Chapter 58: Classics Never Go Out of Style
Omega should be thankful that Inquisitor Griffin wasn't here. Otherwise, he would have been locked away in a secret fortress prison, its location in the galaxy known only to Griffin himself, until it was certain he posed no threat to the Imperium. And who is safer than a dead man?
No one in the Imperium could legally stop Griffin from doing this. It was a right granted to the Inquisition by the Emperor before he sat on the Golden Throne. An Inquisitor has the right to investigate anyone in the Imperium except the Emperor himself, from Primarchs down to the lowest commoner.
The Adeptus Arbites dares not imprison them? The Inquisition will!
The Officio Assassinorum dares not kill them? The Inquisition will!
The Administratum cannot control them? The Inquisition will!
The Adeptus Astartes can fight them? The Inquisition must fight them!
The Adeptus Astartes cannot fight them? The Inquisition especially must fight them!
This is the Inquisition. Execute first, ask questions later. The Emperor's special permission.
Captain Titus of the Ultramarines' 2nd Company was taken away by an Inquisitor on the spot for his abnormally high psychic resistance. His Chapter Master searched for him for over a hundred years to no avail and was finally forced to give up. It was later heard that Titus, with his modified body, had simply outlived the Inquisitor and had then regained his freedom and returned to his Chapter.
If this had happened to Omega... hmm... he probably could have outlived Griffin too.
The foolishly happy "wild father" and the smug "wild son" were both unaware of Titus's story. They both just thought they were awesome.
Veyl, with a "how much have I been held back!" mood, left alone. Omega was still locked in the quarantine room. Favoritism at a time like this would affect military morale. The current situation, aside from waiting for the reinforcements outside, was hopeless. In his thousand-plus years, he had encountered such situations more than once. He knew what to do and what not to do.
Unable to leave, Omega began the most idle days of his time on Teyedan. Every day, besides a servitor bringing him food, he saw no one. All he had was a Tech-Priest's robe and a set of undergarments. He was left with nothing. If he needed a change, he had to ask the servitor to bring him a new set.
Omega, with nothing to do but stare at the walls, was unaware that he had been targeted by the traitor. It was this traitor who had provided the medium for the opening of the warp rift. The missing Magos was just a scapegoat he had prepared.
After the traitor Magos had given the "world-destroying incubator" to the Plague Prophet Viktor, the two of them had formulated the next part of their plan: to take over the Grand Manufactorum. The Plague Prophet had paid the traitor Magos a portion of his reward in advance: a small blessing, one that would not change the traitor's appearance but would cut off his retreat.
The traitor then returned to the Grand Manufactorum to continue his infiltration. His mission was not to help the Nurgle daemons breach the defenses, but to find a way to kill the Fabricator-General. They were worried that this Archmagos, who dared to use starships as weapons, would, upon seeing that all was lost, simply destroy the Grand Manufactorum himself. If the Grand Manufactorum was self-destructed, their plan would be in ruins. Teyedan, after being ravaged by the daemonic legions, would be nothing more than a barren planet. The Imperium, upon determining that Teyedan had no recovery value, might even use an "Exterminatus" to destroy the entire planet and eliminate the threat for good.
So they had to kill Veyl. Everyone who had experienced this Mechanicus civil war knew what the Archmagos was capable of.
(Veyl: Hah! I didn't know I was that brave. A single old ship scared you all this much? As expected of dogs who can't be brought to the table. So petty.)
But how could the traitor Magos, all by himself, be a match for the Fabricator-General? He needed allies, helpers.
Every senior cog-head had their own "little secrets," but "little secrets" came in many forms. Not everyone would turn to Chaos as he had. He couldn't be sure that if he revealed a little of his secret to another Magos, that Magos would choose to join him, rather than report him or attack him directly.
For this purpose, the Plague Prophet had prepared for the traitor Magos a sealed artifact containing a daemon. The fragile seal could only ensure that the daemon remained bound to the object. But if the daemon inside wanted to, it could break the seal at any time. Of course, these daemons had been carefully selected by the Plague Prophet and had voluntarily been sealed in the artifacts, to help the traitor complete their plan.
The Plague Prophet had prepared three such sealed artifacts in total. Each contained one of the most cunning and seductive daemons of Nurgle. The moment someone touched these artifacts, the daemon could instantly break the seal and possess them. Those with weak wills would have their bodies directly seized. Those with strong wills would be quietly seduced and twisted until they fell, voluntarily offering their souls and bodies. This way, he could gain helpers without the risk of exposure.
Why not prepare a few more sealed artifacts to ensure the plan was foolproof? The answer was that there were too few daemons of Nurgle smart enough to be entrusted with such a mission. They were not the scheming daemons of Tzeentch, nor the seductive daemons of Slaanesh. They were the simple and happy daemons of Nurgle.
But things did not go as smoothly as the traitor had imagined. Although he had a scapegoat and had not been exposed, the Magi, unsure if there were other traitors in their midst, had all kept their distance from each other, wary of one another. Their inorganic brains only spoke in probabilities.
Now the traitor was stuck. Perhaps it was because, after being blessed, he had a higher organic content than before, or perhaps because the fluid surrounding his brain had been replaced with pus, but he had not anticipated this situation. The daemonic legions had already reached the last wall, and he had not found a single suitable target for possession.
Just as he was about to risk contacting the Plague Prophet to ask him to slow the attack, the quarantined Omega entered his sights. Was there a more suitable target than the Fabricator-General's own son? A son, twisted by Chaos, betraying his world-master father! How familiar! How wonderful! Truly, classics never go out of style, the traitor thought.
(The Emperor: Who the hell are you being sarcastic about?!)
"Omega" was a name often mentioned in the Grand Manufactorum. From the illegitimate son in the initial rumors to the biological son the Archmagos had personally acknowledged, to the "prodigy" praised in the Magos circle, and finally to the "blessed of the Omnissiah" recognized by all the priests. A strange origin, extraordinary talent, and the blessing of a god. Any one of these would have been enough to make him the center of attention, let alone all three.
He hadn't initially chosen Omega as a target because he was too conspicuous. No one in the Grand Manufactorum would not be paying attention to such a child. The slightest uncharacteristic change in him would be magnified, turning a minor flaw into a fatal mistake.
But now, it was different. It was precisely because of his special nature that Omega had been given the chance to be quarantined, rather than being directly purged or sent on a suicide mission. The Magi had given Omega a chance, and they had also given the traitor a chance. He could, without anyone noticing, let a daemon corrupt and possess Omega's body and mind.
The only uncertainty was the suppression of the anti-psyker materials of the quarantine room on the daemon, which might prevent it from completely overpowering Omega's will during the possession. One wouldn't be enough? Then two. Two wouldn't be enough? Then three. This little brat was worth that much. The traitor made up his mind. Time was short. There was no more suitable target than Omega.
Omega, unaware of all this, was currently reminiscing about his past life, looking for inspiration and amusement. He lay flat on his back, his hands behind his head, one leg crossed over the other, swinging back and forth. "The longer I'm transmigrated, the more alien it feels," he said to himself. "It's like watching a movie of someone else's life, and a bad one at that, with no sense of immersion... so boring... when will I be able to do what I want? I have a head full of technology, just waiting to realize a head full of ideas... maybe in the future..."
"Sigh. I don't know if there will be a future. My wild dad said he saw signs of reinforcements the other day. I wonder if he was just trying to comfort me? Ptooey! I'm getting used to calling him dad. Omega, you have to stand up for yourself. How can you be seduced by sweet words and empty promises? You are Omega, who has drifted for half his life!"
"A sound. Is it time to eat?"
"Hah. Eating but not growing. Whoever raises a pig like me is bound to go bankrupt..."
Omega lazily got up and walked to the door to get his dinner. "Tastes great. As expected of a chef hired for a hefty price. And with the edible fluorescent spray, it could be on a food show. What's this?" Omega picked up a small sculpture from the tray. It was exquisite, in the shape of a chubby little boy offering fruit. It was made of bronze and looked quite old, probably an art piece from some feudal world. "A decoration? The chef really has style." The techniques for smelting bronze and various casting methods popped into his head. Omega's mouth twitched, and he put the sculpture back, focusing on his food.
Omega's thought: I am no longer the person who enjoys watching metallurgy and blacksmithing videos...
[DAEMONIC INTRUSION: HEPANDA]
Hepanda was born from the fear and disgust of ancient Terrans for the Hepatitis B virus. He inherited the impression of the virus at the time: a long incubation period with strong concealment, difficult to completely eradicate, and it would return if given the chance; mild symptoms, with a potential carcinogenic risk, making people overlook its danger. Cunning and insidious. No daemon was more suitable for the Plague Prophet Viktor's mission. Hepanda, who had voluntarily been sealed, had been waiting patiently in the sculpture for an opportunity to arise. "Patience" was his innate weapon.
Here it comes! For the Allfather... AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH... let me go... no... I am willing to be your servant... AAAAAAH... don't eat me... Allfather, save me... stop... stop it... Viktor, I curse you, curse you... stop... I can... aaah... my true name... I...
Omega's thought: "I get sleepy after I eat. Am I a pig...?"