Chapter 28: The Primarch with Problems
The young man studied Omegon carefully. "Uncle, were you testing me during that first game? You didn't play like a beginner. I'm certain of it."
"On the battlefield, you never know what your opponent can do," Omegon said calmly. "Better to be cautious."
"Fair enough. Show me what you've really got."
The black stone clicked onto the board with elegant precision. The youth was finally playing seriously. Omegon's interest sparked immediately. He responded by placing his stone on the star-point.
The game intensified. Move after move, stone after stone, they reached an even match. Omegon mirrored his opponent's style so precisely that they achieved perfect balance. The youth's eyes widened in shock.
He knew his own Go style intimately. Yet his opponent had somehow absorbed and copied it, adapting and refining strategy across the board, deliberately provoking different responses.
The third game began. The youth played white and lost decisively.
Fourth game—another crushing loss.
Fifth game—same result.
Omegon was just beginning to appreciate the youth's Go's strategic depth when the youth abruptly surrendered. He grabbed his things and left for his shift at the bar, muttering curses under his breath. He'd come here to dominate a novice. Instead, he'd gotten humiliated.
He caught her scent before he saw her, perfume carrying a distinctly feminine presence. Omegon watched the woman who'd been following him settle across from him at the game table with easy familiarity.
Her robes covered most of her body, but beneath her hood, he glimpsed remarkable eyes, intelligent, expressive, speaking volumes without words.
They sat in silence for a moment before she spoke with quiet confidence: "I'm decent at Go myself. I'd welcome a game, if you're willing. I don't mind losing."
She placed her opening stone on the star-point.
Omegon matched her immediately, no performance, no deception. She blinked in surprise; apparently, she'd expected something different from him.
As they established the opening formations, Omegon asked casually: "Are there many people like you on Terra?"
The woman answered carefully: "Go professionals? Certainly, there are plenty of skilled players. As for other kinds of expertise..."
She let the implication hang in the air.
Her bearing suggested amusement, yet Omegon studied her with growing certainty. His mind remained calm, his movements economical and precise, signs of serious mental discipline. She'd underestimated his composure.
Omegon suspected she was a psyker, possibly even a powerful one. But investigating didn't interest him. He kept his focus on the game.
They played without further conversation, stone by stone, silence dominating their exchange. When it ended, Omegon accepted his defeat philosophically. The woman was exceptional at Go; her technique transcended mere competence into genuine artistry.
Watching her level of engagement, Omegon exercised his authority with the bar's owner, securing about fifteen advanced Go manuals through implicit leverage. He began studying them while playing successive games against her, his mind simultaneously absorbing theory and analyzing her strategic patterns.
Other patrons watched with amusement as Omegon played Go while consulting instruction books. The woman looked surprised—she'd assumed she was facing another established master.
Yet Omegon's progress was remarkable. He recorded her move sequences, analyzed them against the manuals' frameworks, and constructed an increasingly sophisticated understanding through direct experience.
Game after game, the intensity built steadily.
They played through the evening without stopping, without eating, until Omegon finally achieved victory. The board lay covered in the intricate tapestry of their conflict, black-and-white stones composing a record of intellectual warfare.
The woman examined the board with visible astonishment: "You improved impossibly fast, even for someone like you. You carry yourself like a military, perhaps a seasoned commander who sees warfare in everything."
"You're generous with your words," Omegon replied, not denying it.
Through dozens of games, the two had developed a complete understanding of each other's thinking. The woman across from him was formidable yet fundamentally kind, with such genuine appreciation for life that her defensive instincts prevented her from embracing Omegon's ruthless, casualty-maximizing Go style.
Omegon stood from the table. "We've learned enough about each other through Go. No need to keep playing."
The woman watched him leave without trying to stop him. She remained seated, studying the board of intermingled stones with quiet reflection, then offered herself a rueful smile.
Her Go mastery should have made victory inevitable, except for her fundamental kindness, which created an instinctive aversion to the infinite slaughter that true competition required. She'd defeated herself through mercy.
...
Back at the Alpha Legion fortress, Alpharius had clearly finished his own business and asked no questions about Omegon's extended absence. Both kept their operational secrets, bound by an unspoken agreement not to pry too deeply.
In a brightly lit common room, they settled onto a sofa with steaming coffee while Omegon recounted his street observations. Alpharius waved it away dismissively:
"If people need faith, it should be in the Imperial Truth."
He continued without pause: "But consider Lorgar, Primarch of the Word Bearers, the Seventeenth Legion. He's built what he calls a Perfect City in Monarchia, a world he conquered. The entire city is a religious monument, dedicated to worshipping the Emperor as a god. This has been going on for over a decade."
"I'd estimate the entire planetary population has been swept up in religious fervor. Lorgar has turned himself into a complete fanatic."
Omega frowned openly. "How is that even allowed? I didn't expect a Primarch to do this. We receive explicit instruction about the Imperial Truth, yet Lorgar worships the Emperor exactly like ordinary civilians do."
Alpharius shook his head with evident frustration: "Primarchs don't necessarily follow rational standards. You can't expect them to."
He elaborated: "As for Primarchs, provided they stay within acceptable bounds, the Emperor gives them substantial freedom. It's like His tolerance for xenos tech research; other Primarchs do it covertly. The Emperor's Children are the worst offenders."
"As long as Lorgar doesn't go catastrophically overboard, the Emperor will tolerate the religious fervor. The Great Crusade is the immediate priority. But Lorgar's theological obsession will cause problems eventually."
Omegon dismissed it from his immediate concerns. He could manage his own operations, but not those of the other Primarchs, and this empire wasn't his to command. These complications were the Emperor's strategic problem.
Alpharius, however, harbored genuine concern about the mounting problems afflicting the Imperium, among both general populations and Primarchs.
He extended a proposal: "Tomorrow, I'll introduce you to someone remarkable. The Blood Angels have a fascinating culture. Their internal aesthetics are far superior to the Sons of Horus' predictable victory celebrations."
"Sanguinius commands the Ninth Legion, the most physically beautiful of all Primarchs. You need to meet him." Omegon recognized this as implicit authorization for reconnaissance into Blood Angels operations, though neither considered such infiltration particularly risky.
"If you say that publicly, Fulgrim might object," Alpharius cautioned. "He's built his entire identity around aesthetic perfection and martial honor—a hypocritical facade hiding substantial contradictions."
"Do Fulgrim's legion also experiment with xenos technology?" Omegon asked.
Alpharius's expression showed undisguised contempt. "Hmm, Fulgrim is the opposite of pragmatic. He adorns himself with noble affectations, presenting elaborate displays of artistic sensibility and superficial beauty, all rendered through Imperial symbols."
"His legion contradicts fundamental warfare doctrine through persistent emphasis on chivalric pretense. Yet Space Marines are weapons engineered for warfare; contradiction becomes inevitable."
Alpharius continued with analytical coldness: "The Emperor's Children arrived severely understrength. To achieve expansion, Fulgrim authorized extensive genetic experimentation. His Chief Apothecary, Fabius Bile, has begun integrating xenos genetic material into their enhancement protocols, a catastrophic methodology."
"Xenos' genetic material is fundamentally incompatible with human physiology. The resulting contamination generates progressive mutation and degradation, undermining everything the genetic legacy represents."
"This is why the Alpha Legion pursues purely analytical xenos research. We do not incorporate any xenos genetic material into our enhancement protocols. Consequently, we maintain genetic stability. This isn't philosophy talk, brother, this is survival, you can't gamble on it."
Omegon's expression registered alarm. He identified three problematic Primarchs—Fulgrim, Lorgar, and the unmentioned Angron. His brothers had troubling behavioral patterns.
Considering the magnitude of the risks, Omegon proposed: "The Alpha Legion's gene-seed protocols need enhanced methodology. We must establish superior recovery processes and maintain genetic purity. Our operational chain needs elevated safety protocols, including enhanced success rates and Astartes mortality optimization."
Alpharius looked surprised at Omegon's immediate prioritization. The response reflected pragmatic self-interest focused entirely on the Alpha Legion's welfare, exactly the mentality Alpharius valued.
He responded with satisfaction: "Exactly. That's the right Primarch perspective. I've pursued improvements constantly, but your assessment suggests our current protocols still aren't good enough."
The two sat in comfortable silence, drinking their coffee as Terra's night descended beyond the fortress walls.
Outside, the city continued its endless rhythm, millions of lives pursuing ordinary existence beneath the shadow of great institutions and transhuman warriors who operated by different rules.
[End of Chapter]