Herald of the Stars: Chapter Two Hundred and Eighty-Five

Odhran stares up at me and hands over a dataslate, “The data you requested, Magos. Farewell.”

He and his brothers march away in perfect sync without the customary salute to a superior officer.

Oh boy, I really went off on one there.

I receive a message over vox from my bodyguards, “Magos, would you like me to call Alpia over?”

My bodyguards have standing orders to call my wife or daughter when they think I am acting out of character and need help. It’s a little embarrassing to be called out on my fragile mind. At the same time, mistakes from me tend to have catastrophic consequences and following my own policies sets a good example, so I consider the embarrassment worth it. 

Some might argue that showing weakness is a bad thing. I think making an effort to fix it is an act of courage. I bet Rósín, my reckless apprentice, put that in her book of Iron Foundation quotes. The thought makes me smile.

“Please do.”

“Magos, we are watching the Astartes through the noosphere. They have become adept at keeping us out of the armour, but we still have a few tricks. Care to listen in? It may offer a much needed perspective.”

The officers and soldiers of my Close Protection Companies are trained by Bedwyr Keane to keep chat to a minimum. Not because I don’t like to talk to them, or they’re boring people, but to give the few words and suggestions they speak weight in my mind. 

The idea being that, if they think I need to hurry along and shut up, I’ll actually pay attention. It keeps me safer and makes their job easier. Being stronger and faster than all of them, isn’t the point. I’m not invincible and can be brought down by sufficient numbers and heavy weaponry, an unpleasant reality that has been thrust in my face over and over again.

There are a few cheeky Heralds among them who are less good at remaining quiet and serious, yet the point remains. That polite suggestion to listen in, something I typically make a point of not doing to the Astartes, is worth breaking the illusion of privacy I like to provide my allies.

I vox, “Point the way.”

A noosphere connection appears in my mind and I activate it. A low resolution image, compiled from many sources, unfolds within my thoughts.

The Astartes are heading back to their Thunderhawk at the docks. Odhran is more stomping than marching, looking even more stone faced than usual. Humans and the occasional small vehicle are quick to pull up and get out of the way as the Astartes waltz along a main thoroughfare, utterly uncaring that they’re the ones in everybody else's way.

Commerce is brought to a halt as everyone stares at the Astartes. Some hide, some kneel, others bow and pray. The Astartes look like they’re not really paying attention, but the hidden cameras on their mechadendrites, swaying above their heads, suggests otherwise.

Vox signals fly back and forth between them as the Astartes sub-vocalise their conversation. The signals are low power and encrypted. In a less built environment, they would be perfectly secure. 

However, just about everything the Mechanicus builds is connected to the noosphere in some way. The strong lights above the street, the ventilation, the lasguns carried by Obsidian Emporial’s street patrols, and so on. 

Not all devices are smart, or even record what they pass on. Most devices can, at minimum, bounce a signal to a device that does log data, even if it is temporary. As their allies and tech-support, we have the Astartes’ encryption keys. There is no need to hack their armour or communications when less secure devices are picking up their signals and passing them on to us. 

It’s not the terrible security breach one might assume. These low powered signals get jumbled up in all the noise, are well disguised, and quickly turn to static. My Warforged bodyguards know exactly what to look for though and can make requests to surrounding devices for their snippets of data, cross reference and reassemble the Astartes vox signals, then decrypt them. They make the task look easy, but it really isn’t and takes a massive amount of cogitator cycles and specialised Machine-Spirits to pull it off.

My Close Protection Company may, or may not have totally stolen a few tricks from the Tau, Killovie Signi, Logis Vakul, and the Inquisition.

Odhran voxes, “You were out of line with that last comment, Eoghan.”

“Oh, lighten up Commander. You got what you wanted. Magos Issengrund is as free of corruption as ever after his little jaunt through the Warp. Not what you were expecting, eh?”

“He strolled across an entire system in an undersuit and a pink dressing gown. He is as brave as he is reckless and mad” voxes Odhran. “We had to check. Chapter Masters orders and I can’t fault them. No one else has the chops to confront Aldrich, or a relic bolt pistol to pull off an execution. Chapter Master Lir still finds Aldrich too good to be true and, even now, I find his friendly disposition and extensive knowledge improbable. He knows far more than he lets on, even when he has no way of knowing it.”

“Back to Aldrich again is he?” voxes Eoghan. “Was pissing off the man who pays for our plasma and amino porridge really the best way to go about it? All the navigators think he’s a shard of the Emperor or some such rubbish. There’s obviously some truth to it; Magos Issengrund takes his protections seriously, someone like that isn’t going to be disturbed by a brief walk.”

“It was necessary. His recent mutation, and his inability to cure it when he is known for such things, shows how close he came to falling. In addition, his mind is currently vulnerable after one to many close brushes with death. He can’t shrug it off like we do, nor has he abandoned his emotions like most Magi. Aldrich was already a major target. Now he’s a weakened one. 

“Something happened between him and Quaani. The Librarian who investigated the wreckage suffered a severe haemorrhage, then burst into flames. Aldrich would not object if he knew my goal, but I can’t tell him or testing his temper would not work.”

Eoghan rolls his shoulders, then voxes, “I won’t deny that he’s a bit stressed and losing his touch. He went on a massive rant before confirming you refused to send any Battle Brother to that precious meeting of his, assuming that no Chaplain meant non-compliance. 

“On the other hand, if I’d given up a piece of myself to bring someone back to life, gave them all the explosions an Astartes could ever dream of, then thought they were shirking their duties, they’d be getting bedtime stories from a Commissar. That he only chewed you out and stuck to his values shows Magos Issengrund is as mild as ever. We even got an impromptu sermon out of it. Despite his injuries, obvious or otherwise, his faith hasn’t wavered in the slightest. You can’t fake that kind of spontaneous zeal. No Daemon could spout those lines without a hint of disdain.”

“Indeed!” A measure of pride enters Odhran’s voice, “I am pleased to see that Aldrich has not lost his fire. He’s the same over-educated idiot I rescued from the Tyranids all those years ago.”

“Then why do you look so grumpy?”

“I had hoped that, now I am a Force Commander, I could avoid getting yelled at like a Neophyte; even when I’m performing my duties to the letter, there is still fault to be found. It is as unpleasant as I remember.”

All four of Odhran’s brothers laugh at that, startling everyone who's watching them. They’ve no idea why four Astartes are laughing around a grumpy Force Commander, if they can even tell the difference in rank that is, and quickly take cover. The Astartes ignore them and their conversation changes to funeral arrangements and the best colours and stitches to use on the funeral shrouds they weave and burn with their dead.

I drop out of the noosphere link, happy that I haven’t created a rift between myself and my allies. I am both concerned and pleased that the Astartes have access to a bolt pistol that can bypass any armour and has the potential to slay a Princepts while they’re piloting a Titan. 

Once again, I am hit with the stark difference in culture. Apparently laying down your life for your friends in this cursed galaxy means letting them shoot you.

I am not surprised that the Barghests investigated the site where the Emperor and Tzeentch battled for Quaani’s soul and destroyed my Warp Tap in the crossfire. I’m glad that the Astartes think I am a bit odd and possess extensive, unusual knowledge. That’s exactly what a Tech-Priest is supposed to be, especially a Magos Explorator; my status and qualifications remain unchallenged despite Odhran being one of the few people who could call it into question as he knows I stole my qualifications from my predecessor on Distant Sun. 

I suspect that Odhran has dismissed my theft as Mechanicus politics, one that isn’t worth getting involved in when I have demonstrated I can back up my claims multiple times.

Connecting to the general channel my bodyguards use, I vox, “Good work. I appreciate the heads-up.”

“Acknowledged, Magos. Surveillance will continue. Saint Alpia has agreed to join you on your shopping trip.”

“Excellent.”

I wonder if retail therapy counts when one has the knowledge or tools to create whatever they wish? It’s probably why everyone gives me self-made, hand-crafted trinkets, or tea and biscuits for Sanguinala. I must be an absolute nightmare to acquire gifts for. Nebulous gifts, such as ideas and historical value are too tricky to pull off most of the time with how much we travel. It’s not like my family and friends can purchase Imperial and xenos relics with a casual stroll... I pontificate while planning to do exactly that.

One of my Servitor snakes makes the dataslate Odhran gave me hover in front of me while another snake nudges the screen with its nose, scrolling through the information. Yes, I could download the information and parse it almost relatively instantly, but that would be a terrible idea when the Astartes are apparently Warp-bent on testing me. Reading it the old fashioned way is much safer.

There is far more critical information on the dataslate than I was expecting, making it doubly clear that Odhran really isn’t bothered by my rant. There are twenty-two unusual case studies for Astartes conversion, the general outline of how the Barghests usually go about conversion, and the extensive experiments they’re working on with JK-404, their own medical team, and the genetor sent by House Ortellius. They’ve even adapted some of my knowledge of souls and arcanotech implant limits.

Typically, when creating Space Marines, one takes geneseed, mixes it with stem cells taken from the subject, then exposes the mix to specific conditions and chemicals within a growth medium, triggering the production of one of nineteen different organs. These organs are implanted over six to eight years with a minimum of six different operations.

Space Wolves add their geneseed to the Cup of Wulfen, take a sip, then undergo the Test of Morkai before ever receiving their organs. The failures turn into Wulfen, rabid, two legged wolves. The rest return for implantation, often fighting with the Curse of Wulfen for their whole lives, hoping that they don’t turn. 

The Blood Angels perform their Insanguination ritual after receiving all of their organs, drinking from the Blood Chalice then spending a year in a coffin. Success means absorbing their Primarch’s cloned blood and a reduced chance of falling to the Red Thirst. The failures die during the procedure, their bodies unable to adapt, or emerge from their isolation stark raving mad.

The Barghest Chapter has an entirely different procedure for their Horn of Ghosts. Rather than waste their limited geneseed and expose it to further corruption, they take the hearts of dead marines and implant them, as well as a single Neuroglottis, rather than two, way ahead of schedule. The Neophyte then takes a drink from the liquid within the Horn of Ghosts. 

Thanks to the near instant transformative properties of the Horn of Ghosts, the neophyte ends up with two Astartes grade hearts and a re-jigged vascular system without having to spend hours setting up the new pipework manually. It also heals them up, ready for training and alters their brain, creating the psychic pack link they all have. 

The Neuroglottis also doubles up and, rather than spitting poison, fills with chemicals becoming the transformative bite that the Barghests keep secret. I don’t want to think about how many people died to figure all that out.

Should they survive the surgery, the Neophyte then undergoes the first of many chemical treatments that all Astartes must take for the entirety of their lives. If the Neophyte makes it to month three without expiring, they get their next two organs and the implantation procedure continues in the standard fashion, though recycled organs are still used if available. 

If the Neophyte dies during those three months, or at any other point, the Barghests recycle the organs and try again, increasing their stock of reserve organs in the process and wasting minimal geneseed. They recycle their organs as much as possible because every time someone drinks from the Horn of Ghosts, their geneseed degrades. However, it degrades at a far slower pace if the implanted organ has already been exposed to the Horn of Ghosts before. 

Aside from degradation, this initial improper procedure has another cost, killing 30% of the Neophytes, far higher losses than any other available records from other chapters.