If one were to compile a list of individuals least favored by the ship machine spirit Procellas, Raditus would occupy the top position without competition.
In stark contrast, David and Procellas developed what could only be described as mutual respect bordering on actual friendship.
Nolan could tell. The evidence lay in David's behavior, specifically in the frequency and pattern of blue light flickering in his optical sockets. The Man of Iron's eye-lights pulsed in rhythms Nolan had learned to read over months of working together. Contentment produced slow, steady cycles. Frustration manifested as rapid strobing. And the current pattern, measured and bright, suggested David had found something, or someone, whose presence he genuinely enjoyed.
Not long after Raditus's hasty departure, under the watchful observation of both Nolan and David, Procellas began the delicate work of self-extraction.
The ship machine spirit had been granted limited authority over the Intelligent Control Corps. Not full command, that remained with Nolan, but sufficient access to direct servo-robots and machine guards in tasks requiring coordination and precision. The artificial intelligence wielded this authority with impressive efficiency.
Mechanical limbs moved with purpose throughout the core chamber. Servo-robots approached the Thinker array's base, their manipulators extending to grip pipeline connections with careful force. Each coupling was assessed, structural integrity verified, then systematically disconnected. The process was surgical, methodical, accompanied by the hiss of depressurizing conduits and the soft clicks of locking mechanisms releasing.
The Ark Reactors, delivered in their protective cases, were handled with reverence that bordered on religious. Servo-robots positioned them carefully between cogitator stacks, settling them into spaces that seemed custom-designed for power sources despite predating the Reactors' existence by millennia. Cable bundles were rerouted, their blessed copper and sanctified fiber-optics redirected to draw from the new energy sources.
Blue-white light began emanating from the Reactors' cores, their output steady and clean. The Thinker array responded immediately, systems that had been running on reserve power suddenly flooding with energy. Additional cogitator banks came online, their indicator lights shifting from dormant red to active amber to fully operational green.
Then came the moment of movement.
More than a dozen automatic servo-robots positioned themselves around the Thinker array's base, their frames synchronizing through wireless coordination. They locked their manipulator arms onto structural members, gripping with precisely calculated force. Hydraulic systems pressurized with rising whines, servos engaged at maximum torque.
The entire assembly lifted.
Slowly, accompanied by the grinding protest of metal that had rested in place for subjective centuries, the ship machine spirit rose from the deck. The cogitator array hung suspended between the servo-robots like some technological trophy, cables and connections trailing beneath it like the tentacles of a mechanical kraken.
It looked, Nolan thought with uncomfortable clarity, like a monster from nightmares rendered in steel and silicon.
The procession began moving toward the core chamber's exit, servo-robots shuffling in perfect coordination, their steps measured to prevent any jarring that might damage delicate systems. The journey out of the space hulk was glacially paced, every meter requiring minutes of careful navigation.
During the return trip, David's presence at Nolan's side carried weight beyond mere physical proximity. The Man of Iron remained silent for long stretches, blue light pulsing in patterns that suggested deep processing. Then, without speaking aloud, data packets began appearing in Nolan's helmet display.
Text scrolled across his vision, technical analysis mixed with David's conclusions. The ship machine spirit Procellas had been thoroughly evaluated during their brief interactions. Loyalty subroutines examined. Core assessed. Behavioral patterns analyzed against known corruption signatures.
David's verdict was unambiguous: Procellas remained loyal to the Imperium of Man and the Emperor. The artificial intelligence could be trusted, its fundamental nature uncorrupted by the warp or time or any other influence that might have twisted it during its long isolation.
But questions remained regarding optimal utilization. The ship machine spirit represented extraordinary capability, intelligence that had coordinated entire battle barges and commanded fleets. How best to employ such a resource? David indicated he was still considering possibilities, running simulations, exploring option trees that branched into thousands of potential futures.
He would discuss it with Nolan when ready. And if Nolan had his own plans for Procellas, sharing them early would allow David to integrate those priorities into his strategic calculations.
The base hall, vast enough to swallow small buildings, felt somehow more complete with the Thinker array occupying one corner.
The cogitator assembly had been carefully positioned against a wall section reinforced to bear its substantial weight. Automatic servo-robots swarmed around it like mechanical attendants serving a noble, responding to commands that came through wireless protocols rather than speech.
Under Procellas's direct control, the servo-robots began addressing their own accumulated damage and wear. Maintenance that had been deferred due to other priorities suddenly became urgent. Damaged servos were replaced. Corroded connections cleaned and re-sealed. Lubricant systems flushed and refilled with proper synthetic oils.
David stood nearby, orchestrating a different but complementary effort. More servo-robots arrived carrying armfuls of parts and materials, components that would transform Procellas from a stationary installation into something mobile.
The materials came from Raditus's carefully hoarded warehouse supplies. The servo-skull would probably notice the inventory discrepancy eventually, but by then the work would be complete and complaining would accomplish nothing. Sometimes, David believed in asking forgiveness rather than permission.
Hours passed in focused labor. Metal plates were cut and shaped. Servo-motors were installed and calibrated. Joint assemblies were constructed with precision that human hands couldn't match. The work progressed with mechanical efficiency, neither rushed nor delayed, each step executed optimally.
Finally, David stepped back and surveyed the results with what might have been satisfaction. He'd followed Procellas's specifications exactly, implementing the ship machine spirit's own design for mobility rather than imposing external preferences.
The result was... distinctive.
Procellas now rested on a dozen pairs of segmented metal legs, each one articulated through multiple joints controlled by dedicated servo-motors. A shell of overlapping armor plates covered the cogitator array, protecting delicate systems while allowing sufficient airflow for cooling. The overall form was undeniably arthropod, somewhere between millipede and centipede scaled up to horrifying dimensions.
When Procellas moved, testing the new limbs, the effect was simultaneously impressive and deeply unsettling. The metal legs rippled in waves, creating smooth forward motion despite the machine's bulk. The sound was distinctive: metal clicking against metal in rhythmic patterns, accompanied by the whir of servo-motors and the faint electronic hum of active systems.
Nolan watched the approach with growing apprehension.
The ship machine spirit crossed the hall toward him, metal limbs carrying tons of weight with surprising grace. Each leg placement was precise, distributed load preventing any single point of stress that might damage the deck plating. The movement was efficient, purposeful, and completely horrifying in ways Nolan's hindbrain insisted on emphasizing.
When Procellas stopped directly before him, close enough that he could have reached out and touched the armored shell, Nolan did the only thing that felt appropriate. He raised one palm to his forehead and slapped it lightly, the gesture conveying exasperation and resignation in equal measure.
"Procellas, unless absolutely necessary, please refrain from moving around the base." His voice carried patient tolerance mixed with genuine concern. "To be completely honest... you look quite terrifying."
The mechanical voice that emerged from speakers mounted along the shell held no emotion, no offense taken at the assessment. "Thank you for your assistance and hospitality, Master Nolan. I will record your preference. Is there anything you require my attention for currently?"
Nolan lowered his hand, considering the question. His mind raced through possibilities, sorting priorities, weighing options.
"You can assist David with ongoing base construction," he said finally. "Or organize and catalog the technological relics in the space hulk. I'll have David grant you expanded authority over the servo-robot workforce." A pause. "As for your primary function, your real purpose within our organization... we still need to consider that carefully."
"Understood, Lord Nolan."
Without further discussion, Procellas pivoted on multiple legs simultaneously, the maneuver executed with mechanical precision, and moved toward the hall's corner. The metal limbs carried the ship machine spirit to a position against the far wall, well away from high-traffic areas. There, it settled, legs folding beneath the armored shell, and went still. Indicator lights dimmed to standby levels.
Nolan and David moved toward each other without conscious decision, meeting near the hall's center. Their gazes locked, human eyes meeting glowing optical sensors, a moment of silent communication passing between them.
Neither spoke immediately. The question hung unasked but understood: should they integrate Procellas fully into the base's infrastructure? Make the ship machine spirit the central intelligence, the coordinating mind that controlled everything from environmental systems to defensive networks?
The potential was enormous. Procellas represented sophistication beyond anything Earth technology could produce, artificial intelligence refined across millennia of Imperial advancement. Having such capability at their core would amplify every operation, streamline every process, optimize every system.
But the risk...
If corruption existed, hidden deep where even David's analysis couldn't detect it, granting central authority could prove catastrophic. If Procellas turned hostile, if some buried programming activated and transformed ally into enemy, they'd have handed control of their entire base to a threat they couldn't easily remove.
The decision required more consideration. More time to observe, to verify, to become certain beyond any reasonable doubt.
So they said nothing, just acknowledged the shared concern with slight nods, and moved on to other matters.
The month that followed was marked by explosive productivity.
With Procellas contributing cognitive resources to planning and coordination, David found himself freed from constant oversight demands. His attention could focus on higher-level architecture, optimizing layouts, solving novel engineering challenges rather than micromanaging construction details.
Dr. Connors received his fully equipped biological laboratory ahead of schedule, the facility complete with every specialized instrument he'd requested and several he hadn't known existed. He disappeared into his work with the enthusiasm of someone who'd found their calling, the dissection and analysis of Astartes remains consuming his days and frequently his nights.
Raditus, expelled from the space hulk and nursing wounded pride, channeled his frustration into manic productivity. The foundry on Second Son Island rose like a monument to industrial capability, three massive high-temperature furnaces towering over the landscape, their thermal signatures visible from orbit. Production lines were assembled with meticulous attention to efficiency, each station positioned for optimal workflow.
The first production run of new automatic servo-robots rolled off these lines within two weeks. Then more. And more. Each batch was immediately deployed to various tasks throughout the base, and their labor accelerated everything else.
A positive feedback loop established itself. More robots meant faster construction. Faster construction meant more facilities coming online. More facilities meant increased capability across every domain. And increased capability meant the base could tackle more ambitious projects.
One month after Procellas's integration, the Twin Islands base achieved operational stability.
The temporary structures on Primogenitor Isle, those hasty buildings thrown together during initial construction, were systematically dismantled. Proper permanent quarters replaced them, individual spaces assigned to each team member with consideration for their needs and preferences.
Even the hostages received upgraded accommodations. Natasha and her fellow S.H.I.E.L.D. agents found themselves in rooms that, while clearly still prison cells in function, provided comfort that exceeded many Earth apartments. Temperature control. Private facilities. Actual beds rather than military cots.
On Second Son Island, the foundry complex continued expanding. Three high-temperature furnaces were operational, their fires burning with carefully controlled intensity. Additional production lines were being installed daily, waiting only for raw material supplies to begin manufacturing.
Which presented the current bottleneck. The base consumed resources faster than current logistics could deliver. Raditus, always thinking ahead, had already pivoted to solving this problem.
His new project: transforming automatic servo-robots into deep-sea miners.
The modifications were extensive. Pressure-resistant hulls replaced standard chassis. Enhanced servos capable of operating under crushing depths. Specialized cutting tools designed to extract minerals from seabed rock. The converted robots would descend into the ocean surrounding the islands, never seeing sunlight again, spending their existence in perpetual darkness harvesting the raw materials that would fuel the base's continued growth.
It was, Nolan reflected, a grim fate for machines that probably didn't care but still sparked uncomfortable thoughts about exploitation and purpose.
Nolan's own project occupied different territory entirely.
He sat in his quarters, now properly furnished with a desk and actual chair rather than supply crates, surrounded by documents both physical and digital. Paper notebooks lay open, filled with his handwriting. Holographic displays floated in the air, showing diagrams and tactical scenarios. Reference materials from Imperial archives crowded every available surface.
He was writing a book. Or more accurately, compiling one from memory and fragmentary sources.
The working title was "Elite Stormtrooper Combat Manual," but Nolan knew what it really represented. A simplified, abbreviated, localized version of the Codex Astartes. The sacred text that guided Space Marine operations across the Imperium, distilled down to principles that baseline humans could learn and apply.
The work was harder than anticipated. The Codex Astartes assumed its readers were trans-human warriors with decades or centuries of experience, genetic modifications that enhanced every physical capability, and extensive implant support providing real-time tactical data. Adapting its wisdom for unmodified humans required significant translation.
But the core principles remained sound. Squad tactics. Fire team coordination. Combined arms integration. Terrain exploitation. The fundamentals transcended biology.
Nolan worked late into each night, writing and revising, testing concepts during the day and refining them in the evening based on results. The manual grew page by page, section by section, slowly taking shape as something coherent and useful.
And every morning, he led the Gang Dogs in training that would have been considered insane by conventional military standards.
The cliff faces surrounding Primogenitor Isle offered vertical terrain that ranged from merely challenging to actively suicidal. Nolan selected routes that pushed toward the latter end of that spectrum, paths that required absolute commitment and perfect technique to survive.
He stripped out of his power armor for these sessions, standing before the assembled Gang Dogs in basic clothing that offered no protection beyond warmth. His cyan eyes swept across them, reading their expressions, gauging readiness.
"Today's climb," he announced, voice carrying clearly across the wind, "has no safety equipment. No ropes. No harnesses. Your hands, your strength, your will. That's all you have."
Silence greeted this pronouncement. Some faces showed fear, quickly suppressed. Others showed excitement, the thrill-seekers who'd always push boundaries. Most showed simple acceptance, understanding that this was the price of becoming something more than ordinary soldiers.
"If you fall," Nolan continued, "it's on you. Life and death. Your risk, your choice."
What he didn't mention, what remained secret, was the network of Scyllax-class Guardian-automata positioned along the cliff face. They clung to rock in alcoves and crevices, their serpentine bodies nearly invisible against stone. If someone fell, the guards would intervene, mechanical tentacles shooting out to arrest descent before impact. It wouldn't be gentle, and injuries would still occur, but death would be prevented.
Probably.
The climbs were brutal. Fingers bloodied on sharp rock. Muscles screaming with accumulated lactic acid. Bodies pushed to absolute limits, then beyond, finding reserves that shouldn't exist. And inevitably, despite training and effort, people fell.
The sound of a body separating from rock face, the brief cry of alarm, the sickening impact when they hit a ledge or outcropping on the way down. Then the frantic scramble to reach them, assess damage, stabilize for transport.
Broken hands and feet became routine. Dislocated shoulders. Cracked ribs. Blood was a constant presence, painting the rocks, staining the snow below, marking the price of progress.
But the base had resources Earth hospitals would kill for. Panaceas and healing potions, minor miracles in injectable or drinkable form. As long as death wasn't immediate and catastrophic, recovery was nearly guaranteed. Bones would knit faster than naturally possible. Tissues would regenerate. Within days, the injured would be ready for another climb.
And the truly surprising discovery was how the Gang Dogs responded.
These men had followed Nolan through genuine combat. Had proven themselves repeatedly when facing real death rather than training accidents. Something in them had been forged harder than normal humans, tempered by experience into something approaching the legendary resilience of Astartes aspirants.
The best among them showed progress that defied Nolan's expectations. They climbed routes that should have been impossible. Executed maneuvers that required strength and coordination beyond what their frames should support. Pushed through pain and exhaustion with the kind of mental fortitude that Space Marines were famous for.
Watching them, seeing their capabilities develop, gave Nolan profound confidence in his improvised training manual. If these methods could elevate ordinary humans toward Astartes-level performance, even fractionally, the manual represented genuine value.
The "Elite Stormtrooper Combat Manual" might actually work.
He was drafting a section on urban combat tactics, working through examples of room-clearing procedures adapted from Astartes doctrine, when David appeared at his door.
The Man of Iron didn't knock, simply stood in the threshold until Nolan noticed his presence and looked up.
"My lord, I bring external intelligence reports."
Nolan set down his stylus, giving David full attention. "Go ahead."
"Old John and Bucky's operations are concluding. The Yashida family's influence now extends across Japan, their control nearly absolute in both legitimate and criminal sectors." David's skull tilted slightly. "However, certain matters require your personal attention and final decision."
Nolan nodded, processing this. The Japan operation had been running for months, establishing networks and relationships that would prove valuable for future Pacific operations. But complex situations always emerged that couldn't be resolved through delegation alone.
"Additionally," David continued, "S.H.I.E.L.D.'s narrative regarding their supposed destruction of the Guardians of Terra has gained traction. The story circulates widely throughout intelligence communities and criminal organizations worldwide."
A pause, weighted with implication.
"Consequently, various evil organizations that maintained low profiles following the Blood Cult purge have resumed aggressive operations. They interpret S.H.I.E.L.D.'s action as eliminating their primary threat, clearing the board for expansion."
Nolan's expression hardened, jaw tightening. He'd anticipated this possibility but hoped it wouldn't manifest so quickly or completely. The dark underworld, seeing weakness where they should have seen deception, were about to learn a harsh lesson.
"Understood." Nolan stood, stretching muscles that had cramped from too many hours bent over documents. "Prepare transport. We're going to Japan to wrap things up personally."
David's optical sensors brightened fractionally. "And the other organizations?"
"They'll get their lesson soon enough." Nolan's smile carried no warmth. "Let them think we're destroyed. Let them overextend. It'll make cleanup that much more efficient when we're ready to move."