Chapter 27: The Implantation
A sharp sting in his arm. Alexios felt a cold liquid begin to flow. An intravenous drip.
The anesthetics were already working. The world blurred, and he felt his consciousness begin to slip away. He was half-awake, but the Apothecary's hands did not stop.
A stinging pain in his chest. A sharp blade, cutting flesh. His limbs, bound by heavy surgical restraints, were immovable. He couldn't even lift a finger.
Then came the high-pitched whine of a motor. He felt the vibration as the saw bit into bone. It was cutting his ribs. Will I... be missing a bone after this?
It was his last thought as the anesthesia took full hold.
Apothecary Dioscorides, flanked by medicae-servitors, carefully retracted the boy's ribcage. He clamped and severed the major arteries and veins connected to the boy's original heart.
"Secondary Heart," he commanded.
A servitor detached the organ—a fist-sized, throbbing mass cultivated from gene-seed—from its perfusion chamber. This was the first and most critical implant.
Dioscorides's hands were a blur as he sutured the new heart into the boy's circulatory system. He released the clamps. Blood surged into the implant, which pulsed, then drove the blood into the original heart. The two organs throbbed out of sync for a moment, then settled into a single, powerful, unified rhythm.
A perfect connection. But this was the easy part. Dioscorides had practiced this minor surgery countless times on slaves.
The hard part was rejection.
Even with perfect genetic compatibility and a body optimized for implantation, gene-seed was a dark mystery. It was terrifyingly common for a neophyte to have a "perfect" surgery, only to die days later from a violent, unforeseen mutation or a catastrophic rejection of the new organs.
Dioscorides used surgical bone-pins to secure the ribs back in place. He would have to saw them open again for the next surgery, and the next, until all the thoracic implants were complete. He closed the wound with a surgical stapler. The first implantation was done.
Now, he would administer the immunosuppressants. And he would pray. There were seventeen more procedures to go.
After finishing his last surgery for the day, Dioscorides finally felt a wave of relief. But his work was not over. He now had to monitor the neophytes' vitals for the next 72 hours. Without sleep.
If any of the implants showed signs of failure, he would have to harvest the organ, even if it meant killing the aspirant. The organ was more precious than the boy.
He walked to the cultivation lab. The chamber was filled with humming amniotic vats. Hearts beat in the fluid. Pairs of augmetic ears floated, trailing nutrient tubes. In the largest tanks, massive, black, plastic-like sheets drifted in the gloom, waiting. The Black Carapace.
Dioscorides was on edge. If a single organ from a set failed, the entire set was compromised. Organs cultivated from the same gene-seed had the highest chance of success in a single host. Losing a minor implant was acceptable. Losing a major one, like the Secondary Heart or the Carapace, was a catastrophic failure.
There was, of course, a 'solution'—"kitbashing" a new set from the "spare parts" of two different failed sets. It was a terrible, desperate idea. Not only would the neophyte's body reject the organs, the organs themselves would reject each other. It was a last resort, and one that almost always ended in a painful death.
So far, at least, it hadn't come to that.
Dioscorides was a novice, his "training" a rushed affair from the Dark Mechanicum, not a true Apothecarion. The pressure was immense. As he checked the diagnostic monitors, he saw the anomalies.
"This set," he muttered, "the Omophagea is overactive. That's not good."
"This set... the Sus-an Membrane and the Betcher's Gland are completely dormant. They might not even function post-implantation."
"This one has... a mutation. Some kind of animal gene-splice? Or just warp-taint."
"This set... this one looks stable. The Larraman's Organ even has a minor... possibly benign... mutation."
"And this one... it failed to cultivate a Multi-lung at all. Mutation levels are borderline-critical."
It was his first time doing this for real. The gene-seed stocks were a chaotic mess, nothing like the simulations. He finally, truly understood what the Magos Biologis had meant: 'Data is for reference only.' He just had to follow the procedures and hope.
"By the Forge," he sighed. "I just hope this batch makes it. Who knows when we'll get another."
He pulled a case of immunosuppressants from a refrigeration unit and handed it to a nearby servitor.
"Take this to the refectory. Add it to the neophytes' rations. The dosages are marked on the vials."
The servitor wheeled away.
Dioscorides collapsed into a recliner, his eyes glued to the bank of vital-sign monitors. He reached over and grabbed a bottle of expensive wine. This was one major benefit of the Maelstrom over the Eye of Terror: fresh, normal food and drink.
The mortals claimed this particular vintage was made from the finest grapes, stomped by the bare feet of young maidens. He couldn't taste the difference, but as the masters of this planet, they deserved the best.
He popped the cork, chugged a few large gulps straight from the bottle, and returned to his long watch.