Chapter 27: Women and Go
The docking clamps secured with grinding finality as the vessel settled into moorage.
Emerging onto Terra's landing platform, the delegation encountered Alpha Legion Space Marines in distinctive blue-green power armor holding rigid formation.
The return of a Gene-Seed Primarch held profound significance; these warriors had endured Terra's garrison posting, a duty of necessary restraint rather than glorious warfare. The sudden presence of their progenitor stirred something within their enhanced blood.
The fortress corridor descended into shadow, its metallic surfaces bearing the Hydra's characteristic aesthetic, the Alpha Legion's symbol woven into every architectural choice. The heavy concealment spoke of secrets methodically preserved.
Omega spent two or three days in fragmented awareness as Alpharius conducted rapid strategic briefings across Terra's intelligence apparatus. Omega did not attempt to follow.
Instead, he proceeded directly to his quarters—a chamber of austere elegance—and surrendered to restorative sleep.
Upon waking, his transhuman physiology was fully restored.
Omega rose and inspected his surroundings methodically. The fortress layout revealed itself through careful observation: corridors of standardized military efficiency, chambers designed for warriors rather than comfort.
He ventured toward the external perimeter and observed an Alpha Legion Space Marine maintaining guard position at an armored portal. He smiled inwardly, then advanced, his presence diminishing until he became barely noticeable. He simply walked past, erasing himself from the warrior's awareness.
He stood beside the portal. The guardsman's neural recognition failed to register his presence until Omega allowed it.
The Space Marine started violently, his hand instinctively moving toward his weapon before recognition bloomed. "Brother, when did you position yourself there?"
"We are ghosts, are we not?" Omega replied with deliberate levity. "I merely walked past, present and absent, absent and present." The guardsman found himself without adequate response, though his bearing suggested mild exasperation at the demonstration.
"We are all Alpharius," the Space Marine offered, the traditional phrase carrying a tacit warning against frivolous displays.
Omega asked whether the warrior regularly ventured into the planetary cities.
The answer proved unsurprising: commercial supply distributions arrived via logistical channels. Planetary excursion held little appeal for warriors engineered for warfare.
He understood the dynamic instinctively.
An Astartes warrior—standing above two meters in height, encased in powered ceramite—carried inherent intimidation.
Ordinary humans lacked the physical density to weather casual proximity. The chasm was mutual and recognized: Space Marines existed as a caste apart, warriors for whom fragile peace-seekers represented an alien species.
The propaganda portrayed Astartes as superhuman guardians, evolved exemplars of human potential. The reality proved more complex. Space Marines regarded themselves as ascended, superior iterations of humanity.
Ordinary populations and transhuman warriors existed in conscious separation, not enmity, but profound alienation.
'Still...' It seemed wasteful to return to Terra and remain confined to military installations. Omega reconsidered. He exchanged his full power armor for light tactical gear—form-fitting, practical, less obviously bearing the mark of a transhuman warrior.
Within the hour, he had commandeered a flyer and departed.
The aerial traffic thinned as he descended toward a densely populated commercial district. Landing, he immediately drew attention; his stature marked him as military, his bearing unmistakably that of an enhanced warrior.
Pedestrians offered curious, apprehensive glances.
Rather than acknowledge their scrutiny, Omega gradually diminished his presence. The technique manifested in the crowd's selective blindness—their attention flowing past him as though he occupied no psychological weight.
He walked freely now, integrated into the flux of ordinary movement.
He observed their lives with more precision than necessary: their garments, their nutrition, their dwellings, their general demeanor.
Food and material comfort appeared adequate, yet their mental vitality seemed diminished. Anxiety lingered beneath their satisfactory surface.
At a street intersection, Omega overheard middle-aged women discussing something with genuine concern.
Their words circled endlessly around conscripted family members—brothers, sons, husbands drawn into the Imperial Army.
Were they alive?
Had they fallen?
The conversation found no answer, only mutual emotional support and words of consolation.
While few others nearby displayed radiant conviction, a group of roughly a dozen civilians in simple cloth robes had settled upon the street itself, kneeling in organized formation. They chanted in unison, their voices rising in religious liturgy.
The object of their devotion was clear in their fervent words: the Emperor himself, elevated to divinity.
'Religion.' The thought hit him like cold water.
So many years, and still some habits die hard. The Emperor advocated for material truth, rejected superstition, and mandated rational inquiry. The Imperial Truth was supposed to have stamped out this kind of blind fanaticism.
Yet here stood evidence of deification, theological ascension he'd never witnessed in the field.
Omega continued to observe, analyzing the believers' words with enhanced cognition.
He recognized a clear pattern: these individuals had returned from distant colonial worlds, restored to Terra—the primal homeworld, the origin point of human expansion.
The Emperor's unification of scattered humanity resonated with religious fervor. They knelt not from coercion but from visceral gratitude, their worship flowing from genuine ecstasy.
His hand rose automatically, primed for rapid termination, but he held himself back.
'Old habits.' Twenty years of systematic religious demolition across alien territories had conditioned a reflexive response at the very mention of faith-based organizations.
Blow up the shrine. Execute the priests. Move to the next objective.
But reason still halted him mid-motion. These were humans. The Emperor's own people.
'Think, damn it.' Omega considered the theological contradiction in front of him.
Throughout history, emperors and other leaders had cultivated divine imagery and permitted deification as a strategic tool.
The Emperor of Mankind possessed sufficient power and prestige that theological veneration followed naturally, regardless of His materialist philosophy.
Suppressing such worship would require constant intervention, which seemed tactically counterproductive.
Besides, he was on Terra, right under the Emperor's nose. If the Emperor wanted these people dead, he would have handled it himself.
Omega lowered his hand and moved past the kneeling believers, but a voice interrupted him.
A feminine voice—cultivated, carrying unusual resonance—addressed him directly: "You intended to kill them, didn't you? Why? Merely because they venerate the Emperor as divine?"
Omega's defensive awareness triggered instantly.
A woman had somehow penetrated his presence-suppression and perceived him despite his active concealment.
Her appearance matched her voice: tall, graceful, dressed in formal gray robes. Her bearing indicated significant institutional authority.
Her eyes held remarkable depth—dark and starlit, radiating composed intelligence.
Omega calculated rapidly. "I have spent two decades demolishing religious infrastructure across occupied territories. The impulse manifested automatically before I recognized that their deity was the Emperor himself. Obviously, I would not—"
The woman laughed, interrupting him, covering her mouth with evident amusement. "Demolished religious buildings, you say? What an extensive operational summary."
She continued with deliberate provocation: "Yet the Emperor himself promulgates the Imperial Truth. He has never requested that Astartes regard him with theological reverence. You are a Space Marine. Why would you hesitate to execute them if your convictions were genuine?"
Omega narrowed his eyes, evaluating her carefully. "Would you execute them on my behalf?"
"Certainly not. Such matters hold no personal concern for me. I do not indiscriminately eliminate innocents. Why should I perform actions you yourself refuse?"
"I came to this city for leisure, not to generate civil disturbance. Such action would compromise my recreational objectives."
The woman studied him as Omega's internal reasoning crystallized: executing believers beneath Terra's authority—directly under the Emperor's throne-world—would provoke exactly the kind of civil unrest that invited political complications. Only a fool would do something like that with his own hand instead of letting Terra's law enforcers handle it.
'No matter what, the Emperor's authority cannot be undermined—'
The woman's eyes flickered with sudden intensity. "Precisely. You fear public outrage. Indeed, you possess adequate sophistication to avoid such errors."
'Wait. What?' Omega was shocked.
His monologue had been perceived through means he did not understand. His cognition accelerated into defensive posture: a Gene-Seed Primarch should not be susceptible to external psychic penetration.
Yet she had done precisely that.
"You possess telepathic capability," Omega responded with measured intensity. "This qualifies as genuine mastery."
He rapidly concentrated his mind using techniques derived from his studies of Rangdan alien cognition, constructing defensive barriers against external intrusion. The woman watched with evident fascination, her expression shifting toward professional interest.
She stroked her chin thoughtfully. "You defend against my abilities with remarkable efficiency. How have you developed such a capability?"
"Your designation, Woman?" Omega asked, reversing the dynamic. "Among the genetic legacy's ascended lineages, I do not recall your identity."
"A close confidant of the Emperor, I presume. Quite fortunate to encounter such individuals." Omega terminated the conversation politely and disengaged into the crowd's concealing flux.
The woman had proven formidable. Terra apparently harbored multiple entities of genuine power, operating in the shadows.
Behind him, the woman observed his departure with evident satisfaction. She smiled, then proceeded to follow at a careful distance, her own presence similarly diminished.
Omega continued forward, eventually registering that the pursuit had ceased. He proceeded deeper into the commercial districts, finally noting an establishment of particular interest: a gaming house marked with the symbol of 'Go.'
'Now we're talking.' Omega's interest kindled. He entered without hesitation.
The woman arrived moments later, observing the storefront's signage with visible surprise.
'An Astartes engaging in strategic board gaming? Hoo~ This one has some very unusual characteristics, doesn't he?'
Her curiosity deepened even more about this unique Astartes. She followed him inside.
Within the establishment, Omega quickly studied the 30k era Go rules, developing a theoretical framework through accelerated cognition.
When adequately prepared, he identified an available gaming station. A young man, perhaps nineteen years in age, dark-haired, bearing the confidence of practiced skill, occupied the opposing seat.
The youth assessed Omega immediately. "Uncle, should I provide you with four handicap stones?"
Omega was genuinely surprised. 'Bold, is every man with skill on terra like this now I wonder'
"Agreed," Omega responded without hesitation. In warfare, accepting offered advantages represented basic pragmatism.
Omega positioned his four black stones across four star-points with methodical precision. The young man's expression confirmed his internal calculation: exactly as anticipated, a novice's predictable opening.
They began to play.
Stone by stone, Omega's enhanced cognitive architecture memorized the complete move sequence. By mid-game, he had integrated the fundamental counting methodology into his strategic calculus.
The young man's initial confidence deteriorated little by little. By the time the game ended, his movements had become labored, his breathing strained.
Yet his early advantage maintained a sufficient margin. Omega's superior technique arrived too late for a decisive reversal.
"YES!! "The youth achieved victory, exhaling with visible relief. He appeared to have survived an escalating psychological assault, as though his opponent's methodical stone-placement had gradually suffocated his available options.
Omega looked at his opponent calmly. "Another game. No handicap stones this time."
The young man, still recovering his composure, steeled himself for the next game.
[End of Chapter]