Three rounds of drinks had come and gone, and the base hall thrummed with energy. Voices rose and fell in overlapping conversations, punctuated by bursts of laughter that echoed off the metal walls. The air hung thick with the mingled scents of roasted meat, spilled wine, and machine oil, a strange but somehow fitting combination for this particular gathering.
For everyone present, whose metabolic rates exceeded ordinary humans by several times or even dozens of times over, this was merely the opening act.
The servo skull Raditus circled endlessly around one-armed Old John and Connors, its anti-gravity engine humming like an agitated insect. Round and round it went, bobbing and weaving through the air with the persistence of a fly that refused to be shooed away. Its mechanical voice crackled with evangelical fervor as it pitched its robotic arm modification plans to the two disabled men, over and over, adjusting its arguments with each new orbit.
Connors' face had flushed a deep red, whether from alcohol or frustration was anyone's guess. His words tumbled out in an eloquent torrent as he marshaled his considerable biological expertise against Reditus's exaggerated, mechanistic worldview. He gestured emphatically with his single arm, ticking off point after point about the harmful effects and side effects of mechanical modification on the human body, the risks to nervous system integration, the psychological toll of feeling one's own flesh replaced by cold metal.
Naturally, this provoked an immediate counterattack from the servo skull.
The intellectual battlefield between tech-priest and biologist erupted into fierce, bloody conflict, each volley of arguments met with increasingly heated rebuttals. The skull's eye-lenses flared with indignant red light as it defended the purity and superiority of the machine.
Old John stood off to the side, watching the spectacle unfold with quiet interest. Something in Raditus's proposals had caught his attention, stirred something in his thoughts. But he also noticed the acrid smell of gunpowder building between Connors and the servo skull, saw how their voices grew sharper with each exchange. He made a mental note to find time later to approach Raditus alone, discuss the transformation plan when cooler heads could prevail.
In another corner of the base hall, David stood upon a metal platform, his slightly stooped frame shifting as he tended to his work. Before him, a massive barbecue grill blazed with hot charcoal, waves of heat rippling up from the glowing embers.
Several-inch-thick Grox steaks sizzled on the grill, their surfaces crisping under David's precise attention. Fat rendered from the meat, dripping onto the coals with sharp hisses and sending up small flares of flame. The rich, savory aroma filled that entire section of the hall, drawing people like a beacon.
David worked with methodical efficiency, flipping each steak at precisely calculated intervals. The moment one reached perfect doneness, he transferred it to a waiting plate and distributed it to the people who had been standing around in anticipation, their mouths watering.
Every person who tasted the Grox steak gave David an enthusiastic thumbs up, their faces lighting up with genuine appreciation. Whether they were praising the meat quality itself or David's barbecue skills, refined down to the millimeter in temperature and timing, was difficult to say. Likely both.
Not far from David's grilling station, Bucky stood with a solemn expression, waving away the gang dogs who had clustered around him. "Back up, give me some room," he said, his voice cutting through their excited chatter.
They retreated a few steps, and Bucky reached down with his mechanical arm, lifting a flamethrower filled with promethium. The weapon felt heavy in his grip, the fuel sloshing slightly inside. He aimed it at a pile of antbull cans stacked on the metal floor and squeezed the trigger.
Liquid fire roared forth in a brilliant stream, bathing the cans in scorching heat that would reduce human tissue to ash in seconds.
What happened next drew gasps from every gang dog watching.
The cans began to shake. Not a gentle rattle, but a violent, frenzied trembling that made them clatter against each other like chattering teeth. From inside the tightly sealed containers came sharp, high-pitched hissing sounds that seemed to reverberate through the metal itself, an awful chittering screech that set teeth on edge.
Whatever was inside those cans, it definitely wasn't dead meat. Something in there writhed and thrashed with terrifying vitality, fighting against the searing heat with desperate, primal fury.
Bucky threw his head back and laughed, still holding the flamethrower's trigger down, clearly delighted by the horrified expressions around him.
At the metal round table, Nolan paused mid-chew, a piece of Grox steak still in his mouth. He turned his head toward the small commotion, watched Bucky's demonstration with mild amusement. A slow smile spread across his face as he shook his head.
"Haha, young people just don't know enough," he murmured, returning his attention to his meal.
Soon after, a muscular gang dog approached the round table, gripping a glass full of wine with both hands. His movements were stiff with nerves, and he cleared his throat twice before speaking.
"My lord," he began, his voice wavering slightly. He launched into an earnest declaration of loyalty, the words tumbling out in a rehearsed rush. Then, with visible care, he raised his wine glass toward Nolan, his palm slightly trembling.
Nolan's smile remained warm and genuine. Without hesitation, he set down his knife and fork, picked up his own glass, and clinked it firmly against the gang dog's. They both drank deeply, draining their glasses in a single pull.
The sharp-tasting wine burned its way down Nolan's throat, and as the warmth spread through his chest, his mind turned over, processing. After a moment, recognition clicked into place. This was Franky, someone he'd met long ago, back when things were different.
Franky's face lit up like a sunrise when Nolan spoke his name. The realization that Nolan actually remembered him, a nobody, a foot soldier among hundreds, rendered him nearly speechless. He stammered, tried to form words, failed, tried again.
Nolan didn't find it particularly surprising that he'd remembered. He simply had a knack for faces and names, filed them away without much effort. He kept his expression gentle, asking after Franky's family situation with genuine interest, how his wife was doing, whether his kids were healthy. He offered a few words of encouragement, spoken with easy sincerity, then brought the conversation to a natural close.
Franky walked away with a smile that could have powered the base lights, and Nolan returned to attacking the food before him with renewed vigor.
There seemed to be a pattern emerging. With each successive Astartes transformation surgery, his already formidable appetite continued to climb higher. He could put away enough food to feed a squad now, and still feel the edge of hunger.
Approximately six hours later, the banquet finally wound down to its conclusion.
The drunken crowd dispersed gradually, weaving their way back to their respective territories with unsteady gaits and loud farewells. The base hall, so recently alive with noise and energy, settled into relative quiet.
David's eyes flickered with steady blue light as he directed the automatic servo robots in their cleanup duties. The machines rolled across the metal floor, scrubbing at oil stains and gathering fallen scraps of food and other debris.
Even the well-trained gang dogs had done their best to keep things reasonably clean during the celebration, but accidents were inevitable with this many people and that much alcohol.
Black scorch marks marred the floor where Bucky had used his flamethrower on the antbull cans, the metal permanently discolored by the intense heat. In one corner, a small puddle marked where Connors had succumbed to his body's reaction to excessive drinking, his biological system staging a firm rejection of the alcohol.
Nolan passed by David on his way out, a heavy book tucked under his arm. He paused long enough to offer a greeting and his sincere thanks for David's considerable efforts in making the entire banquet run smoothly.
David inclined his head in acknowledgment, and Nolan continued on with a contented smile, heading back to his private lounge to resume his reading and writing.
"What did you say? Raditus told you that the power fist I sent was lost?"
Nolan's eyes snapped open. He'd been lying on his metal bed, absorbed in a particularly engaging section about the complicated affair between a Rogue Trader and an Aeldari from a Craftworld. The book fell closed as he sat up abruptly, his full attention now fixed on the situation at hand.
He stared at David, who stood before him delivering this unexpected report, and his brow furrowed with genuine confusion.
"David, can you explain to me what 'lost' means in this context?" Nolan asked, his voice carefully measured. "If Raditus accidentally broke the power fist during research, I wouldn't say anything. After all, it's for our work. But you wouldn't come to me with such a poor excuse to cover for a simple accident, would you?"
"My lord, I am equally puzzled by this development." David spread his metal palms in a gesture that might have been helplessness on a human. He shook his metal head slowly, the servos in his neck producing a faint whir.
The blue light in his eyes intensified as he met Nolan's gaze. "But according to the report Raditus provided, it appears the power fist was genuinely lost. Based on the testimony, I believe the sequence of events unfolded as follows."
David's posture straightened slightly, adopting the stance of someone about to deliver a detailed briefing.
"Just twenty-four hours ago, you obtained a power fist through your... 'miraculous' means. You chose to have an automatic servo robot deliver it directly to Raditus in the foundry."
"According to Raditus's testimony, it was deeply engaged in another extremely difficult research project at that moment. Following its established habits, it simply ordered the servo robot to wait nearby with the delivery."
"Under normal circumstances," David continued, his tone taking on the patient quality of someone explaining a familiar pattern, "this situation would persist until Raditus either completed its current project successfully or encountered an obstacle significant enough to force a pause. Only then would it gradually remember the other task it had temporarily forgotten."
"However, circumstances proved less than fortunate. News of your round table barbecue reached the foundry, and the ever-impetuous Raditus temporarily abandoned its research project to attend. It did notice the power fist at that point, but in its eagerness to join the celebration, it merely ordered the servo robot to place the item on the casting platform. Then it departed the workshop alone."
David paused, as if considering how to phrase the next part delicately.
"After the banquet concluded, Raditus intended to immediately begin studying the power fist. However, Old John intercepted it with questions about mechanical arm installation."
"Raditus, still emotionally charged from its extensive debate with the intoxicated Connors over the merits of biological versus mechanical modification, became animated once again. It launched into an enthusiastic sermon about the manifold benefits of mechanical augmentation."
"According to Raditus's own recollection, this... educational session lasted approximately forty minutes." David's tone suggested mild exasperation. "After Old John finally took his leave, Raditus returned to the foundry, fully intending to dismantle the power fist and study its internal structure."
"However..." David let the word hang in the air for a moment. "It could not locate the power fist on the casting platform. Despite conducting an increasingly frantic search of the entire workshop, turning over every piece of equipment and checking every corner, the power fist remained elusive."
"Eventually, Raditus overcame its fear of reporting lost equipment and chose to inform me of the situation. I, in turn, am reporting it to you immediately."
David crossed his metal palms in front of him, the gesture oddly formal. "My lord, this represents the complete chain of events leading to your power fist's disappearance. While my account includes some reasoning and conjecture to fill gaps in the timeline, I estimate the probability of this reconstruction matching actual events at approximately ninety-eight percent."
He tilted his head slightly, studying Nolan's deepening frown. "My lord, what are your thoughts? Do you require me to summon Raditus to provide its explanation personally?"
"Tsk." Nolan made a small sound of irritation, rising from the metal bed in a smooth motion. "David, I think looking for Raditus would be pointless. This matter likely has nothing to do with it. There's something you need to understand."
He began to pace, his massive frame moving with restless energy. "That power fist contains an ancient machine spirit. I suspect the damn thing is playing tricks on us."
Nolan drew a deep breath through his nose, his expression settling into something calmer but no less determined. He turned to face David squarely, his eyes narrowing with focus.
"Notify all personnel in the base. Summon every automatic servo robot as well. I want everyone mobilized immediately. And seal every entrance and exit of the entire base. Every single one."
A fierce grin spread across Nolan's face, revealing the sharp fangs that marked his transformation. He raised one thick arm and brought it down in a sharp, decisive gesture.
"I don't believe in this evil anymore. What kind of trouble can a power fist with a machine spirit actually cause? Can it really escape from this base?"
He twisted his neck left and right, producing small pops from his vertebrae, working out tension.
"Search. Even if we have to tear apart every section of this base piece by piece, you find that power fist for me."
"As you command, my lord."
David's eyes flickered with bright blue light as he processed the orders. He bowed his metal frame toward Nolan, whose expression remained distinctly unhappy, then turned to begin implementing the lockdown.