The Crimson Secret of the Imperial Frontier

Captain Cole stood on the flight deck of the Frontier, watching as three Thunderhawk gunships descended from beyond the shimmering blue gravity shield. The gunships landed slowly, their vector thrusters spitting fire, as the heavy landing gear locked firmly into place, stabilized by the hiss of hydraulic struts.

The assault ramps lowered until they touched the deck. Cole glanced at Omega, who tilted his head in response. The captain turned his gaze to the four giants disembarking, noting that one of them was clutching a claw—the claw of a purestrain Genestealer.

"Lancelot, would you mind telling me why you brought that thing back?" Cole asked with a sigh of resignation. The Caliban knight removed his winged helmet, revealing a brilliant smile. "A trophy, Captain. A trophy for my victory in our little contest."

"Bullshit. If I hadn't hacked off three of that bastard's arms, you wouldn't have had a higher kill count than me," Ragnar grumbled. He was clearly sour about losing the contest, especially over such a ridiculous technicality.

Lancelot remained beaming, his smile so bright it was hard to believe he hailed from the Dark Angels, a Space Marine chapter known for their inscrutable, stone-faced demeanor. Perhaps he had spent too much time around Vito and been assimilated.

As they spoke, Ragnar offered an embarrassed grin, lifting his chainsword. The chain-blade had snapped off and was now dangling limply from the casing. "Omega, look, I think I need a warranty repair."

"This is the third time in the last year I have repaired your gear, Ragnar. You need to adjust your tactics," Omega stated, then turned his gaze to Lancelot. "And you. Your Bolter has sustained significant damage."

Lancelot chuckled, pulling out his Bolter, which was completely caved in on one side. The two rivals, who had been bickering moments ago, suddenly draped their arms over each other's shoulders like brothers-in-arms, erupting into thunderous laughter.

Cole sighed helplessly, watching the Stormtrooper squads file out of the other two Thunderhawks. Many were wounded, with the severely injured being carried by their comrades toward the infirmary. It was clear the squad had taken casualties.

"Was the fighting that intense?" Cole asked. Olaf, the stoic old wolf, nodded slightly. He walked past his two bickering brothers and approached Cole and Omega. The towering giant stooped down, half-kneeling so they wouldn't have to crane their necks to look at him.

"We encountered purestrain Genestealers on the surface. Dozens of them, including a patriarch. Fortunately, we managed to put it down."

"Ragnar shoved a Melta Bomb into its mouth. We lost a few Stormtroopers before it detonated, but per the Inquisitor's orders, we leveled the entire facility."

Cole frowned, then turned to Omega. "Was that factory registered with the Adeptus Mechanicus?"

Olaf looked to the Magos, who shook his head after a few milliseconds of data processing. "Negative. According to the production manifests authorized by the Adeptus Mechanicus on Victoria, the factory we struck does not exist."

"In fact, several of the factories I encountered while descending into the Lower Hive were not sanctioned by the Adeptus Mechanicus. This planet is suffering from severe tech-heresy."

"Are you saying the local government is shielding and harboring illegal factories, knowing full well they are violating the laws of the Adeptus Mechanicus?" "Yes."

Cole and Olaf exchanged glances. The captain sighed and crossed his arms. "I fear the situation on this planet is worse than we imagined."

"Indeed, but we must trust that the Inquisitor has a plan. For now, we have our own work to finish," Bell said, stepping forward. The giant in white armor held a canister filled with Crimson Essence, which shimmered with a pure, eerie luster after its recent refinement.

Omega nodded and turned toward the hangar exit. "Come. We have an investigation to conduct."

The group followed, the two bickering brothers included. They left the hangar, leaving the blue Thunderhawks to the ground crews and servitors for repairs and maintenance.

They traversed the warship's complex, sprawling corridors and majestic halls, eventually arriving at Omega's private research lab.

The shuttle was still there, its shattered frame held in place by mechanical arms. Most of its components had already been scanned and removed, leaving it little more than scrap metal.

Cole and the three giants stood before the holographic projector, while Bell joined Omega at a complex console equipped with multiple ports and scanning arrays.

Bell inserted the canister into the instrument. As the essence was introduced, Omega began his work; his mechanical limbs and various data cables danced across the console in a blur of motion. Data terminal interfaces linked to the instrument, and countless streams of information flickered before his eyes.

Bell worked alongside him, manually analyzing the chemical composition. The giant operated the equipment with practiced ease, his face bathed in the eerie, flickering green light of the data streams.

Soon, the holographic projector began to display the results. Charts and spectral graphs hung in the air, arranged with such clarity that even a layman like Cole could understand them.

He frowned. "This substance can alter a person's mental state and create a psychic interface within the neural pathways?" the captain asked in surprise. Olaf looked equally stunned.

As a Rune Priest, he understood the implications all too well. "This means anyone who consumes this dust long-term is effectively establishing a weak link to the local Tyranids Hive Mind. Isn't that something that usually requires genetic implantation?"

"No, this is merely a weak connection. It allows the local Genestealer Patriarch and leaders to project into their minds, creating hallucinations, inducing madness, and subtly brainwashing them," Bell explained.

He stood up and walked back to his brothers, pointing at the data charts. "This dust stimulates psychic responses, creating a synapse in the neural arc of the brain. The more one consumes, the deeper the mental influence—it acts much like a narcotic."

"Furthermore, our tests indicate that these synapses can be controlled by any member of the Tyranid bloodline. Simply put, anyone with a Tyranid infection can use these synapses to influence and command these fanatical cultists through minor psychic resonance."

"That is why the cultists below fought with such suicidal ferocity. Their cognitive functions were partially suppressed by the purestrain Genestealers; only the combat-oriented neural circuits remained active."

"Wait, so you're saying the local Genestealers are using this dust to replicate the relationship between Tyranid node-beasts and lesser organisms?" Cole exclaimed. The conclusion was obvious.

Omega continued to operate the console, his head tilting slightly. "Yes. They mimic the relationship between a node-beast and its thralls. While it does not reach the level of true Tyranid control, I have reason to believe this psychic sensitivity will strengthen once the cultists are successfully implanted with Tyranid organisms."

Bell nodded. "Exactly. In short, the local Genestealers have found a way to establish mental bonds and psychic control without needing mass genetic infection. This allows them to bypass the Adeptus Arbites' genetic screening, which is why the Tyranid infection has spiraled out of control."

The old wolf let out a long breath, his brow furrowed in frustration. "If we cannot identify targets through genetic screening, is there any way to detect them?"

Bell shook his head. "It is difficult, nearly impossible. However, if the dust is not consumed regularly, the synapses will gradually weaken. Since we destroyed the factory, they cannot expand their cult numbers through this method. Furthermore, the existing cultists will lose control unless they undergo mass genetic implantation immediately."

"Bah, it's too complicated. It would be easier just to hack them to pieces," Ragnar complained, setting his chain-axe on the table and pointing at the data charts. "Can't we just find the Patriarch and the leader and kill them both?"

"Have you forgotten, Ragnar? If we kill the Patriarch, a new one will soon emerge from the purestrains. That solves nothing," Bell said, gesturing to the charts. "Our best course of action is to disrupt the synthesis and production of Crimson Essence. If we succeed, the local Genestealers will pay a heavy price."

"If my hypothesis is correct, the majority of their cultists are created this way. If the Crimson Essence loses its efficacy, the Genestealers will suffer a massive blow. At the very least, they won't be able to incite an uprising before the Hive Fleet arrives."

Olaf nodded firmly. He looked at Cole. "Do we need to inform the Inquisitor?" "No. There is no need to tell him yet. Besides, I suspect he has already guessed as much."

Cole sighed as he looked at the data. "The distress signal has been sent. Now, all we can do is pray for the Emperor's protection."

"Bah! When will we actually get to fight?" Ragnar grumbled, pacing back and forth while muttering to himself. The old wolf let out a long, weary sigh.

"Soon, brother. Soon you will be fighting until you wish you weren't."

Ragnar stared at the date displayed on the holographic projector. The numbers shifted constantly, the rhythmic ticking echoing in their minds.

That ticking had become a countdown to death.