Captain Cole stood on the flight deck of the Frontier. He watched as three Thunderhawks flew in through the ship's pale blue void shields. Their vectoring engines spat flames as the gunships descended slowly, landing gear bracing heavily against the deck before the hydraulic systems brought them to a steady stop.
The Thunderhawks' ramps lowered slowly until they touched the deck. Cole glanced at Omega, who tilted his head in response. The captain turned back to watch four giants disembark, one of them carrying a claw—a Purestrain Genestealer's claw.
"Lancelot, care to tell me why you brought that thing back?" Cole asked, utterly exasperated. But the Knight of Caliban removed his winged helmet, beaming. "A trophy. The prize for winning our glorious contest."
"Bullshit. If I hadn't ripped off three of that bastard's arms, would you have one more head than me?" Ragnar grumbled. Clearly, he was furious about losing the contest, especially for such a ridiculous reason.
Lancelot still wore a bright smile. You'd never guess he was one of the Dark Angels, that enigmatic Space Marine Chapter whose members were all inscrutable and perpetually stern. Perhaps spending so much time with Vito had rubbed off on him.
As he spoke, Ragnar gave an awkward grin and held up his detached Chainaxe. Its chain had snapped and now dangled limply beneath the weapon. "Omega, take a look. I think I need a repair."
"This is the third time I've repaired your equipment in the past year, Ragnar. You need to adjust your tactics." Omega then looked at Lancelot. "And you. Your Bolter has sustained, significant damage."
Lancelot smiled and pulled out his Bolter, one side of which had been crushed inward. The two men who had just been competing were now commiserating like a pair of brothers in misfortune, arms around each other's shoulders as they erupted in thunderous laughter.
Cole sighed helplessly as the Stormtroopers disembarked from the other two Thunderhawks. Many were wounded, and their badly injured comrades were being helped across the deck toward the nearby infirmary. It was clear that some of the Stormtroopers were missing.
"Was the fighting fierce?" Cole asked. The steady Old Wolf, Olaf, gave a small nod. He walked past his two battered brothers and approached Cole and Omega. The towering giant crouched before them so they wouldn't have to crane their necks too far back.
"We encountered Purestrain Genestealers on the ground—dozens of them, including a massive specimen. Fortunately, we killed it."
"Ragnar shoved a Melta Bomb into its mouth. We lost several Stormtroopers before it blew, but in the end, we completely destroyed the site as the Inquisitor ordered."
Cole furrowed his brow, then turned to Omega. "Was that factory registered with the Adeptus Mechanicus?"
Olaf also looked at the Magos, who shook his head a few milliseconds later, apparently having finished checking the data. "No. According to the list of factories authorized by the Adeptus Mechanicus on Victoria Planet, the factory we struck is not listed."
"In fact, on my way to the Lower Hive, I encountered several factories that lacked Mechanicus authorization. This planet has a serious problem with technological heresy."
"You mean the planetary government has tolerated and protected a large number of illegal factories, despite knowing they're violating Mechanicus regulations?" "Yes."
Cole and Olaf exchanged glances. Then Cole sighed and folded his arms. "I think things on this planet are worse than we thought."
"They are. But for now, we can only trust that the Inquisitor has a plan. We need to finish our own work." Bell came up beside them. The giant in white armor held a canister of Crimson Essence, freshly refined and gleaming with purity.
Omega gave a small nod, then turned toward the hangar doors. "Come. We need to investigate."
Everyone followed him, including the two brothers in misfortune. They left the hangar, leaving the blue Thunderhawks in the care of the ground crew and Servitors for repairs and maintenance.
They traversed the ship's maze of long corridors and grand halls, eventually reaching the research area that everyone knew so well: Omega's private laboratory.
The shuttle was still there, its broken hull secured by several mechanical arms. Most of its components had apparently already been scanned and removed, leaving little more than scrap.
Cole and the three giants gathered before the holoprojector. Bell alone followed Omega to a nearby machine, a complex device covered in ports and scanning platforms.
Bell took out the canister and inserted it into one of the machine's ports. As soon as it was in place, Omega began working. His mechadendrites and numerous articulated cables moved in a flurry across the console. He connected a data terminal interface to the device, and streams of data flashed before his eyes.
Beside him, Bell began manually examining and analyzing the drug's composition. The towering giant operated the device with great skill as complex information and identification data scrolled past. The fluorescent green readouts reflected on his face, casting it in an eerie glow.
Soon, data appeared on the holoprojector. Charts and readings floated before them in neat rows, their contents clear enough that even Cole, a layman, could understand.
He frowned. "This drug can alter a person's mental state and create a psychic interface in the brain's neural pathways?" the captain asked in astonishment. Olaf was just as shocked.
As a Rune Priest, he understood the implications all too well, and was even more alarmed. "That means anyone who takes this dust over an extended period will, in effect, have a weak connection to the local Tyranid Hive Mind. Normally, wouldn't that require genetic modification?"
"No. It's only a weak connection. It allows the local Genestealer Patriarch and leaders to project into their minds and create illusions, driving them mad before gradually brainwashing them."
Bell stood and rejoined his brothers, pointing at the charts. "The dust stimulates a person's psychic potential, creating a synapse in the neural pathways of the brain. The more they take, the more deeply it affects their mind. It works much like a drug."
"And our tests show that any member of Tyranid blood can control this synapse. Simply put, anyone infected by the Tyranids can use these synapses and a weak psychic signal to influence and direct the fanatical believers."
"That's why those cultists fought without fear of death down there. The Purestrain Genestealers had partially suppressed their ability to think. Only the part of their minds that told them to keep fighting was still switched on."
"Wait, so you're saying the local Genestealers used this dust to create a relationship between the Tyranid Synapse Creatures and ordinary Tyranid creatures?" Cole exclaimed. The answer was already obvious.
Omega continued operating the device, but turned his head slightly and nodded. "Yes. They fit the relationship between Synapse Creatures and those they direct. Although it does not reach the level of the Tyranids, I have reason to believe this psychic link will strengthen once the believers are implanted with Tyranid organisms and fully transformed."
Bell nodded. "Exactly. In simple terms, the local Genestealers found a way to establish psychic bonds and control minds without infecting large numbers of people. That lets them bypass the Adeptus Arbites' genetic screening, which is why the Tyranid infection has spread unchecked."
The Old Wolf let out a long breath and frowned in frustration. "If we can't identify targets through genetic screening, is there any way to find them?"
Bell shook his head. "It's very difficult—almost impossible. But if people stop taking this dust for long enough, the synapses will gradually weaken. Now that we've destroyed the factory, they can't keep expanding their cult this way. And unless the existing believers undergo mass genetic implantation immediately, they'll soon lose control of them."
"Ugh, this is too complicated. It'd be easier to just cut them down." Ragnar complained, setting his Chainaxe on the table and pointing at the charts. "If we find the Patriarch and the leader, why don't we just take them both out?"
"Have you forgotten, Ragnar? Kill the Patriarch, and another will soon emerge among the Purestrains. It won't solve anything." Bell pointed at the charts. "Our best option right now is to stop Crimson Essence from being rebuilt and produced. If we can do that, the local Genestealers will pay a heavy price."
"If my theory is right, most of their believers were created this way. That means losing access to Crimson Essence will deal the Genestealers a massive blow. At the very least, they won't be able to launch an uprising before the Hive Fleet arrives."
Olaf nodded firmly and looked at Cole. "Should we notify the Inquisitor?" "No. We don't need to tell him about this yet. Besides, he's probably already guessed most of it."
Cole looked at the data and let out a long sigh. "The distress signal has been sent. Now all we can do is pray for the Emperor's protection."
"Ah! When do we finally get to fight?" Ragnar grumbled as he strode away, muttering to himself. The Old Wolf let out a long sigh.
"Soon, brother. Soon you'll be fighting so much you won't want to anymore."
Ragnar looked at the date displayed on the holoprojector. The numbers kept changing, and the steady clacking echoed in their minds.
That clacking had become a countdown to death.
Before you continue