Dr. Iven was the founder of the shelter and built the sanctuary after foreseeing a catastrophic doom that would befall Baal.
He once warned the rulers of Baal Primus and Baal Secundus, but no one listened.
When the disaster finally descended, the shelter that was built took in many survivors.
However, by that time, the human genome already contained numerous genetic fragments originating from other species.
The intense radiation environment of Baal Secundus activated these normally dormant gene sequences, producing the mutants' bizarre and varied mutations.
Dr. Iven attempted to use genetic regulation technology to selectively strengthen a specific advantageous gene sequence so that, during expression, it would suppress the activity of other mutation-related genes.
This directed genetic dominance could transform uncontrollable random mutations into inheritable stable traits, ultimately converting mutants into abhumans whose physiological characteristics could be passed down reliably.
Although abhumans would still differ from ordinary humans, this was already the optimal solution achievable with the technology available to Dr. Iven.
But just as his research was about to achieve a breakthrough, the long-accumulating tensions within the shelter finally erupted.
Dr. Iven's experiments consumed enormous quantities of precious survival resources. The ordinary residents' sympathy for the mutants gradually gave way to anxiety over survival.
What began as complaints from a few individuals ultimately evolved into irreconcilable factional opposition. The normal humans believed fate was fate; they should abandon attempts to cure the mutants.
When armed conflict inevitably broke out, every resident was forced to choose a side.
Normal humans instinctively stood with their own kind, and the mutants could only rely on their own group. But the mutants vastly outnumbered the normals, and the outcome was predictable.
After defeat, the first group of normal residents and their descendants were exiled into the wasteland. The mutants became the shelter's new masters.
But they paid a terrible price: Dr. Iven was assassinated.
When the civil war began, the mutants had immediately protected him.
Ironically, however, the one who killed Dr. Iven was a mutant.
He had devoted his entire life to curing them, even sparking a civil war because of it. Not even the normal humans intended to kill him, yet he was murdered by those he tried hardest to help.
The assassin believed that, as a normal human, Dr. Iven could never understand the mutants' suffering. He was not truly helping them. The so-called gene vaccine was, in his eyes, a gene virus, a method of racial extermination.
This paranoid suspicion was not entirely baseless. Many mutant volunteers had indeed died during his experiments, even though they had willingly participated.
Although the enraged mutants hanged the assassin, with Dr. Iven's death, the genetic research failed as well. No one could continue it.
The mutants could only inject incomplete genetic compounds to slow the worsening of their mutations. As a result, all the shelter's mutants became pseudo-humans with asymmetrical skulls, extra limbs, and foreign organs.
Their mutation directions remained strange, but unlike the tumor-covered, rotting mutants outside, the shelter residents' mutations were congenital and did not worsen with age.
This alone proved Dr. Iven's research direction had been correct. If he had completed it and transformed all mutants into stable abhumans, Baal might have had a chance to rebuild civilization.
Fulgrim's small face wrinkled in confusion.
"The shelter can house millions, but there were only a hundred thousand people then. Even if the experiments consumed resources, the normal humans' living standards wouldn't have dropped. Why did they revolt?"
"That," Caelan said gently, though tinged with helplessness, "is human nature."
"The normals took in the mutants, yet most resources went to the mutants. Over time, of course, they grew dissatisfied."
"When the scale of resource distribution tilts too far, when ninety-nine percent flows to one group, even the most rational people are swept along by the instinctive fear of survival crisis."
"And if the mutants truly became abhumans, their greater numbers would eventually replace normal humans as Baal's rulers. Normals would either assimilate… or be exterminated."
"They weren't only fighting for present resources. They were fighting for the right to exist in the future."
"The moment Dr. Iven shifted from curing mutants to transforming them, the seeds of conflict were planted."
Fulgrim asked, still puzzled, "But the shelter was built by Dr. Iven. What right did they have to resent him?"
"That," Caelan replied, "was Dr. Iven's own fault. He always saw himself as a scholar, never a ruler, and never established authority."
"He could have ruled the shelter and suppressed unrest through authority and iron discipline. Instead, he naively believed giving people freedom and resources would earn understanding and gratitude."
"Howeve, when kindness becomes normal, beneficiaries see it as natural. And when the giver imposes no restraint, the beneficiaries begin to believe the kindness was their rightful entitlement all along."
Sanguinius softly asked, "Dad… the gene fragment he used to guide mutation wasn't originally human. Can those 'abhumans' still be considered human?"
"My view," Caelan said, "is this: as long as they retain human genes, have no reproductive isolation from other humans, and still see themselves as heirs of human civilization, then they should be recognized as part of humanity."
He was a progressive when defining humanity. But even progressives had limits; he had nothing to discuss with xenos.
Even so, if a group still identified as human civilization, the Imperium would grant a certain respect, recording them as human polities in civil war rather than exterminating them as aliens.
Fulgrim frowned. "This conflict happened over four thousand years ago. Why do the pureblood records say it was a thousand?"
Sanguinius' eyes gleamed thoughtfully. "The purebloods are nomads. Passing down ancient stories orally across the wasteland for millennia is already difficult. Time gaps and errors are inevitable."
Without written records, even archaeology has nothing to examine.
For the purebloods to survive four thousand years on Baal Secundus's wasteland was already miraculous; historical inaccuracies were understandable.
Knock, knock.
Hearing the door, Fulgrim's wings snapped open. His small hand twisted the handle.
Iven stood nervously outside. The moment he saw the silver-haired angel, both heads lowered instinctively.
"My lord… it is lunchtime. Would you and the two Holy Sons care to dine?"
Though it was technically his office, he stood at the doorway like a visitor trespassing someone else's domain.
The name "Iven" came from Dr. Iven; every administrator inherited the name to honor him.
After learning the shelter's history, Caelan's impression of the mutants improved greatly. In the ancient civil war, they had exiled the defeated humans rather than exterminating them, and even gave them supplies, already an act of mercy.
Their reverence toward the angels also surprised him.
"Tell me," Caelan asked, "what is your faith?"
"Angels," the larger head blurted immediately. The smaller head hesitated, then added, "…and you."
They worshiped the Golden Angel and the Black Angel and believed Sanguinius and Fulgrim were their incarnated Holy Sons. Caelan, however, the father of angels, was unfamiliar to them.
"Any other religions?" Caelan asked.
"No," Iven's two heads shook like rattles, speaking in unison. "We all believe in the Angels. The Angels are our only faith!"
....
Compared with the purebloods outside, the shelter mutants lived in near luxury.
Their staple food was soft buttered bread, with side dishes of tender beef and various fresh vegetables and fruits. After meals, there were pastries, milk, and coffee available for the taking.
Fulgrim asked, "How many people live here?"
"Three hundred thousand."
Fulgrim shifted his gaze from the rippling milk in his cup, "The shelter's capacity isn't six million?"
The smaller head spoke regretfully. "The civil war 4,900 years ago severely damaged the shelter's ecological circulation system. After Dr. Iven's death, no one could maintain these facilities. The shelter's production efficiency has been declining, now only one-tenth of what it was before."
"Fifteen hundred years ago, a severe famine broke out in the shelter."
"Since then, to maintain the current living standard and prevent further deterioration of the ecological system, the shelter implemented a strict birth quota system. A new birth quota is only released when a resident dies of natural causes."
Caelan was not a glutton by nature, yet the tender, juicy beef still stirred his appetite.
Human civilization during the Golden Age had been far more magnificent, but even the decaying hive cities of the 41st millennium housed populations vastly larger than anything the Golden Age ever sustained.
The reason was simple.
In the Golden Age, humanity did not require such vast labor. The Men of Stone and the Men of Iron performed most tasks. At the same time, standards of living were extraordinarily high, individual resource consumption immense, and ecological balance carefully maintained.
Naturally, the total population the worlds could support remained limited.
The Imperium was the opposite.
In the 41st millennium, quality of life was irrelevant. Hive cities demanded sheer numbers to fill endless labor shortages. People survived on corpse-starch and crowded into unstable slums stacked through the underhive.
To a citizen of the Golden Age, it would have been unimaginable that humans could be sustained so cheaply.
Low living standards, minimal resource use per person, relentless labor demand, and total disregard for environmental damage, under such conditions, populations inevitably swelled.
The 30th millennium lay somewhere between those extremes.
The living conditions of an M30 hive were scarcely better than those of M41. Yet with human civilization fragmented, hive factories often lacked raw materials. Even when goods were produced, there were few markets left to trade with. Production faltered, corpse-starch output declined, and the need for labor fell with it. As a result, population levels remained comparatively low.
If birth restrictions were removed, the shelter could support roughly six million inhabitants. And if, like the Imperium of later ages, it abandoned all concern for lower-class living standards, the number could climb even higher.
Instead, the Mutants chose restraint.
Their resources could sustain about six hundred thousand people, so they maintained a population of only three hundred thousand.
They lived within the shelter, isolated from the outside world, enjoying security and relative comfort.
Anyone in their place would make the same decision: preserve a stable life rather than blindly expand the population and condemn everyone to misery.
Fulgrim said, "We can repair the ecological systems. In exchange, I hope you will open the shelter to other Baal residents."
"Holy Son?!" Both heads stared in disbelief.
Sanguinius took a sip of the fragrant coffee and silently added another sugar cube.
"I promise you, this will not lower your quality of life."
Iven stammered, trembling. "…You… you are asking my opinion?"
"Yes," Fulgrim said seriously. "It is your shelter."
He agreed with his father's philosophy; the people needed strict rule and order.
Dr. Iven was a good man, but he was not suited to be a ruler.
If people did not submit to rule, then conquer them!
But if a consensus could be reached through negotiation, Fulgrim preferred not to use force.
Sanguinius took another sip. It was still bitter, so he added another sugar cube.
"No... no..." Iven's larger head continued to stammer, but the smaller head couldn't contain its excitement and blurted out: "Holy Son, you are the master of the shelter. You can issue any command!"
A flicker of confusion passed through Fulgrim's eyes. "Why? Just because you believe in us?"
The Bloods also believed in them, but there were still frictions between them, and there were people like Gibson among them.
The Mutants numbered three hundred thousand, a thousand times more than The Bloods.
He could see Iven's fanaticism and piety weren't feigned. But even if he was sincere, would everyone else really have no objections?
Both of Iven's heads bowed simultaneously, his voice trembling slightly with awe. "Holy Son, 4,900 years ago, on his deathbed, Dr. Iven left a sacred prophecy."
"When the 4,900th Terran year arrives, the wings of angels will shroud Baal's sky, and all lost souls will receive salvation!"
Sanguinius proudly offered his coffee to Caelan.
"Dad, drink mine!"
o(￣︶￣)o
Sanguinius's clear golden eyes sparkled with expectation.
Caelan took a small sip, barely managing not to spit it out immediately. But his throat involuntarily convulsed as he swallowed with difficulty. He quickly took a drink of the milk Fulgrim handed over to wash away the taste.
Sanguinius blinked his big eyes. "Dad, is it not good?"
"Too sweet," he said. "Like a fairy."
"Fairy?" Sanguinius tilted his head.
"Monstrously sweet."
Fulgrim asked, "Dad, what do you think of prophecies?"
"If Dr. Iven was a psyker," Caelan said, "then having foreseen Baal's destruction, he might indeed foresee today 4,900 years later."
Prophecy was rare even among psykers.
Since Dr. Iven could prophesy Baal's doom, he might indeed have been able to prophesy the future 4,900 years later.
According to the shelter's records, the present year matched his deathbed prophecy exactly.
But it might also be a trap.
Caelan didn't know whether the prophetic ability was innate… or given by something else.
Although the records portrayed Dr. Iven as a flawless benefactor, history was a doll easily dressed in whatever clothes its keepers desired. Who could say what the truth had been?
Fulgrim frowned. "Dad… I don't want to abandon this place."
"Then don't," Caelan replied calmly. "This is the material universe, not some realm where they may act without restraint."
If one suspects conspiracies in everything and freezes in fear, nothing will ever be accomplished.
The Four were indeed dreadful.
But without belief, they could not freely overwrite reality itself. So long as the shelter remained free of Chaos corruption, the rest was manageable.
Coincidentally, Caelan had ample experience in this area.
Perhaps it couldn't be called experience; he was just particularly sensitive to the Warp and psychic phenomena.
At least so far, apart from himself and the twins, he had detected no psychic traces on Baal.
Sanguinius tugged gently at Caelan's sleeve. "Dad… can we save them?"
"I cannot," Caelan said softly. "But you… perhaps you can."
He knew nothing of genetics and could not finish the genetic engineering Dr. Iven had left incomplete. But Sanguinius and Fulgrim were Primarchs. If anyone could continue that work, it would be them.
And Sanguinius possessed something else.
His blood.
Sanguinius looked down at his pale hand. If his blood could transform mutants into Space Marines… could it also cure them?
.....
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