Manflayer - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer 40K

  Fabius held its fang-studded jaws with one hand as he drew back the syringe from within one of the sacs and peered at the glistening contents. ‘Adequate, I suppose. You may send it back to its kennel now.’

  Saqqara frowned but did as he was told. He lifted a flask and murmured a few words in a language that had been dead for centuries. The daemon squirmed towards him like a plume of smoke, dwindling as it went. It plunged into the flask, filling it. Saqqara stoppered it, and returned it to its place on his armour.

  ‘You should not torment poor Gr’yz’ax so,’ the Word Bearer said disapprovingly.

  ‘Stop pretending it has a name, Saqqara.’ He didn’t bother to hide his contempt as he spoke.

  Saqqara Thresh was the epitome of everything Fabius loathed. A credulous fanatic, blind to anything save dogma. Unlike the rest of his followers, Saqqara was not an Apothecary. Instead, he was a tamer of those elemental forces the ignorant called daemons – a useful skill, in the Eye. His tattooed flesh was scraped free of hair, and marked by livid suture scars. The plates of his battered crimson power armour were covered in line upon line of tight Colchisian script, where they were not marked by prayer scrolls or blasphemous iconography. Strange bottles of clay and glass hung from his armour. Each was sealed by wax, and marked with warding sigils to contain the entities squirming within. The daemons were chittering and hissing loud enough to be annoying – like animals demanding attention.

  ‘Your pets seem agitated,’ Fabius said.

  ‘They do not like being in an enclosed space with you. You know that.’

  ‘What they like or dislike is immaterial to me. Keep them quiet.’

  Saqqara whispered something to his pets. The chittering ceased. Grateful for the silence, Fabius flicked the syringe. The liquid within gleamed like gold for a moment, before turning murky. He set it down on a tray held by one of his vatborn. ‘Take this to observation module gamma-three. Enact standard quarantine procedures, and monitor it.’

  Saqqara sniffed disdainfully. ‘I don’t understand why you milk them for their poison. What purpose does it serve?’

  ‘I have managed to design and synthesise over thirty-seven different forms of stimulant from this particular venom alone – some of which I employ myself. Most is lethal at higher doses, but Savona’s warriors don’t particularly care and neither do I, so long as it keeps them from whining about their next fix and keeps me on my feet.’ He looked at Saqqara. ‘Curious, isn’t it? How it changes each time. Same entity, same process, but a different result each time. Marvellous.’

  ‘They are beautiful creatures, if you but take the time to admire them.’

  ‘Stop and smell the roses, eh?’

  Saqqara looked at him in confusion. ‘What?’

  ‘An old Terran saying. Granted, the type of flower it refers to has not existed since at least M31, being supplanted by native varieties from across the galaxy. The term, however, remains in common usage throughout human-occupied space. To stop and smell the roses. Rosy-cheeked. A rose by any other name.’

  ‘What does that have to do with daemons?’

  ‘Nothing. But one must never overlook an opportunity to decrease the galaxy’s supply of ignorance, Saqqara.’ Fabius tapped the side of his head. ‘Think on that, as you pray to those nightmares you call gods.’ He signalled another vatborn. ‘Bring me sample pots tertius-minor and quintus-epsilon.’

  The vatborn returned moments later with a tray bearing two sample pots, each containing a spiky anemone of wraithbone. Saqqara stared at it in disgust. ‘I can hear the souls within it screaming every time you touch it.’

  ‘So long as that is all they do, I don’t particularly care.’ He took the samples from the tray and set them down before him. ‘The drukhari make weapons from it, you know. Grenades and ammunition, mostly.’

  ‘A vile species.’

  ‘But wise in their malignity.’ Fabius gestured to the samples. ‘They taught me a few tricks regarding its cultivation – and in return, I taught them a few of my own. Look here. See how it grows.’

  ‘I have seen how it grows up-close. Why you insist on wasting your time with xenos effluvia I will never know. What use is it? What use is any of it?’ Saqqara gestured about him. He leaned close. ‘I have heard things.’

  ‘Oh?’ Fabius said, only half paying attention.

  ‘Yes,’ Saqqara said. ‘The singers of strange songs have gone silent. The dancers at time’s edge have ceased their cavorting.’

  ‘How terrible. And that concerns me how?’ Fabius selected a pair of bone-snippers from his instrument tray.

  ‘They are waiting. For you.’

  ‘Then I wish them all the patience in the world. Look here – see? Wraithbone is all but impossible to create, but ridiculously easy to manipulate, once you have the knack.’ Fabius pruned a fragment from one of the samples. He set the pot aside, and studied it. ‘Bring me cryo-cask quaternus-alpha,’ he said, without looking up. One of the vatborn scurried away.

  Saqqara frowned. ‘More godless tinkering. Were you even listening?’

  ‘No. And tinkering is what engineers do. I am conducting an experi­ment. Hand me that tray near your elbow.’

  Saqqara turned. ‘The one with the brain in it?’

  ‘Yes. Be careful.’

  Saqqara did so with a grimace. ‘It’s pulsing.’

  ‘I should hope so. The reagent it’s soaking in is a synthesised form of Yuznan re-animator – it stimulates the tissues of the plural cortices and prevents degradation of the cerebrum.’ Fabius selected a holo-loupe from the tray of tools and connected it to his neural ports before settling it over his eye. He blinked and the loupe emitted a scanning pulse. A second blink etched a hololithic cross-section of the brain into the air before him. He tapped the image, causing it to rotate. ‘Ah. It’s been nearly two weeks since I extracted the sample and see – no further deterioration has occurred.’

  ‘And why is that impressive?’

  ‘Because cloned cerebral matter deteriorates, even in stasis. Loss of function, interruptions in the flow of information between hemispheres and issues with neural integration are all inevitable, requiring time-consuming repairs. But here – no deterioration.’

  With a thought, he prodded the chirurgeon into motion. A hypo­dermic limb dipped into the solution, filling the syringe for later study. A second limb, tipped by a fine blade, deftly sectioned part of the brain, allowing Fabius to transfer a slice to a diagnostic tray.

  ‘Which means,’ he continued, ‘we can take the next step.’

  He selected a sample of wraithbone and held it up to the loupe, for scanning. A third blink activated the cutting laser installed in the eyepiece. He carefully sliced free an even smaller fragment, and set it aside. After smoothing the incision, he briskly inserted a nodal port into the larger fragment. Saqqara leaned forward, interested despite himself.

  ‘What are you doing now?’

  Fabius paused and looked at him. ‘Do you honestly want to know?’

  ‘I would not have asked, otherwise.’

  ‘Very well.’ Fabius turned back to his work. ‘I am preparing the wraithbone for insertion into the corpus callosum, where it will take root and extend its own fibres into the white matter, subsequently inundating the cerebral cortex. From there, the wraithbone will begin to harden, forming a second cerebral mantle.’

  ‘And the purpose of this?’

  ‘It will form a secondary neural network. These nodes I am inserting will act as multi-path transmitters, receiving and transmitting information between artificial networks.’

  Saqqara frowned. ‘Networks plural.’

  ‘Of course.’ Fabius gestured to a nearby rack, where more than a dozen cryo-cylinders sat. Each contained one of the clones grown within the wraithbone garden, now matured enough to be transferred to more traditional facilities. ‘Once I have complete
d the test batch, I will begin decanting the first generation of clones for insertion.’

  ‘Clones?’

  ‘Yes. You can’t simply plop one of these altered cerebellums into an unprepared cranium. You have to grow a body from the ground up. Once the insertion procedures have been completed, I will begin gene-seed implantation, as the clones will be in the optimum develop­mental period.’

  Saqqara grimaced. ‘More copies. You are not worried about your blight tainting the results as it has every other time?’

  ‘No. The blight only rears its head when I complete a full neural transfer. These clones won’t be thinking beings, per se. Rather, they will be… mirrors. Reflecting my thoughts and predilections. One mind, many bodies.’

  ‘Monstrous.’

  ‘Efficient.’

  ‘One does not preclude the other,’ Saqqara growled. ‘You would flay your soul into tatters, and for what? What do you gain from this?’

  ‘If you’d let me finish, I’d tell you.’ Fabius pushed back from his workbench. ‘Immortality is a fool’s dream. My time in Commorragh taught me that much. However long I persist – me, the me speaking to you now – the blight will gnaw at me. As it will gnaw at every subsequent iteration of myself, so long as I insist on a corporeal existence. There is no cure for this abominable phage. It is not a natural ailment.’

  ‘It is a gift,’ Saqqara said.

  ‘So you and Khorag insist. Regardless, I have no wish to continue body-hopping for eternity.’ He paused. ‘I refuse to be a ghost, haunting my own rotting corpse. Another option is necessary, if I am to continue my work.’

  ‘And these… phantom-selves are it?’

  ‘I have a theory. If, upon my inevitable death, I do not transfer my consciousness but instead sever the active neural links, my mirror-selves will be free to develop and continue my work, as I would have done, but without the genetic sword of Damocles I suffer under. While I live, they will learn. And when I die, they will be free to implement my lessons in all the ways that I might’ve.’ Fabius smiled. ‘My work will continue, even if I do not.’

  Saqqara turned away. ‘You think yourself cleverer than the gods. Even now. Even after all that you have seen and experienced.’

  ‘This is not about cleverness,’ Fabius snarled. ‘It is about survival.’ He slammed a fist down on the workbench and rose to his feet. He ignored the chirurgeon’s attempts to flush his system with calmatives. ‘The survival of my creations – of humanity itself!’

  Saqqara spun to face him. ‘Those things you dote on are no more human than the Neverborn in my flasks. They are golems of meat and muscle – no better than the Interex or the Laer. For all your talk, you have only made monsters. You have only ever made monsters. That is why the gods exalt you so… You are a fecund womb for outrages, and that pleases them greatly.’

  Fabius leaned close. ‘You should leave before I forget your uses, diabolist.’

  Saqqara matched his glare. ‘The gods see everything, heretic. They laugh at your petty schemes, and counter them even as you conceive of them. And when the last day comes, they will eat your ragged soul.’

  ‘And on that day, they can choke on it,’ Fabius said. He turned away, fighting to control the sudden, blistering fury that raged through him. He heard Saqqara depart, but did not turn. He lifted a hand, and saw that it was shaking. The tremors had been getting worse of late – a sure sign that this body was nearing the end of its usefulness. Stress only shortened that span. Saqqara was right, which only made it worse.

  Idly, seeking reassurance in work, he activated the pict-feeds to the gene-vaults hidden beneath the apothecarium. Inside them, seventeen thousand, four hundred and fifty-six canisters containing progenoids – the purest gene-seed available – perfectly preserved and protected from the entropic corruption of Eyespace. It had belonged to the III Legion, before they’d succumbed to unfettered hedonism.

  The trove would be broken up and scattered through his various facilities and caches outside of Eyespace, so as to lessen the risk of its destruction. With them would go his newest generation of clones, to mature in safety.

  ‘There is no safety for you, Father. No matter what body you inhabit, not in all the realities known to man or daemon.’

  Fabius snatched up Torment and turned as the voice echoed through the chamber. There had been no warning, despite the hexagrammatic wards Saqqara had inscribed into the foundations of the laboratorium. Then, she had always been a clever child.

  ‘Melusine?’ he called out. ‘Is that you, child? Come out where I can see you.’

  He heard the soft clop of hooves against the stone floor. The vatborn were abasing themselves, and singing in high-pitched voices. He wanted to order them to stop, but didn’t. Couldn’t. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. Heavy. The air was suddenly stifling, and he heard the faint strains of an unknown melody.

  ‘I am in no mood for games, girl. Come out, or begone.’

  ‘Here I am, Father. Look. See.’

  Fabius turned but saw nothing, save the wraithbone samples. He growled softly in frustration. ‘Where are you? This is not amusing, child.’

  ‘I have not been a child for some time, Father. Not since I went to the garden and danced through the silver grasses. Not since I met our primo­genitor, mine and yours, and he showed me the path I must walk.’

  Glass cracked. Fabius’ eyes darted to the samples of wraithbone. They were growing. Stretching upwards and spreading outwards with a crackling that sounded like ice splintering. Thin cilia leapt across the room, anchoring themselves to the walls and ceiling. The two samples rose and merged, blending into one another. The conjoined mass folded in on itself and expanded. He could feel the heat of its transformation beating at the air, at his senses.

  He stumbled back as a cold light blossomed within the shifting mass. The light swelled, filling the laboratorium, and his hearts thundered in his chest. Tendrils of wraithbone elongated towards him, as if to ensnare him and draw him into the light. He raised Torment, and felt the daemon-shard quail before the power unfolding around him. Something waited for him in the light, crouched in the wraithbone.

  Melusine.

  She extended a clawed hand. ‘Come, Father. Come see what waits for all of your children. Come quickly!’

  Almost against his will, Fabius took his child’s hand. She had a daemon’s strength. The light swallowed them up and the world boiled away.

  He saw a deep darkness spread in all directions around them. A dark like that of the void, but without stars to break up the endless field of black. The sheer desolation threatened to crush him.

  Then, suddenly, there were shapes there, vast and loathsome, moving with mindless inevitability through silent eternities. They squirmed past him, as unheeding of his presence as mountains were of those who travelled across them. He thought of great worms crawling through the hollows of an immense corpse and he could not help but shudder.

  ‘The gods creep and crawl,’ Melusine murmured. ‘Maggots eating at the marrow of reality. The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, the worms play pinochle on your snout.’ The last was said in a childish sing-song.

  ‘Be silent,’ Fabius said hoarsely. ‘Where are we? Where have you brought me?’

  ‘Nowhere. This is merely the emptiness between moments in time.’ He felt her hands on his shoulders. ‘I thought you would like to see it.’

  Fabius squeezed his eyes shut as one of the vague immensities rumbled past, shaking him to his core. The force of its passing was such that micro-fractures formed in his bones and one of his lungs collapsed, stealing his breath. The chirurgeon was screaming in his head, pumping stimms into his quaking system. He could feel his hearts stuttering, losing their rhythm. His veins felt as if they would burst and there was a lump of ice in his gut.

  ‘Take me out of here – now,’ he snarled, gasping.

  A momen
t later, he was someplace solid, where the air stank of smoke and burnt flesh. The ground shifted and he realised that it wasn’t the ground at all, but bodies heaped like cordwood. He lost his balance and rolled down the grisly incline.

  He struck a street, the chirurgeon’s limbs drawing sparks from the cracked pavement.

  ‘Melusine,’ he roared, thrusting himself up onto his knees. He clambered awkwardly to his feet and saw that blood stained his armour. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Beleghast-Primus,’ Melusine answered.

  Fabius turned. He could hear her, but not see her.

  ‘Do you recognise it, Father? A playworld for your children. Or it was…’

  ‘This world… was mine,’ Fabius said, looking around. He recognised its name. One of the first cache-worlds he’d established, during the long retreat from Terra. Mountainous hab-blocks rose from the broken streets. Hundreds of bodies hung from the vox-wires and cabling strung between them like festival decorations. More bodies were heaped in the streets, as if thrown there by careless labourers, or piled in front of the blasted pillars and broken statues that lined the thoroughfares. There was a familiar smell on the air – burnt wraithbone, mingled with blood. ‘What happened here?’

  A debt… debt… ebt… t…

  He turned. Twelve red angels drifted down through the toxic atmosphere, borne on gossamer wings. His armour’s biometric sensors scanned them as they drew near, and he hissed softly as the information scrolled across his hololithic overlays. They’d been human, once, he thought. Before something ancient and hideously wise had carved them apart and remade them in the image of a Terran myth.

  ‘Melusine – what are they?’

  She didn’t answer. As they circled him, he got a better look at them. Their flesh had been stripped from them, exposing bare muscle to the acidic air. Their limbs had been broken and stretched, their bones cored and hollowed. Their wings were made from their own arteries and veins, sliced loose and stretched. Blood still circulated through the folds of wafer-thin flesh.