NOVEL NEXT Interlude: A Gift for the Imperium
02:25, March 21, 2295
Tuolumne Meadows, Yosemite Valley, contested territory
The Draconic Engine's targeting systems painted Skarn in crimson light, but the Primarch of Fenris found himself deeply amused.
Across the frozen meadow, Imperial forces had arranged themselves in textbook defensive positions—Bloodtroopers forming interlocking fields of fire, Amber-Eyes perched on elevated positions with their Kinetic Crossbows, and that ostentatious siege tank squatting like a metal toad in the center of it all. Professional. Disciplined. Utterly inadequate.
"The terms are simple, Imperials," Mac Watrous called out, his reedy voice carrying across the battlefield with unnatural clarity. The former professor held a Novian woman by her torn uniform, her head lolling against his shoulder. "Surrender your fertile women to us, and we'll allow the rest of you to flee. Continue this farce, and we follow it to its inevitable conclusion."
"Not a chance, you disgusting fucks!" Iron Roach's Hemorrhagic Shotgun roared, turning three Bone Fiends into steaming meat. The cyborg moved with desperate efficiency, his six hearts pumping combat stims through augmented veins. Around him, the last two dozen Bloodtroopers held their ground with admirable stubbornness.
"Dakai. Who pilots the Draconic Engine?" Skarn demaded as he approached their enemies.
"If my old knowledge as a legion soldier still holds…" The other Draug moved on four like an overgrown alien hound as he mused out loud. "Kaori Ouyang. Quite breedable for her age, though she'd always annoyed me to no end."
From the Draconic Engine's external speakers, Kaori's voice crackled with fury: "Give Marisol back, you alien perverts!"
"My little girl," Mao Dakai rumbled from Skarn's left, his corrupted form a mockery of the warrior he'd once been, "you haven't the faintest idea who you're facing."
Skarn let them posture. Let them rage. At the meadow's far edge, he could see golden energies swirling as Imperial Conjurers worked frantically to complete an escape portal. Prince Joon-Seok stood at their center, his Eclipse psionics weaving complex patterns in the air. They'd already lost—they just hadn't accepted it yet.
"Primarch," Hafgrim's melodious voice drifted from above, where she floated like a nightmare jellyfish, "perhaps a demonstration of your dominance would convince them their resistance is futile?"
"I have just the idea." Watrous approached with theatrical reverence, offering up his captive like a vintage wine.
Skarn extended one of his five phallic tentacles—not his clawed hands, never his hands for this—and plucked Marisol from Watrous's grip. The appendage coiled around her waist, lifting her to eye level. She was pretty enough, he supposed. Dark hair matted with blood, beige skin marked by combat, eyes struggling to focus through what was likely a severe concussion.
"Tell me, Marisol," Skarn's voice rolled across the meadow like distant thunder, pitched to carry to every Imperial ear. "Do you wish to return to your people?"
Her lips parted—to speak, to breathe, it didn't matter. The opening was all he needed.
The tentacle moved with precision, its tip forcing past her teeth before she could even process what was happening. Her eyes went wide, hands clawing weakly at the appendage as it pushed deeper, triggered her gag reflex, pushed past it. The other four tentacles writhed in anticipation, but one would suffice for the demonstration.
As Skarn's tentacle forced its way deeper into Marisol's mouth, her eyes bulged with terror and pain. The more she struggled, the tighter her orifice became around his girth, only serving to heighten his pleasure. Her desperate gagging and the frantic motions of her hands clawing at the constricting appendage only served to excite him further.
The Novian woman's tongue and soft palate massaged his tentacle in ways no human mouth could ever replicate, sending shivers of perverted delight coursing through him.
Deeper and deeper it went, until Skarn felt the tip of his appendage brush against what felt like her stomach. He closed his eyes in ecstasy, savoring the sensation of her helplessness and submission as he continued to violate her very core. The knowledge that every thrust of his tentacle was another blow against her people's pride only heightened his arousal.
Marisol's muffled screams were music to his ears as her small and slender form futilely tried to push him away, but it was no use. She was trapped, just as her people were trapped by the might of his Radi-Mons.
"MARY!" Kaori's scream tore through the night.
The Draconic Engine's primary weapon rotated in his direction. Following an angry whine, the war machine launched a tactical warhead at him.
Yet Skarn's eyes snapped open just in time to lift his palm and invoke. "Járn-önd!"
From beneath his feet, earth surged upward to create a protective wall precisely as the micro-nuke exploded against him. Dust billowed, but as it cleared, no damage had been inflicted upon his resilient carapace—or Marisol's delicate, defiled body within his grasp.
"No…." Kaori's voice was laced with rage as it came from the Imperium siege tank's shell. "NO!!!"
"Your intent was as brave as it was futile." Skarn then angled his body, ensuring every Imperial could see their comrade's violation. The tentacle pulsed, depositing its viscous viral load directly into her. When he withdrew, Marisol doubled over, retching and gasping, a river of sticky white substance flowing out of her mouth, dripping onto the bloodied ground.
"Forty-eight hours," Skarn announced, dropping her into the snow, voice dripping with malevolent taunt. "That's how long she has before the transformation completes. Take her in this blessed state. Consider it a gift from the Fenris Horde."
The battlefield erupted. Kinetic bolts and psionic energies converged on his position. Skarn weathered it all, his regenerative tissues already healing the minor wounds. Around him, his forces surged forward—not to overwhelm, but to play with their prey, to demonstrate the futility of resistance.
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"Joon-Seok, you fancy pants!" Iron Roach's voice cut through the chaos. "Portal! NOW!"
The Prince of Choson abandoned subtlety, pouring raw power into the incomplete golden gateway. It flared to life—unstable, temporary, but functional. Bloodtroopers began falling back in good order, laying down covering fire as they retreated.
"Should we stop them, Primarch?" Ulrik's measured bass rumbled from behind a shattered boulder.
"Let them run." Skarn watched Iron Roach scoop up Marisol's convulsing form, the cyborg's augmented strength making easy work of the burden. "Where can they go that we cannot follow? Where can they hide that the Moondust Crystal will not reveal them?"
The last Imperials vanished through the portal, Joon-Seok maintaining it until the final second before diving through himself. The gateway collapsed, leaving only the Fenris Horde and the bitter taste of smoke in the mountain air.
Silence settled over the meadow, broken only by the wet sounds of Bone Fiends feeding on Imperial corpses.
"Your theatrical nature is noted," Ulrik observed, standing tall. The Kynvakt's armor caught the moonlight, blue runes pulsing with power.
"Theater has its purposes." Skarn's tentacles retracted, coiling back around his waist. "Terrified enemies make poor decisions. That one will spread through their ranks, poisoning morale more effectively than any direct assault."
"You enjoyed it, milord." Watrous added with a knowing leer. "The look in her eyes when she realized what was happening…exquisite!"
Skarn didn't deny it. Let them think him driven by base desires. The truth was more complex and far more dangerous. Every woman he infected was a potential Hundkynda, yes, but more importantly, each carried his genetic markers. Even if by some unlikely that the mortals prevailed and slayed him, those markers would matter. The Fenris Primarch's legacy shall endure, no matter the outcome.
"The Jokull performed adequately," Hafgrim noted, settling to the ground with grace. "Astrid's intelligence about these Imperial's positions proved accurate."
"Speaking of our icy allies," Dakai growled, "what of their little spat with the Emerald Directorate forces? My Sky Shredders report the Yosemite shard has already left the valley."
"But let the humans chase their fragments." Skarn said, surprising them all. "The Crystal's consciousness has already touched my mind. It wants to be whole again, and when it is..." He trailed off, remembering that psychic contact, the vast intelligence that had whispered promises of dominion.
"Then why did we come here, mirlod?" Watrous asked, genuinely puzzled.
"To remind them they're prey," Ulrik answered when Skarn didn't. "To ensure they spend resources defending against us rather than seeking the remaining shards."
"Partially correct." Skarn turned from the bloodied meadow, beginning the trek back to their temporary nest. "But also because I wanted to see how our supposed allies would perform. The Jokull failed to secure their objective, distracted by..." He paused, amused. "Personal interests, apparently."
"That Ísmarr bitch," Watrous's tone dripped disdain. "Astrid. She captured some Directorate nobody instead of pursuing the Yosemite shard."
"Did she now?" Skarn's interest sharpened. Dissension in Jokull ranks could be useful. "And what became of our distracted Ísmarr?"
"Confined to her laboratory, last I heard," Hafgrim reported. "Working on something involving the Lotus variant. Maren allows it because—"
"Because Maren is more desperate than she admits," Skarn finished. "The Jokull lack numbers. They lack the infrastructure we've built on Mars. They have clever tricks and wit, but against the combined human forces?" He gestured at the abandoned Imperial equipment. "Even these dregs held their own until I intervened."
They walked in companionable silence for a time, passing through groves transformed by the Jokull presence. Ice formations that defied natural explanation, thermal vents that had frozen solid, wildlife fled or transformed into newer, hungrier shapes.
"What of the other one who fought you?" Watrous eventually asked. "The Rakshasa whore—Kathrin. My Skuggr searched their wormhole's terminus, but found only that gray hellscape."
"Shashan," Skarn provided. "The Rakshasa's defended their hidden moon well enough. Let them rot there. Moro's children have played at neutrality too long. When we hold the complete Crystal, they'll kneel or burn like the rest."
"They've smuggled her away." Hafgrim's monstrous eyes narrowed as she floated on the side. "No doubt under the delusion that Kathrin may somehow be resurrected."
"The Hivemind may have opinions about that," Ulrik noted carefully.
Skarn's laugh was like breaking bones. "The Hivemind speaks to me less and less these days. Strange, isn't it? As if something else has begun filling that silence."
His lieutenants exchanged glances but said nothing. They'd all felt it—the growing distance from the collective consciousness that had birthed their hordes. Where once the Hivemind's presence had been constant, now there were gaps. Silences. And in those silences, other whispers grew.
"The humans mobilize," Dakai reported, ever focused on immediate threats. "My scouts report increased activity at major settlements. They know we're here now."
"Good." Skarn's orange eyes fixed on the distant peaks where the Crystal's primary mass lay hidden. "Let them gather their forces. Let them form their alliances and make their desperate plans. When I claim what's mine, their unity will become their weakness."
"And Sigrún?" Hafgrim asked with feigned casualness. "Your obsession with the Nordling woman remains...notable."
Skarn's tentacles writhed—the only sign of his agitation. "Sigrún Fjeld is with my child. She wears a fragment of the Moondust Crystal around her neck. Her father created the artifact to defy fate itself. She is not an obsession—she is an inevitability."
"Of course, Primarch," Hafgrim demurred, but her tri-fold eyes gleamed with private knowledge. "Would you care to speak to Maren or her underling that lost us the Yosemite shard?"
"Soon." Skarn said simply. "I require a few Martian days to review our troops. Then, I will return to collect—whatever that Ísmarr is up to." He turned to Ulrik and Watrous then, commanding. "You will come with me."
"It should be an honor." Watrous said as he and Ulrik both bowed their heads deferringly.
Let them scheme, Skarn thought. Let them all pursue their petty objectives. Watrous with his delusions of revolution, Hafgrim with her ancient grudges, Dakai with his endless appetite, even Ulrik with his rigid honor. They were tools, nothing more. When the Crystal sang its full song, when reality itself bent to his will, he would discard or elevate them as suited his purposes.
But first, there was Mars to return to. Forces to marshal. And a very specific appointment to keep.
"Signal the hordes to depart Earth and rally on Mars," he commanded as they approached the Ormheimr portal shimmering between two twisted pines. "The next phase begins soon."
As his lieutenants moved to comply, Skarn allowed himself a moment of anticipation. The Imperials would treat their infected operative, of course. But the seed was planted—fear, doubt, the knowledge that nowhere was safe from his reach.
And somewhere out there, Sigrún was with his offspring. The Crystal fragment at her throat would call to its greater self eventually. She could run to the edge of the system, and still, she would return to him.
They always did, in the end.
The portal swallowed them one by one, leaving Yosemite to its new silence. Behind them, the meadow lay scarred and blackened, Imperial blood freezing in abstract patterns across the snow. By dawn, even those marks would be gone, covered by fresh snowfall.
But the message had been delivered. The game's parameters had been established.
Now all that remained was to play it to its conclusion.