Chapter 15: The Gene-Seed
On the Stellar Guardian, a Gothic-class Cruiser and flagship of the Howard Dynasty, three Astartes in gunmetal-grey power armor strode through its corridors. Behind them, a procession of over a hundred servitors pushed fifty large, casket-like iron chests.
A portly, middle-aged trade representative guided them toward the flagship's main reception chamber, casting another nervous glance over his shoulder.
When they had boarded, the Astartes had surrendered their boltguns and chainswords as a sign of "good faith." However, they had refused to part with the mono-knives at their hips, and the Apothecary had flatly refused to uncouple the complex "medical" wargear on his arm.
The representative had voxed the Master of the Dynasty, Apathes Howard, himself. To his shock, the Master had instantly granted the request. A bare-fisted Astartes was dangerous enough, but the Master had allowed them to keep their blades. What if they went berserk? No other first-time client had ever been granted such a privilege—especially not heretics. The Master was being far too trusting.
He sighed. At least the servitors hauling the cargo were his... a small comfort.
They passed through a bulkhead and the environment changed instantly. The high ceiling was adorned with complex, dark wooden beams, inlaid with golden filigree and carvings. The walls were hung with numerous priceless works of art depicting stellar wars. A massive fireplace, decorated with intricate stone carvings, dominated one wall. It was burning actual wood, emitting a pleasant, fragrant smoke—an almost unbelievable luxury.
In the center of the room, couches and tables of rare, dark wood were set with soft, silk-wrapped cushions. Trays, equipped with stasis-fields and sterilization-runes, held delicate pastries and exotic fruits. A nearby cabinet displayed rows of rare vintages for the guests' selection.
Any single object in this room was beyond the comprehension of a mid-hive dweller; even the nobles of some worlds would never see such wealth.
But the true center of the room was the young man in opulent attire. He wore a power sword and a bolt pistol at his hip, his crisp uniform heavily decorated with honorific ribbons. Pale golden hair hung straight down his back. He looked to be in his twenties, though he was certainly far older.
The young man smiled, a perfect, practiced smile.
"Greetings, esteemed Lord of the Forged. Welcome to the flagship of the Howard Dynasty. Please, make yourselves comfortable."
Petros, his face a stone mask, returned the pleasantry. "We thank you for your hospitality, Lord Howard."
He sat heavily on the wooden couch. His armor and weight would have shattered normal furniture, but this rare-wood frame held. He reached over to the cabinet, pulled a bottle of golden liquid, and tore the cap off with his gauntleted hand.
He took a small sip, activating his Neuroglottis. The implant allowed him to detect the chemical makeup of anything he tasted, identifying poisons or contaminants. It wasn't infallible; the Inquisition and the Officio Assassinorum had both developed toxins that could fool even an Astartes's senses.
Detecting no immediate threat, Petros grabbed two more bottles and tossed them to his brothers standing behind him.
The trade representative winced. Damn it. He picked the three most expensive vintages.
Petros ignored the crystal goblets on the table, drinking straight from the bottle like a common trooper.
"Lord Apathes Howard, we have brought the merchandise. Fifty wild psykers, captured from the Eye of Terror. They are currently in the stasis-caskets your servitors are holding."
He took another drink. "A warning: these are from the Eye. They are... unstable. They will never be suitable as Astropaths or Battle Psykers."
Howard's professional smile never wavered. "Thank you for the candor, my Lord, but it is of no concern. Many clients need psykers. Planetary Governors looking to meet their tithes on the cheap. Forge Worlds in need of... 'genetic stock' for their breeder-vats. And some sorcerers require... 'consumables' for their rituals. They will sell."
Petros set the bottle down. "Our payment?"
Howard nodded to his trade representative. The portly man moved with surprising speed, returning with two servitors who carried a heavy, reinforced stasis-case.
Dioscorides, the Apothecary, stepped forward and opened the case. He activated the diagnostic tools on his arm, scanning the contents. After a moment, he looked up.
"A total of forty gene-seed glands. Viability is high. Some minor mutation, but... within acceptable parameters."
The Apothecary looked at the Rogue Trader. "Do you have the lineage-data?"
Apathes Howard gave a theatrical shrug. "They came from the Drukhari, I'm afraid. And those sadists don't keep records."
Petros grunted. "Dealings with the Drukhari. And with traitors like me. Your business, it seems, is thriving, Lord-Captain."
Howard laughed, a light, easy sound. "Honestly, my Lord, I'm taking a loss on this deal. I'm just hoping you'll remember the Howard Dynasty for your future... needs."
Petros finished the last of the wine and stood. "That's what all merchants say. The transaction is complete. We are leaving."
The three Astartes turned and strode from the room.
As they marched back to their lander, the Apothecary's voice came over their internal vox.
"My Lord, it's incredible. Fifty unstable psykers for forty gene-seeds. Even I know that is a lopsided trade. We've made a killing."
Petros marched on, his heavy boots striking the deck. "I know the trade is... unbalanced," he replied. "But we need the seed. I questioned him on it. He claimed he wanted to leave a 'good impression' to foster future trade."
"Dioscorides, whatever his motives, the glands are ours. You will run every diagnostic. Twice. Confirm their stability before any are implanted."
"As you command, Lord of the Forged."
Despite his words, Petros felt a knot of unease. Something was wrong, but he couldn't place it.
Still, it didn't matter. Different gene-stocks would create... variations... in the new brothers, but that was not a weakness. Phelon was proof of that.
Petros thought of his Warpsmith, and a grimace formed under his helmet. As much as he wanted to punch the fool in the mouth most days, he knew he would take a bolt for him without hesitation. And he would fight to the last to reclaim his body.