The transformation of the Iron Fist fortress progressed faster than Nyx had anticipated. Under the guidance of his 'remarkable wisdom', this once-derelict waste-pile was marching towards modernisation at an unprecedented pace.
The breakthroughs in technical infrastructure were inseparable from the contributions of Techmarine Bryce. That brilliant savant — so often compared, unfavourably, to a certain greenskin — was finally able to raise his cranial casing in pride, his genius vindicated by the fortress's reformation.
The entire stronghold now enjoyed round-the-clock illumination, becoming one of the few patches of clean, stable light in the underhive. Through Bryce's tireless efforts, the base had also constructed a fully functional water recycling system, and had achieved preliminary food self-sufficiency.
The fortress's surplus power generation was concentrated in Nyx's experimental agricultural zone, where edible fungi — specially adapted for hive conditions — flourished in abundance. A month and a half had passed since Nyx had seized this fortress.
"Chestnut. Today, you will accompany me on an inspection of the fortress's development."
"Yes... As you command! Truthfully, Space King!"
Chestnut was so overcome with excitement he nearly devolved into incoherence. Fortunately, his Astartes instincts allowed him to rapidly suppress the surging spike of adrenaline.
At 0800 hours, the rebels' day began in earnest. Chestnut first led Nyx to the fortress's weapons manufactory.
The factory floor had been designed and laid out entirely by Nyx himself. Components churned out by machine-tools were assembled along clearly demarcated conveyor lines. The entire process was so streamlined that even an Ork could manage it without difficulty.
However, due to chronic material shortages, the factory could currently produce only solid-projectile weapons and conventional close-combat arms. Las-weaponry and power armour remained distant, unattainable dreams.
According to intelligence Nyx had gathered over recent weeks, the key materials required for the production of solid-projectile weaponry were strictly monopolised by the noble houses of the upper hive — a vital mechanism for keeping the underhive's denizens in check.
Recent rebel reconnaissance of the local black market had confirmed that even the most secretive trading channels could supply only a handful of decaying, salvaged lasguns. While the lasgun would one epoch be celebrated as the 'AK-47 of the 41st Millennium', in the late 30th Millennium it was far from ubiquitous — particularly in the underhive.
Old Man Yellow... when are you going to show up? I'm really quite poor right now. Nyx sighed inwardly.
Another day, another yearning for the Emperor.
As he moved deeper into the manufactorum, Nyx noted a distinct improvement in the workers' morale and mental disposition. What caused his eye to twitch, however, was the discovery that every single completed weaponbore an engraved emblem: the sigil of the Space King.
"Chestnut. I do not recall authorising these decorations."
"Indeed, sire. However, upon Blazing Hatred's earnest recommendation, Bryce incorporated these embellishments."
"And... I believe the people appreciate them. To behold your heroic aspect, Space King — it grants them peace of mind."
Nyx pressed his palm to his forehead. He understood his men's sincere intentions. Yet, with an Imperial Expedition Fleet inevitably bound for Nostramo, such practices would be regarded as... problematic. The promotion of a 'Space King' cult within Imperium territory was rather begging for Inquisitorial attention.
"Instruct Bryce to return the design to its original state immediately!"
"And... the weapons already produced?"
"Leave them. As keepsakes for the rebels."
Nyx ultimately decided to permit the existing weapons to remain. They served as spiritual comfort for his followers — and he could, perhaps, keep these particular arms discreetly out of Inquisitorial sight.
Next on the inspection itinerary was the Xenos Cognitive Indoctrination Course, conducted by Blazing Hatred. Gone were the days of grinding labour from dusk until dawn; the rebels now experienced the unfamiliar anxiety of light work, troubled by the suspicion that they might not deserve this hard-won existence.
Reduced working hours did not equate to idleness. Nyx had meticulously designed an ideological education programme — a 'Thorough Extermination of Xenos Filth'lecture series, expertly delivered by Blazing Hatred. The content was, in fact, a carefully repackaged psychological conditioning course with significant brainwashing-adjacent elements.
Each week, rebels who had completed their assigned duties gathered in the plaza to receive educational materials regarding the xenos threat. Blazing Hatred would expound at length upon the weaknesses of various alien species, interspersed with practical instruction in weapons employment.
Prior to the course's inauguration, Nyx had conducted an extensive private conference with Blazing Hatred. He had excised a substantial volume of content pertaining to 'human racial supremacy' — he had no desire to replicate the hellish opening scenes of the Space King animation.
Nevertheless, Nyx fully endorsed the course's curriculum regarding the genocide of xenos species. In this dark millennium, the eldar, the ork, and even the cat-eared 'xenos' were frequently far more savage than baseline humanity could conceive.
Falling into their clutches and being directly consumed as nutrient stock was often the most mercifuloutcome. Countless others suffered eternities of unending torment, offered as sacrifices to the unnameable things of the Warp.
With the commencement of the day's session still some way off, Chestnut escorted Nyx to the Captain's training grounds. The stoic veteran was instructing the rebels in close-quarters battle drills, conducting live-fire exercises amid the Nostraman wastes. The hunting of local megafauna was, of course, merely a means to an end — the true objective was the enhancement of combat effectiveness.
"Glory to the Space King!" The instant the Captain registered Nyx's arrival, he abandoned his bolt-pistol mid-drill and snapped to attention, rendering a flawless salute.
"How progresses the training?"
"Report, Space King! Currently, approximately three hundred soldiers are rated combat-ready. At present pace, the secondary expansion of Hive City may commence within one week."
Nyx held the Captain's capabilities in the highest esteem. Long before their arrival in this timeline, the veteran had demonstrated exceptional proficiency in coordinating the remaining three members of his squad. His reliability was beyond question.
The Captain is perfectly adequate. He simply has an... unusual fixation on periodically enquiring, via increasingly elaborate hypotheticals, regarding Nyx's willingness to deploy exterminatus-grade ordnance upon him.
The Captain desires Nyx to personally atomise him with a vortex munition. His entire worldview appears to revolve around this singular objective.
"Excellent. Continue in this manner. One day, every corner of Nostramo shall sing of our legend!"
Having dispensed his daily allocation of inspirational rhetoric, Nyx retreated into the fortress's depths, pursued by the Captain's reverent, lingering gaze.
The chamber at the corridor's end served as his personal study. Beneath it, concealed by a slab of plasteel accessible only via electromagnetic field manipulation, lay his subterranean sanctum.
The hum of machinery and the crackle of power couplings echoed through the secret chamber. This adamantium-shielded space was known only to Nyx and his four principal lieutenants. Within was arrayed a comprehensive suite of experimental bio-engineering equipment, all fabricated by Nyx himself.
As the Eleventh Primarch, Nyx had inherited the Emperor's genius for biological sciences. When combined with the extensive knowledge-base bequeathed by the Space King, he ranked among the foremost masters of biotechnology in the entire galaxy.
I am truly unstoppable without the Emperor's supervision!
It is time to rectify certain... heretical proscriptions instituted by the Emperor...
Heh heh. I shall forge a Sisters of Battle order in the 30th Millennium... No! This shall be the Little South chapter of the Adepta Sororitas!
Aboard the Bucephelus, the Master of Mankind experienced an inexplicable spike in his core temperature. After a moment's cursory auspex-scan of the Warp, the Emperor accelerated his search parameters for the Eleventh Primarch.
Nurgle: I told you! That boy is destined to be mine!