularly large or noteworthy, but its tribal stronghold held enough resources, like fresh water, that'd make abandoning it a foolish decision. They would not have abandoned it. Something killed them all and left no trace. Curious. Did the Urshites invent something new? No, it couldn't have been them. "Akhatun seemed resolute enough in his commitments."
Yordan stepped forward, careful not to let his robe drag through the pooling fluid. "The scouts found no trace of the tribe, even after searching the surrounding lands and territories. It was as if a great force swept over them, brought everything to ruin, and then vanished."
Neoth nodded and set his recorder aside. He had not foreseen this outcome in the threads of fate. He had not looked too closely, but it was strange that something so total could pass unnoticed. The tribe of the Golden Bull was not small. They boasted stout fighters, proud champions, a fortress once considered impenetrable–at least, compared to others of a similar magnitude.
He stood in silence a moment, letting the servo-skull remove the last of the hardware from the body. The hush in the chamber was broken only by the hiss of machines, the quiet hum of nutrient pumps behind the walls.
"So," he said at last, turning to face Yordan. "We will need replacements."
Yordan bowed slightly. "Yes, my lord."
Neoth studied his attendant's lined face, that subdued expression hinting at no surprise or alarm, just the facts.
"I suppose this changes little," Neoth said. "Time does not slow for the misfortune of one tribe, nor does it grant me the luxury of starting anew. The Thunder Warrior program remains our priority. There are always more tribes for me to recruit from. I mourn the loss of human life, truly, but that is neither here nor there."
Yordan shifted his weight and looked at the empty table where the subject had just expired. "Shall I prepare another subject, my lord?"
Neoth flexed his fingers, remembering the slight spark of potential in that now-dead form. Another set of lungs, another graft of artificial endocrine tissues, another short, vicious life. "Yes. We'll begin again at once. Log the data on the neural implants as a complete failure. We will not waste further effort on that aspect."
Yordan bowed again. "I'll see to it."
The door hissed shut behind him, leaving Neoth alone in the lab. He watched the servants drag the body into an alcove, where disposal mechanisms waited with silent efficiency. Soon, there would be no trace of the subject. He flicked through the data one more time, verifying the times of organ collapse, the moment at which the enhanced adrenal organ overloaded, the exact second the subject's bloodstream flooded with toxins.
The Thunder Warrior project demanded progress at any cost. Each life burned away brought him closer to the final blueprint, the day when his Thunder Warriors would finally rise from the ashes of the old world to conquer the new, unstoppable in battle and loyal to his cause. They'd be temporary measures, of course. Astarte's Astartes Program promised greater strides in the creation of more stable super soldiers, though its final results relied heavily on Erda's own Primarch Program–his and Erda's.
He looked at the empty gurney, its metal surface streaked with smears of red. His mind returned to the destroyed fortress, to the abrupt silence left by the tribe of the Golden Bull. That puzzle would have to wait. There were few weapons capable of such power. One such weapon, close to home, was his own flesh and blood, Samael, the Angel–his angel, the blueprint upon which the Primarch Program hinged.
However, Samael was a child at the moment and, while certainly capable of reducing cities to dust, had been with Malcador every single day for the last few days, learning to control his power.
So, it could not have been Samael.
A Psyker of immense potency, perhaps? Unlikely, Neoth would've felt the psychic backlash.
Curious.
But also not at all uncommon.
After all, there were hundreds of stories about tribes and villages and small cities suddenly disappearing overnight. What happened with the tribe of the Golden Bull was not at all a unique occurrence, just that this one struck him directly.
Neoth's eyes narrowed for a moment, before he shrugged. He'd send Malcador to look into it personally and figure out what happened. It warranted such a response, at least.
For now, the future of his Thunder Warriors took precedence. The fate of entire tribes meant nothing if he could not solve the final riddle of the blood stabilizer, if he could not tame the chaos of uncontrolled mutations.
Neoth pulled off his gloves and cast them into an incinerator chute. He returned to the console and readied it for another trial. With each experiment, he believed he stood one step closer to forging the unstoppable army he envisioned, the one that would bring about the unification of Terra–his home. Idly, Neoth wondered just how many of them still remembered Terra's old name.
In the corridors beyond, Yordan would bring the next subject, leading them through the shadowed halls. The door would hiss open again, and the cycle would continue until they had an army, or until time and the grave consumed them all. After the second subject, he turned to Yordan. "I believe we're done for the day. Thank you for your assistance. You may go. I have no further tasks for you. Return here tomorrow."
Yordan bowed and strode from the chamber. A short time later, Malcador entered, robes trailing across the polished floor. He paused near the threshold, inclining his head. The overhead lights revealed strands of gray at his temples, and a faint scar crossing his brow. He carried the weight of many duties on his shoulders, though he moved with a careful poise.
"Revelation," Malcador said. "I've examined the anomaly that consumed the tribe of the Golden Bull. I took the liberty of doing so in advance, since I expected you to dispatch me anyway."
Neoth was seated by a wide slate console, readouts and diagrams still flickering after the latest experiment. He glanced over his shoulder.
"Old friend," he said, "it's good to have you here. I trust you employed your wards for the search?"
Malcador inclined his head again. "Of course. I've long kept watch over any who might prove useful to our cause. My wards were set within the tribe's hold, though they yielded little once the devastation began. My instruments confirm that every man, woman, and child is lost. Not even a whisper of their souls remains. The entire stronghold was erased in a single night."
Neoth set aside a data-slate. He looked at Malcador and tapped the edge of the console with measured strokes. "And you are certain no echo persists? Perhaps buried in the warp or hidden behind wards of another craft?"
Malcador shifted, sliding a small talisman from the sleeve of his robe. Its surface bore faint inscriptions, wards that resonated with an unseen power.
"They're truly gone," he said. "My wards detected no lingering presence, no final cry for aid. Nothing but silence."
Neoth nodded once, turning his gaze to the far wall where servants toiled in quiet labor.
"That," he began, "is quite concerning. There are precious few entities that can devour a soul entire. I have felt no daemonic presence in these parts. If something else stalks Terra with that kind of hunger…"
He let his words trail away.
Malcador joined him at the console, tapping a finger against an active glyph. "I considered Chronomancy to unweave this mystery—go back and see what happened, if only for a fleeting moment. But I suspect you already know the risks. The energy requirements alone would draw every predator within range, warp-born or otherwise. And we both know who else might take notice."
Neoth allowed a thin exhalation. "The God King of Ursh has eyes and ears everywhere. If our Chronomancy stirs the warp, he'll catch the scent. My legions are not yet forged. I will not give him a reason to march."
Malcador studied the console's readouts, scanning lines of data that flickered in pulses of dull light.
"Wise," he said. "We can set wards as a precaution and leave the rest untouched for now. Perhaps the culprit will reveal itself in time."
Neoth reached for a small orb resting by the console, turning it in his hand as though measuring its weight.
"Yes," he said. "We have enough concerns in these halls. The Thunder Warrior project demands every resource. I cannot risk tangling with a force that devours entire tribes."
Malcador clasped his hands behind his back. His eyes lingered on the surrounding machinery, the tubes and canisters that lined the walls. He took one last glance at the readouts.
"Then we watch," he said. "And we wait. I'll strengthen what wards remain to keep any stray horrors from slipping into our midst."
Neoth laid the orb aside. He regarded Malcador with a silent nod, then turned back to his console. The low hum of the lab's power conduits filled the space, punctuated by the clink of servitors shifting equipment. Malcador inclined his head once more, then walked out, his footsteps fading beyond the doorway.
AN: Chapter 87 is out on (Pat)reon!