Chapter Text
Obyron stood in customary silence as a stream of interstitial glyphs flickered across the edge of his perception. The symbols carried unmistakable signifiers of disbelief and disgust. They originated from technomancer Nyshara, whose patience with the current situation had evidently reached its limits.
He ignored most of them.
Earlier he had already answered her with a single, concise reply: It is the Nemesor’s will. The message had been reinforced with the glyph of dynastic authority, making the matter as clear as it could be.
But crypteks were necrons inclined toward both insolence and eccentricity. Nyshara, like many of her order, seemed constitutionally incapable of letting a matter rest. Her glyphs continued to press for explanations.
Obyron could not entirely fault her outrage. The unclean organism should not have been present within the tomb complex at all. What he found objectionable was not her reasoning but her willingness to openly question the Nemesor’s command.
Nemesor Zahndrekh had ordered that the alien creature be examined by the crypteks of Gidrim. Even Necrontyr infants had sometimes been born afflicted with tumors or other hereditary maladies, and Zahndrekh wished to ensure the health of his unexpected ward.
Fortune, such as it was, had ensured that one of the two crypteks awakened on Gidrim was Ankhyra, a biomancer whose scholarly interests still wandered stubbornly toward biological systems. The Nemesor’s peculiar habits had done little to discourage those pursuits.
Misfortune—at least from her sister Nyshara’s perspective—was that she too had been summoned.
And so the unclean organism now sat upon a dark examination slab whose surface was veined with slow pulses of green energy. Canoptek scarabs crawled around it in careful circuits, their delicate limbs projecting thin beams of analytical light. Sensor arrays extended and retracted in precise mechanical motions as they gathered data.
The infant displayed no sign of fear.
Instead it watched the proceedings with disquieting curiosity, its purple eyes far too alert for a creature so newly born.
They stood within one of the deeper vaults of the tomb complex, chambers reserved for Ankhyra’s various “studies.” The place bore a curious resemblance to the laboratories of the old necrontyr oncomancers and alchemists—institutions Obyron had seldom been allowed to visit during the days of flesh, as befitted his station.
Nemesor Zahndrekh stood beside the slab with his hands clasped behind his back, observing the examination with clear satisfaction. The faint unconscious blinking patterns in his command node arrays betrayed pride, the manner of someone who had brought home a rare and remarkable prize and wished the court to appreciate it.
Ankhyra moved around the slab with fluid precision, directing her scarabs while simultaneously scanning the organism with instruments that emerged from her elongated fingers. She was a slender cryptek, her limbs long and almost delicate compared to the more martial forms of other necrons. Her faceplate was the color of pale bone, framed by shoulder plates that curved upward into hornlike protrusions.
Her single ocular remained fixed upon the infant.
Unlike most crypteks—including her sister—she wore no cloak of articulated tiles. The biomancers had always possessed their own peculiar customs.
Nyshara, by contrast, stood rigid and unmoving near the edge of the chamber. She shared her sister’s pale bone faceplate. Her green ocular burned with quiet hostility as it fixed upon the alien child. If she resented the situation, she could not direct that resentment toward her lord. The infant therefore received the full weight of her silent disapproval.
Where Ankhyra’s frame was slender, Nyshara’s form was heavier and more angular, almost martial in its posture. Her cloak of metal tiles hung behind her in orderly layers that stopped just short of the floor.
Ankhyra leaned closer to the slab until her pale faceplate hovered only a few inches from the infant’s own. Her ocular narrowed as she studied it, the activity of her node arrays increasing steadily.
Obyron noted the growing intensity of her interest with mounting weariness.
Abruptly the biomancer straightened. Her hands came together in a steepled gesture before her ribcage as she turned toward the Nemesor.
“My lord, the…” Her ocular flicked briefly toward Obyron before she corrected herself. “Ward appears to be in fine health. No… tumors are present. Nor any other detectable maladies.”
Zahndrekh clapped his hands together, the impact sending a brief shower of sparks across the chamber.
“Excellent! Excellent indeed,” he declared cheerfully. “Though I had little doubt of it. One can see the quality of noble blood in his very appearance.”
He turned his golden faceplate toward the child. The infant regarded him for a moment with its bright purple eyes, then it smiled.
The expression seemed almost as though it could interpret the blank death mask of the soulless machine who now served as its guardian.
“I must say… it-his robustness is remarkable, even down to the genetic level,” Ankhyra said. Though her voice emerged through a mechanical emitter, a restrained excitement threaded through the words.
“Mmhm,”
Nemesor Zahndrekh acknowledged absently, his attention still fixed upon his new ward.
“What do you mean, cryptek?” Obyron asked through the interstitial link.
Ankhyra’s single ocular snapped toward him.
“He is a carbon-based organism, as we once were,” she replied, her message spilling over with enthusiastic glyphs. “His genetic material follows a helical structure composed of repeating—”
“The point, cryptek,” Obyron interrupted curtly.
Ankhyra paused.
“It is too perfect,” she concluded. “The arrangement is excessively precise to be the product of natural evolution. This organism has been engineered at the genetic level.”
A new glyph accompanied the statement now—trepidation.
Wisely so. Every Necron capable of coherent thought knew which ancient power had once indulged in such sciences.
“Is it a creation of the Old Enemy?” Obyron asked.
Ankhyra seemed to consider the possibility. The node arrays along her back flickered in thoughtful patterns.
“It does not match their typical designs,” she replied. “Their biological constructs followed recognizable patterns, as seen among the Aeldari. Yet the galaxy has changed during the millions of years of our dormancy. It is possible another species has acquired a fragment of their knowledge.”
Obyron regarded the alien infant silently.
It was already an affront that one unclean organism had been permitted to enter Gidrim. If it proved to be a creation of the Old Ones—or worse, a deliberate infiltration—then the insult would become something far more serious.
Had the Necrons truly exterminated every last one of those ancient enemies?
Threat calculations moved quietly through Obyron’s matrices as he continued observing the creature.
One of the scarabs abruptly leapt onto the infant’s leg, its sensors unfolding as it began scanning the pale skin.
The child’s brows furrowed and a small hand lifted indignantly.
Scarabs were diminutive constructs, but they were forged from solid necrodermis. The organism would bruise its flesh… or worse, fracture its fragile bones—
The scarab was launched away with a sharp slap.
Obyron tracked its trajectory with perfect clarity as the small machine struck the high ceiling and clattered down somewhere among the vault’s shadows.
Zahndrekh chuckled.
“A feisty one, are you?” he said warmly. “Already I see the budding strength of a warrior.”
He patted the child’s fair head.
The infant laughed and attempted to grasp the Nemesor’s metal fingers.
“Fascinating,” Ankhyra murmured, both aloud and through the interstitial channel. Her steepled fingers tapped softly together.
“How can you say that?” Nyshara intruded into the link uninvited, as was her irritating habit. “This filthy organism is clearly unnatural, even by alien standards.”
Glyphs of indignation flared around her message. Her green ocular shifted toward Obyron.
“It represents a potential threat to the Nemesor. I have analyzed the pod it arrived in. There are traces of warp sorcery within its systems.”
Obyron’s response came instantly.
“Why did you not report this earlier? Destroy it immediately.”
“Our lord would not comprehend the necessity,” Nyshara replied with haughty satisfaction. “And I have already neutralized it.”
“All matters of security are to be reported to me, Cryptek,” Obyron said sharply, patience thinning.
“And will you dispose of its unclean existence, Vargard?” Nyshara asked. The glyph accompanying the question carried a clear accusation.
“You know that is not the Nemesor’s wish,” Obyron replied.
A glyph of finality sealed the statement.
Nyshara’s ocular narrowed as she fell into simmering silence.
“Well,” Ankhyra observed at last, her attention fixed upon Zahndrekh, “at the very least the organism does not appear hostile toward our lord.”
Across the chamber, Zahndrekh was gently prodding the infant’s soft flesh, apparently attempting to provoke further delighted squeals, which the child obliged enthusiastically.
“Of course you treat the situation with such nonchalance, sister,” Nyshara spat across the interstitial link, glyphs of contempt flaring around the message. “You remain obscenely invested in the biological.”
Ankhyra rolled her single ocular, a gesture inherited from long-forgotten days of flesh.
“And you remain doggedly narrow-minded, dear sister,” she replied coolly. “This organism may hold the key to our improvement once the C’tan’s curse is finally undone.”
“And why should we abandon our perfect immortal forms for the weakness of flesh? It seems your engrams have deteriorated. Do you not remember—”
Obyron severed his connection to the conversation.
When the sisters began one of their disputes, it could persist for an entire year if allowed. Their endless exchanges of barbed arguments and scholarly insults were precisely why they conducted their research in separate vaults of the tomb complex.
“Is there anything else, biomancer?” Nemesor Zahndrekh asked.
He had ceased prodding the alien child and now stood regarding Ankhyra with patient curiosity. Both Crypteks turned their attention toward him.
“No, my Nemesor,” Ankhyra replied with a slight bow. “His health appears adequate. Any further analysis will be conducted in due course.”
Zahndrekh turned his gaze toward Nyshara.
“And what of the vessel that carried him here? Did you uncover anything that might guide us toward his dynasty?”
Nyshara cast a brief glance toward Obyron before answering.
“No, my Nemesor. There was nothing upon the craft that corresponded to any known dynasty.”
Zahndrekh placed a thoughtful hand upon his chin. His glowing oculars focused upon no particular point as he considered the matter.
After several moments his posture straightened and his hands folded neatly behind his back.
“In any case, our ancient customs must be observed,” he declared. “My only regret is that the rest of my court has not yet recovered sufficiently from their indisposition to witness this occasion.”
A slow sense of dread formed within Obyron’s cognition matrices. He had seen that tone in the Nemesor before. Another step along the staircase of madness was about to be taken.
Zahndrekh gestured toward the alien child.
“As he has passed the first rite of examination, and as he clearly bears the marks of noble blood, this young one must be granted a proper name.”
He paused deliberately, clearly savoring the moment.
“He came to Gidrim nameless, without a single glyph to identify the house from which he descends. Yet honor demands a fitting resolution.”
Zahndrekh raised both hands in theatrical declaration.
“I name you Akhenat, young one. May you bring glory and greatness to the Necrontyr!.”
A chill passed through Obyron’s flux core.
Akhenat had been the name of one of the most celebrated war heroes of the Sautekh dynasty. To see such a noble title bestowed upon an unclean organism was a thought he would have preferred never to contemplate.
The child, as though sensing the importance of the moment, began to crawl across the dark examination slab toward Zahndrekh.
Then it attempted something new.
Its small limbs trembled at first as it pushed itself upright. The motion was unsteady, its balance uncertain, yet slowly the organism found strength in its legs. With careful steps it made its way across the slab until it reached the edge nearest the Nemesor.
There it stood, swaying slightly. Then it beamed.
Zahndrekh’s death mask remained as unreadable as ever, but his oculars brightened and the command nodes along his form flickered with quiet satisfaction.
Ankhyra tilted her pale head, her steepled fingers clicking rapidly together in fascination. Nyshara slowly shook her head.
Obyron stood beside his lord in perfect stillness, as he always did.
Within the silent depths of his mind, he could not help but wonder how far this long descent into madness would carry them before it finally came to an end.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Days passed on Gidrim, and more occurred within them than in the preceding decades. The reawakened tomb world, so long steeped in silence and routine, now found itself host to a disruption that neither its ancient systems nor its lord had anticipated.
The Nemesor had declared that every worthy span of his domain would be shown to his new ward, and so Obyron found himself accompanying his lord and the infant through the vaults and halls of the tomb complex.
But to call it an infant was no longer accurate.
The creature grew at an alarming rate. Within a matter of days it had doubled in size and now walked unaided, no longer requiring Zahndrekh to carry it. Ankhyra had described its development as exponential, its cellular activity proceeding at a pace far beyond any natural organism. According to her projections, it would reach maturity in a fraction of the expected time.
Nemesor Zahndrekh, in his peculiar understanding of the world, accepted this as nothing more than a sign of exceptional vitality.
“He will soon begin sparring with you, old friend,” he had remarked with evident satisfaction.
Obyron had not shared his enthusiasm.
To the Nemesor, the child—Akhenat—had become a welcome diversion from the creeping stagnation of Gidrim. He lavished attention upon the creature, guiding it through the tomb’s many chambers and recounting histories long since irrelevant to any living audience.
He had even ordered that the child be properly clothed.
At his command, canoptek scarabs had fashioned garments from preserved textiles stored within Zahndrekh’s so-called hall of antiquities. The result was a crude but recognizable imitation of noble attire from the days of flesh. Draped in such garments, the child bore an unsettling resemblance to a young aristocrat.
Yet the illusion did not hold.
Its pale skin, light hair, and violet eyes marked it as something wholly other. Whatever fragments of memory Obyron retained of the Necrontyr, he knew with certainty that no member of his species had ever resembled this being.
Akhenat was an impostor in every conceivable sense.
The creature moved through the halls without fear. Its steps were light where the Necrons’ were heavy, its presence warm where theirs was cold. It rarely showed signs of fatigue, and when it did, Zahndrekh immediately halted their progress to allow it rest. The rest never lasted long.
Sustenance was another matter. The scarabs, under Ankhyra’s direction, had synthesized a crude nutritional paste from the limited biological resources that existed on Gidrim—resources preserved only because of Zahndrekh’s eccentric demands for “proper living conditions.” The child consumed it without complaint.
Obyron found that detail troubling.
There was no resistance, no hesitation, no sign of dissatisfaction. The organism adapted too easily. He began to consider the possibility that it was not merely surviving, it was observing, learning and waiting.
Already the strength it possessed was disproportionate to its size. On one occasion, driven by apparent curiosity, Akhenat had seized a Canoptek scarab and torn it apart with its bare hands, examining the interior mechanisms with quiet focus.
Obyron had noted the event and made sure he was ready.
As always, he remained close to Zahndrekh. And in those rare moments when the alien was left unattended, Obyron observed it through the eyes of the scarabs.
He did not trust it. Not for a single moment.
To the Vargard’s surprise, the first spoken words of the alien were addressed to him.
Obyron stood his vigil before the entrance to his lord’s personal vault, as he had done for uncounted years. Within, Zahndrekh lay upon a slab of polished obsidian, his form motionless, his oculars dimmed to a faint and distant glow.
The Nemesor had developed the habit of “sleeping,” though no true fatigue ever touched him, and he would remain thus for stretches of time that served no discernible purpose beyond whatever quiet processes occupied his engrams. Necrons did not dream, and yet Obyron often found himself wondering what passed within his lord’s mind in those moments, what echoes of a lost existence might still linger in the depths of that ancient consciousness.
As with all of Zahndrekh’s peculiarities, he accepted it without question and maintained his post with unwavering discipline, accelerating his chronosense so that the passage of time might be rendered tolerable.
Soft footsteps upon the dark stone interrupted the stillness.
Obyron’s awareness sharpened instantly, his circumspection protocols engaging without conscious command. He turned his attention toward the source.
The alien approached from the adjacent vault, its presence already known to him through the silent reports of the tomb’s scrying constructs, yet now made immediate and undeniable in the physical world.
Akhenat came to a halt before him.
The green glow of the vault walls washed over the creature’s pale skin, lending it an almost spectral quality when set against the cold metallic form of the Vargard. A narrow band of gold held back its thick, silvery hair, sections of it intricately braided in a manner that stirred distant and unwelcome recollections within Obyron’s engrams and reminiscent of ancient Necrontyr iconography preserved within Zahndrekh’s halls. The dark tunic it wore, fashioned at the Nemesor’s insistence, clung neatly at the waist and furthered the illusion of nobility, though the illusion itself was a fragile one, easily broken by the undeniable truth of what the creature was.
It regarded him in silence for a moment longer, its violet eyes steady and unnervingly attentive, before it spoke.
“Obyron.”
He had heard his name spoken countless times across since awakening from the Great Sleep, yet never in such a manner.
The voice was soft, melodic, unburdened by the harsh mechanical distortion that characterized necron speech, and for a brief and unwelcome instant something stirred within him. A fragment of memory, indistinct and fleeting, rose toward the surface of his awareness, lingering just beyond comprehension before slipping away again, leaving behind only the faintest impression of something lost. The sensation was profoundly unpleasant, brushing dangerously close to another buried instinct, the phantom echo of needing to breath, and he suppressed it with deliberate force.
“What?”
The word was sharp, edged with irritation. If the creature intended to reveal itself, to act against his lord, then Obyron would welcome the opportunity to respond with finality.
Akhenat did not react to the hostility, and its composure remained unchanged as it continued.
“What are you, truly? And the Nemesor as well.”
The phrasing was precise, and entirely devoid of the halting uncertainty one would expect from something so young. Obyron regarded it in silence for a moment, measuring the question and the intent behind it, before responding in the only way that aligned with both truth and duty.
“We are Necrons,” he said. “Of the Infinite Empire.”
The alien tilted its head slightly, considering.
“Not Necrontyr?”
“The Necrontyr are long dead,” Obyron replied, “We are what remains of them, stripped of flesh and soul alike.”
There was no visible surprise in the creature’s expression, only a quiet absorption of the information as though it confirmed something already suspected.
“What am I, then?” it asked.
Its gaze remained fixed upon him, bright and searching.
“You are unclean,” Obyron answered without hesitation. “An alien organism that has intruded upon Gidrim.”
A faint frown touched the creature’s features.
“You do not like me,” it said. “Nor do the two crypteks. Why?”
Obyron found his patience diminishing. Conversation, particularly of this nature, held little value to him, and the fact that it was being conducted with an alien only compounded his irritation.
“There is no reason for us to welcome your presence,” he said. “You are not necron and do not belong here. Your continued existence within this tomb world is an exception granted by my lord and nothing more.”
The alien’s expression shifted subtly, displeasure evident, though it did not retreat from the exchange. Instead, something sharper entered its gaze, a hint of defiance.
“Tell me,” it said, “if the Nemesor saw reality as it truly is, would he still have me killed when I arrived?”
The answer formed immediately.
Yes.
It was the only logical conclusion. A necron lord in full possession of reason would not have permitted an alien to set foot upon his domain, let alone survive within it. Yet as the thought settled, it failed to remain as absolute as it should have been.
Zahndrekh had never been entirely predictable, even before the long sleep, and the code by which he governed himself had endured where so much else had been lost. If that code remained intact, even when soulless then would accepting that he is a husk now destroy it completely?
The hesitation was brief, but it was there. And the creature saw it.
Akhenat inclined its head in a small, measured gesture that carried an unexpected weight of acknowledgment.
“Good night, Obyron.”
Without awaiting a response, it turned and departed, its footsteps fading once more into the quiet of the tomb as it returned to its chamber.
Obyron resumed his vigil, his posture unchanged, his attention once more fixed upon the sealed vault of his lord.
Yet the stillness did not return.
For a long while afterward, his thoughts remained unsettled, circling back again and again to the same unwelcome consideration, to the question of what had truly been lost in the process of biotransference, and whether anything of worth had survived the transformation at all.