Gene-seed

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

Three Astartes in silver-gray power armour strode through the ship, followed by more than a hundred Servitors pushing fifty coffin-like iron boxes.

The Trade Representative led the three Astartes and the hundred Servitors through the ship toward the flagship's reception room.

The potbellied, middle-aged Trade Representative glanced back at the three Astartes again as he led the way, still feeling uneasy. They had handed over their Bolter Guns and Chainswords when they boarded, but had refused to surrender the Monomolecular Combat Knives at their waists. Even the Apothecary had refused to remove the "medical" equipment on his arm.

He had asked the master of the Howard Family, Apate Howard, and been allowed to bring them along with his consent, but the Trade Representative still wasn't reassured.

Even unarmed Space Marines were dangerous enough, yet their master had allowed them to carry knives. What if they suddenly turned on them? But when he had contacted his master, the latter had agreed without hesitation. He could only accept it helplessly.

As far as he could remember, no one had ever been allowed to carry weapons on their first trade visit, let alone a group of Astartes who were heretics. Their master trusted them far too much.

The Trade Representative sighed. At least the Servitors transporting the goods belonged to his side, which made him feel a little better.

The group crossed the corridor and entered the reception room. In an instant, it felt entirely disconnected from the starship's corridors. The high ceiling was decorated with intricate wooden beams inlaid with golden patterns and carvings. Many artworks depicting wars among the stars hung on the walls, each one priceless.

A massive fireplace occupied most of one wall, decorated with sculptures and intricate stone carvings. Logs burned inside, their warm flames heating the room. The fireplace even burned wood—it was incredibly primitive. But the distinctive, pleasant fragrance filling the air made it seem worthwhile.

At the center of the room stood a precious wooden sofa and table, their cushions wrapped in soft silk. Plates equipped to keep food warm and sterilize it held an assortment of delicious pastries and fruit. Bottles of fine wine were neatly arranged in a nearby cabinet for guests to choose from.

The residents of a middle-level Hive City could not even imagine owning a single item in the room. Some planetary nobles would never enjoy such luxuries in their entire lives.

But the most important thing in the room was a young man dressed in splendid clothes. A Power Sword and Bolter Pistol hung at his waist. Ornate ribbons of honor adorned his immaculate uniform, and his long, pale-golden hair fell down his back.

The young man looked to be in his twenties, at least.

He smiled, showing eight perfectly even teeth.

"Greetings, esteemed Forged Steel Lord. Welcome aboard the flagship of the Howard Family. Please, sit and make yourself at home."

Peter kept a straight face as he exchanged the customary pleasantries.

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

Peter dropped onto the wooden sofa. Despite the weight of his Power Armour and his heavy body, the sofa held firm.

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

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

Of course, the ability wasn't foolproof. Organizations such as the Inquisition and the Assassinorum were always developing lethal poisons that could fool the taste-monitoring nerves.

It didn't seem poisonous, so Peter casually took two more bottles from the cabinet and handed them to the brothers behind him.

The Trade Representative standing nearby felt a pang of pain. Damn, he sure knew how to drink—he'd picked three of the most expensive bottles.

Holding the fine liquor, Peter ignored the crystal glasses set beside him and guzzled straight from the bottle as if he were drinking beer.

"Lord Apate Howard, we've brought the goods. Fifty wild Psykers captured in the Eye of Terror, all currently asleep in Suspension Pods outside."

"But I should warn you: these Psykers came from within the Eye of Terror. They're unstable and could never become Battle Psykers or Astropaths."

Still wearing his professional smile, Apate Howard replied politely:

"Thank you for the warning. It's no problem. Psykers are needed in many places. Some Planetary Governors need cheap Psykers to pay their Tithe. Forge Worlds need unfamiliar genetic material to enrich their Psyker-breeding apparatuses. And some sorcerers need their own kind as expendable materials. Someone will always need them."

Peter urged him along a little.

"What about the goods we asked for?"

Apate Howard nodded to the Trade Representative. The fat man rolled away with surprising agility, and soon returned with two Servitors carrying a cargo case.

Dioscorides went straight over and opened the case to inspect its contents. After a series of professional procedures, he reached his conclusion:

"Forty Gene-seed in total. Their viability is fairly good. Some show minor mutations, but they're within acceptable limits."

The Apothecary looked up and asked the Rogue Trader:

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

Apate Howard spread his hands.

"These were traded from the Dark Eldar. Unfortunately, those sadists don't keep records."

Peter nodded.

"You have dealings with the Dark Eldar and even trade with traitors like me. It seems your business is doing well, Lord Howard."

Apate Howard chuckled, looking entirely affable.

"To be honest, I'm taking a loss on this deal with you. You'll have to do more business with us in the future."

Peter swallowed the last of the liquor and set down the bottle.

"You merchants all say that. Now that the deal is done, we'll be leaving."

With that, Peter stood up, and the three of them turned to leave.

As they made their way back to Blackrock, the Apothecary's voice came over the internal comms.

"Lord, this is unbelievable. Fifty unstable Psykers captured in the Eye of Terror, exchanged for forty Gene-seed. I don't know much about the going rates, but even I can tell we came out way ahead."

Peter strode toward the landing pad and replied:

"I know this deal feels a little off, too, but we need these Gene-seed badly right now. I asked the Rogue Trader about it, and he said he wanted to make a good impression on us and lay the groundwork for more business in the future."

"Dioscorides, either way, we have the Gene-seed now. You'll need to inspect them repeatedly and make sure they're sound before implanting them in the Neophytes."

The Apothecary nodded.

"Understood, Forged Steel Lord."

Although he had given the Apothecary those orders, Peter still felt that something about this whole thing was off. What exactly was wrong? He couldn't put his finger on it.

But no matter. Gene-seed from different lineages did create differences among the battle-brothers, but those differences weren't decisive.

Filon was a good example. Although, as their Leader, Peter really wanted to punch the bastard in the teeth, he would also shield him from bullets without hesitation and fight tooth and nail to recover his body if he fell in battle.