Morning in the Dome, Olympia Standard Time 04:29:59.97.
Perturabo opened his eyes. He gently lifted his sister's arm from where she held him, set it back down, and rose from the square bed—six meters in both length and width.
A flight instrument approached him silently, scanning his data. After 1.52 seconds, the sensor array completed its final round. The neural cables automatically rose to Perturabo's head, sealing tightly against his skull like octopus tentacles.
A flicker of data reflected in his grey irises in the darkness—the signal that the micro-displays implanted in his retinas had activated. Status readings scrolled across the edge of his vision:
Body Temp 42.8°C, Blood Pressure 118/76, Cortisol 12% below baseline, Creatinine clearance perfect, EEG pattern transitioning smoothly from theta to alpha waves.
Status: No anomalies today.
He held out his hands as the Iron Circle dressed him in a white robe before he walked to the center of the room. The energy cost of these movements was precisely calculated: Back muscles 17%, abdominal muscles 9%, 3.7 calories consumed. The data was automatically archived into his physiological records. For ten years, every day, every movement, and every heartbeat had been recorded this way.
As he reached the center of the room, the holographic data well activated. Blue light rose from the hexagonal grid on the floor, weaving a 3D model of Olympia and its orbital ring. It was pure data visualization: grey geometry for buildings, flowing red lines for energy transmission, green dot-matrixes for aggregated vital signs, and a yellow web for the communication network.
His gaze fell first on the defense array. This was paramount. Twelve armed satellites in the outer orbit showed stable deep-green icons. The weapon systems, propellant levels, heat dissipation efficiency, and communication latency for each satellite floated beside them in tiny font.
The railgun backup capacitor for Satellite No. 3 had reached 87.3% of its design life, but it was still 4.2 standard months away from the preset replacement threshold. The logic engine had already scheduled a maintenance drone for preventative care in seventeen days.
Perturabo's finger tapped the air, pulling up the maintenance drone's task list. The list was long, containing 2,174 units on Olympia's orbit requiring upkeep. His eyes swept the third item: Solar Collection Array No. 7 mirror calibration deviation: 0.03 arcseconds; projected impact on power efficiency: 0.0007%.
Perturabo frowned slightly. It was a bit low—two orders of magnitude below the intervention threshold. Ten years ago, his stubborn, perfectionist self would never have tolerated such a deviation. He would have ordered an immediate recalibration, demanded an investigation into the cause, held maintenance personnel accountable, and revised the protocols.
But now, having awakened to his true nature and curbed his instinctive neuroses, his mindset had relaxed. He simply flagged the item in his mind, shifting its priority from "Monitor" to "Quarterly Review."
The logic engine recorded the action and inserted a note: Secondary inspection upon next pass of Array No. 7; recalibrate immediately if deviation exceeds 0.05 arcseconds.
This was his new rule: only handle problems that reach or exceed the intervention threshold. He had determined these thresholds by simulating over seven million scenarios through the logic engine to find the optimal balance. For issues below the threshold, the system monitored, recorded, and analyzed trends, but did not intervene unless signs of accelerated deterioration appeared.
He had decided on this five years ago. God knows how long he had endured the internal desire to fix every imperfection and the urge to constantly correct and upgrade before he finally resolved to change. Not everyone was a Primarch, and not everyone was a machine that never tired or erred. Even he couldn't guarantee his decisions were flawless, despite his confidence and occasional self-will.
Suddenly, the data stream from the civilian sectors caught his eye. Aggregated anonymous vital signs showed that over the past 12 hours, the average civilian heart rate had dropped from a waking 72 bpm to a sleeping 58 bpm—perfectly matching the health model. The stress index, calculated via 217 parameters like galvanic skin response and speech patterns, remained at the 35th percentile: an ideal range of "slight stress promoting efficiency."
However, three "anomalies" appeared. Three red markers sat in different residential blocks: B-7, G-12, and K-3. The logic engine attached reports automatically.
Citizen B-7-884: Male, 42, Level 3 Machinist. Heart rate variability dropped 23% in the last 6 hours; REM cycles 18% shorter than predicted.
Related Event: Work evaluation score was 0.3 points below the team average yesterday. System Suggestion: Assign one career counseling interview.
Citizen G-12-552: Female, 31, Logic Educator. Body temp rose abnormally by 0.4°C at 03:17 for 11 minutes.
Related Event: None. System Note: Possible transient physiological fluctuation; marked for observation.
Citizen K-3-219: Male, 58, Archivist. Speech pattern analysis shows slight depressive tendencies (67% confidence).
Related Event: His project, the digitization of Olympian art documents, was suspended due to resource reallocation.
Perturabo's gaze lingered on the third anomaly for 1.12 seconds. He recalled the information: cultural materials left by various city-states before the unification of Olympia. Paintings, sculptures, poetry, music—mostly illogical, filled with useless decoration and emotional venting.
The logic engine assessed their "Civilizational Utility Value" to be 0.47 standard deviations below the retention threshold. Standard procedure dictated they be destroyed after digitization, with copies archived in deep storage under restricted access. But the project was paused because energy for K-3 was diverted to support a new water cycle purification module test.
It was a logical decision. The module concerned the drinking water safety of 350,000 citizens in K-3. Art digitization? That could wait.
Yet, this archivist showed "depressive tendencies." Perturabo pulled up Citizen K-3-219's full file; 58 years of life compressed into a data stream. Birth score, education, career path, health records—a standard Olympian citizen. His efficiency score had always fluctuated within ±0.2 standard deviations of the average. Reliable, predictable, as orderly as the archives he maintained.
Until recently. Perturabo swiped his hand to open the last thirty days of behavioral logs.
Days 1-7: Standard work mode (140-160 files daily).
Day 8: Spent 127% more time than average on the "Ancient Cassandra Stained Glass Research" sub-item.
Day 9: Submitted an informal request to keep "a small number of representative physical originals for educational purposes."
Day 10: Request rejected automatically (Non-compliant with resource optimization protocols).
Days 11-20: Efficiency dropped (120-135 files).
Day 21: Project suspension notice received.
Days 22-30: Efficiency dropped further (110-125 files); speech patterns abnormal.
Perturabo closed the file. His neural cables, merging superhuman Primarch intellect with mechanical computation, processed several questions simultaneously. How to restore the citizen's efficiency? Should the "Art Document Processing Protocol" be revised? Did this reveal a blind spot in the system's "Value Assessment of Non-Productive Activities"?
His first thought was to have the K-3-219 administrator intervene directly: meet the citizen, analyze the problem, and issue a command. But he rejected it.
Inputting parameters—the citizen's personality model, current state, and possible interventions—the logic engine simulated 137 trajectories in 0.04 seconds. Direct intervention had a 68% chance of short-term recovery but a 41% chance of causing a "sense of systemic oppression" over the long term, reducing overall work quality.
The best solution was indirect: provide psychological support via logic counseling while arranging a small exhibition of the digitized results to give the citizen "cognitive closure."
Efficiency loss: ~2.7 citizen-days of labor.
Expected gain: Restored long-term efficiency and data on the "psychological impact of non-productive activities."
The net gain was positive. Perturabo approved the plan. The process took 4.7 seconds.
He didn't think about it again. He had never let art disappear, for he knew that as long as there are people, there are desires. Pure logical rationality was impossible for a human—the Emperor and Primarchs couldn't achieve it, so how could mortals? Thus, he built enough art galleries and his favorite opera house within the acceptable thresholds of the populace.
Next, he turned to the internal production reports. This was the largest part of the daily briefing. Olympia was a self-sufficient closed-loop system.
Iron Ore: 101.2% of daily plan, but C-3 conveyor belt wear exceeded expectations by 0.7%.
Water: Normal; purification test efficiency 1.3% higher than expected.
Food: Protein Line B down 2 hours for maintenance; inventory buffers covered the gap.
Energy: Well No. 7 pump efficiency dropped slightly; inspection scheduled for next week.
Everything was under control. Perturabo liked this feeling; aside from research, this brought him peace. He spent 11 minutes on the report, his eyes catching every deviation. By the end, he approved three maintenance plans, postponed one upgrade (low ROI), and ordered a root-cause analysis of the conveyor wear.
Time: 04:47:13.22.
Morning inspection complete. Olympia—his creation, his fortress, his world—was running with precision. No crises, no surprises, no accidents.
He walked to the other side of the room. The wall slid open to reveal his personal maintenance area. No servants or servitors, only mechanical arms, automated systems, and a few Iron Circle units. He took an alloy tray from a platform containing a single matte black cup. A tiny glowing ring at the bottom showed the status: Green, meaning "Ready, ingredients meet daily requirements."
He picked up the container. Weight: 5,137.6g (same as yesterday). Temp: 44.3°C (slightly above body temp for easier absorption). He didn't need the ingredient list; the logic engine adjusted the ratio daily based on his data, but he knew the basics: 35% protein, 45% carbohydrates, 12% lipids, and 8% vitamins/minerals/neurotransmitter precursors.
It had no taste—or rather, the taste was precisely "neutral." The sensory properties had been optimized over a thousand times: uniform texture, no particles, moderate viscosity for easy swallowing. The sensation vanished from the mouth in 3 seconds, leaving no residue.
He began to eat. Every mouthful was 28-32ml, spaced 12 seconds apart. His eyes didn't focus on anything, but the information flow at the edge of his vision didn't stop. The audio system began the first briefing: an extragalactic pulsar observation report.
"Pulsar PSR J2145-0750, 12,000 light-years from Olympia... X-ray radiation showed a 0.3% abnormal increase..."
Pulsars were the universe's timekeepers. Their regularity surpassed any man-made clock. Perturabo had once tried to study the possibility of galactic navigation using a pulsar network, but the unpredictability of the Warp made it impractical. Still, he kept observing. First, the data was valuable. Second, this activity had no external connection; pulsars didn't care about the Imperium, Chaos, or Primarchs. They just rotated—eternal mathematical proofs. Third, he simply liked doing it.
He finished his nutrient paste in 3 minutes and 45 seconds. The container was automatically recycled for cleaning. Calliphone would wake in a few hours, and he would eat with her again. It was her request, and even when he was busy with experiments, she would come to eat with him. Even if he had already eaten, he wouldn't refuse her.
Next was physical maintenance—technically unimportant, as a Primarch didn't need it and Perturabo was only getting stronger. He entered a giant sphere anyway; he'd feel uncomfortable if the routine wasn't completed.
Afterward, he lay on a lounge chair, letting the neural cables work at maximum capacity. This was when his mind was most active. His neurons were incredibly lively following the exertion. He entered a subtle state—a virtual space in his mind—to handle deep-thinking problems that didn't require immediate decisions. Today's topic: optimizing Olympia's long-term energy strategy.
The logic engine ran at full power. Geothermal wells, solar arrays, and fusion reactors were analyzed. He input parameters: 0.7% annual growth, geothermal sustainability of 12,000 years, fusion fuel for 4,000 years.
The timeline rolled forward: 500, 1,000, 5,000, 10,000 years...
The result: Olympia could remain self-sufficient for 8,000 years. By year 8,001, geothermal decay would outpace technological progress. By year 12,000, the system would fail current standards. This wasn't a crisis—12,000 years was a long time.
Primarchs lived for an unknown duration. Perturabo had experimented on his own cells; they didn't shorten with division but self-repaired. They were biological weapons created by the Emperor using Warp power and the peak of material bio-technology. If Primarchs could understand themselves, their strength could increase greatly. They were the ceiling of carbon-based life in the material universe.
Unfortunately, flesh wasn't enough. Warhammer was an idealistic world where the Warp influenced reality. If one were idealistic enough, even a mortal could rival a Primarch, however unlikely.
Perturabo had taken samples from himself for research, but they were rarely used. He simply didn't understand his own biology; it wasn't his specialty. Still, he developed some biotech: gene-enhancement surgeries and life-extension techs. They were relatively simple, low-cost, and had high success rates due to his stable gene-seed. His modified soldiers were certainly stronger than the Solar Auxilia.
What he really craved was the Emperor's technology used to create Primarchs and Custodes—the true peak of dark age bio-tech. The Emperor, a shut-in nerdy tech-geek since ancient Terra, clearly understood Golden Age technology deeply. Who knew how much dark tech was hidden beneath the Imperial Palace?
As the simulation became more detailed, Perturabo withdrew. His processing power was immense, but time was up. The neural cables flew off his head, and a pair of flawless white arms embraced him from behind.
"You're awake, Calliphone. Why didn't you sleep longer? It's still early," Perturabo said softly.
"You're doing this again. You promised to spend the day with me, but you got up secretly again." Calliphone pressed against him, hanging onto his broad back.
"It's a habit. I'll eat with you first. Today, everything is as you wish. We had a deal."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Then let's go out to eat. I want big fish and beast steaks."
"Alright."
"And I want to visit the opera house and the gallery."
"As you say."
"And go swimming at the beach, and fly a ship on the star ring."
"Okay, everything as you wish."
"Then let's go!" Calliphone let go, her small hand pulling his giant one as they set off excitedly.
It disrupted Perturabo's daily plan, but he was happy to let it.