Gene-seed

The Gothic-class cruiser Star Guardian, flagship of the Howard Dynasty.

Three Astartes in silver-grey power armour strode through its corridors, followed by over a hundred servitors pushing fifty iron boxes shaped like coffins.

A Trade Representative led the three Astartes and the hundred servitors through the ship, heading toward the flagship's reception hall.

The portly middle-aged Trade Representative glanced back at the three Astartes as he guided them, still uneasy. Though they had surrendered their Bolter Guns and Chainswords upon boarding, they refused to give up the Monomolecular Combat Knives at their waists, and the Apothecary even declined to remove the "medical" device on his arm.

Even though permission had been granted after consulting Apate Howard, master of the Howard Family, the Trade Representative remained unsettled.

Bare-handed Space Marines were dangerous enough, yet their master had allowed them to keep knives. What if they suddenly lashed out? But the master had agreed in an instant over the comms, leaving him no choice but to acquiesce.

As far as he could recall, no one on a first-time trade had ever been permitted to carry weapons, let alone these heretical Astartes. The master placed far too much trust in them.

The Trade Representative sighed. At least the servitors transporting the goods were his own, which offered some reassurance.

The group crossed a corridor and entered the reception hall, and the atmosphere instantly diverged from the starship's passageways. A high ceiling was adorned with intricate wooden beams, inlaid with golden patterns and carvings. Paintings depicting wars among the stars hung on the walls, each worth a fortune.

A massive fireplace dominated most of one wall, decorated with sculptures and complex stonework. Wood burned within, casting warm flames that heated the room. The fireplace actually burned wood—utterly primitive—yet the air carried a refreshing, distinctive fragrance that made it seem worthwhile.

At the center stood precious wooden sofas and tables, cushioned with soft silk. Plates on the table, equipped with heat preservation and sterilization functions, held various delicious pastries and fruits. A nearby wine cabinet displayed rows of fine liquors, ready for guests to choose freely.

Not a single item in the room could be imagined by residents of a mid-level hive city, and even some planetary nobles would never enjoy such luxury in their lifetimes.

But the true centerpiece of the room was a young man in ornate attire, a Power Sword and Bolter Pistol at his waist. His crisp uniform was decorated with intricate honor sashes, and pale golden hair fell behind his back.

This young man appeared to be in his twenties, at least in appearance.

He smiled, revealing eight perfect teeth:

"Greetings, esteemed Forged Steel Lord. Welcome to the Howard Family's flagship. Please, make yourself at home."

Peter kept his face stern as he spoke the pleasantries:

"Thank you for your hospitality, master of the Howard Dynasty."

Peter sat down heavily on the wooden sofa. His power armour and massive weight pressed down, yet the wooden frame held.

He took a bottle of golden liquor from the cabinet and opened the cap with his bare hand.

Peter took a small sip, activating the taste-monitoring nerves in his body. This modified organ allowed a Space Marine to detect whether an item was edible, whether it contained poison, and whether the toxin was within acceptable limits.

Of course, this ability wasn't absolute. Organizations like the Inquisition and the Assassinorum always developed lethal toxins capable of deceiving taste-monitoring nerves.

Sensing no poison, Peter casually pulled two more bottles from the cabinet and handed them to his brothers behind him.

The Trade Representative standing nearby felt a pang of pain in his heart. Damn it, he knew how to pick—three of the most expensive bottles at once.

Peter held the precious liquor in his hand, ignoring the crystal glasses nearby, and drank straight from the bottle like beer:

"Lord Apate Howard, we've brought the goods. Fifty wild psykers captured from the Eye of Terror, sleeping in suspension pods outside."

"But I must warn you, these psykers come from inside the Eye of Terror. They're unstable and can never become Battle Psykers or Astropaths."

Still wearing his professional smile, Apate Howard replied politely:

"Thank you for the warning. No matter. Psykers are needed in many places. Some Planetary Governors need cheap psykers to offset their Tithe, Forge Worlds need unfamiliar genetic material to enrich their psyker cultivation devices, and some sorcerers need their own kind as consumables. Someone will always want them."

Peter pressed slightly:

"And our goods?"

Apate Howard nodded to the Trade Representative. The fat man moved like a nimble ball, soon returning with two servitors carrying a container.

Dioscorides stepped forward directly to open and inspect it. After a series of professional checks, he concluded:

"Forty Gene-seeds in total. Viability is decent. Some show minor mutations, but within acceptable range."

The Apothecary looked up at the Rogue Trader:

"Do you have the lineage records for these Gene-seeds?"

Apate Howard spread his hands:

"These were all traded from the Dark Eldar. Regrettably, those torturers don't bother keeping records."

Peter nodded and said:

"Connections with the Dark Eldar, even trading with traitors like us—it seems your business is doing well, sir."

Apate Howard chuckled lightly, appearing so easygoing:

"To be honest, this trade with you was a loss for me. You'll have to favor us with more business in the future."

Peter swallowed the last mouthful of liquor and set down the bottle:

"You merchants all say that. Since the deal is done, we'll take our leave."

With that, Peter stood, and the three turned to depart.

On the way back to the Blackrock, the internal comms carried the Apothecary's voice:

"Lord, it's incredible. Fifty unstable psykers caught in the Eye of Terror for forty Gene-seeds. I may not know the market well, but I know we came out ahead."

Peter strode toward the landing pad and replied:

"I know this trade was a bit off, but we desperately need these Gene-seeds right now. I asked the Rogue Trader about it, and he said he wanted to leave a good impression, to lay the groundwork for more deals in the future."

"Dioscorides, regardless, we have the seeds now. Inspect them thoroughly, and only implant them into the Neophytes once you're certain there are no issues."

The Apothecary nodded in reply:

"As you command, Forged Steel Lord."

Even as he gave this order to the Apothecary, Peter still felt something odd about the matter. As for exactly what was wrong? He couldn't quite figure it out.

But no matter—Gene-seed from different lineages did indeed bring variations among battle-brothers, yet this was by no means decisive.

Filon was a prime example. Though as their Lord, Peter truly wanted to punch that bastard's front teeth in, he would still unhesitatingly take a bullet for the man, and fight tooth and nail to retrieve his corpse if he fell in battle.