Nolan had deciphered Raditus's true agenda easily enough.
The servo-skull's rambling explanation, delivered with apparent casualness, contained substantial verbal padding designed to obscure a simple core objective. All the technical details about pressure tolerances and excavation depths and servo-robot attrition rates served as elaborate camouflage for one basic desire.
Raditus wanted Magnum assigned to mining operations.
The strategy was transparent once recognized. Deploy the mudman to the seabed, far from the foundry, accomplishing two goals simultaneously. First, dramatically increased mineral acquisition through Magnum's earth-sense abilities. Second, and probably more important to the tech-priest, complete separation from Jessica's constant presence and endless questions.
A perfect plan from Raditus's perspective. Kill two birds with one stone, as the saying went.
Nolan saw no reason to object. At minimum, the servo-skull had learned to request authorization rather than simply acting on impulse and apologizing later. Progress, even if motivated by self-interest.
"Proceed with Magnum's deployment," Nolan said, voice carrying formal authority. "However, first priority: fabricate five sets of auxiliary power armor using the Necron living metal. I want to evaluate the finished products before committing to larger-scale production."
Raditus's optical sensors brightened, red light pulsing with satisfaction. "Immediately, Lord Primarch! The living metal's properties make it ideal for this application. Self-repair capabilities alone justify the resource allocation!"
With that settled, Nolan departed the main foundry floor and descended deeper into Second Son Island's excavated chambers.
He found Jessica in a newly carved tunnel, the walls still rough from recent expansion. Magnum occupied the space's center, the mudman's rust-colored mass spread across stone like some enormous amoeba. The creature pulsed slowly, almost breathing, as it worked at breaking down rock face into constituent elements.
Jessica stood nearby in her power armor, helmet removed, sweat glistening on her face despite the cool underground temperature. She looked up as Nolan approached, expression shifting from focused concentration to cautious interest.
"Boss. What brings you down to the depths?"
Nolan explained Raditus's proposal. Mining operations. Seabed mineral extraction. Magnum's unique capabilities making it ideal for the work.
Jessica listened in silence, arms crossed, her face gradually settling into a skeptical frown. When Nolan finished, she shook her head slowly.
"Magnum doesn't really understand work schedules or production quotas. It's still recovering functionality, relearning instincts. Getting it to focus on specific tasks for extended periods..." She trailed off, the concern evident.
"What would motivate it?" Nolan asked directly.
"Candy." The answer came without hesitation. "Magnum loves candy. Obsessed with it, actually. Sweet things trigger something in its damaged memory, make it happy in ways nothing else does."
Nolan considered this, running mental calculations about logistics and cost-benefit analysis. "How much candy?"
"To work full-time without me present? Supervising itself, staying focused..." Jessica's lips pursed, thinking. "Fifty pounds per day. Maybe more depending on work intensity."
The number was absurd, logistically challenging, and ultimately trivial compared to the value of reliable mineral acquisition. "Done. Arrange it."
The negotiation with Magnum took another hour, Jessica coaxing and explaining while the mudman pulsed with what might have been consideration. Finally, after Jessica produced sample candies from a storage container and demonstrated the promised daily quantity, Magnum rippled with apparent agreement.
Magnum began to coalesce, its formless mass drawing together, limbs emerging from the central body mass. It was relearning shape, recovering functionality that trauma had stolen. Within minutes, it achieved something approaching independent mobility, able to navigate and work without Jessica's constant guidance.
Raditus's plan to escape Jessica's presence had backfired spectacularly. With Magnum capable of autonomous function, Jessica would remain at the foundry, overseeing operations, asking her endless questions about everything she observed.
Nolan imagined the servo-skull's reaction when it discovered this development. The thought brought a small smile to his lips.
The following two weeks blurred into relentless training cycles.
Every morning before dawn, Nolan assembled the Gang Dogs on whatever terrain he'd selected for that day's torment. Cliff faces. Ice fields. The wreckage-strewn crater holding the space hulk. Each location offered unique challenges, specific skill sets to develop, particular forms of suffering to endure.
And through it all, Nolan watched. Observed. Cataloged.
Which soldiers recovered fastest from injuries? Who maintained discipline when exhaustion made thought difficult? Whose tactical instincts proved sharpest under pressure? Who led naturally when leadership was needed? Who followed orders without hesitation when hierarchy demanded obedience?
The patterns emerged gradually, data accumulating until certain names appeared consistently at the top of every relevant category.
Finally, Nolan made his selections. Five men, chosen from a candidate pool exceeding four hundred. The elite among the already exceptional.
Craig, callsign "Gum." White, mid-thirties, compact build hiding substantial strength. His overall comprehensive qualities rated highest across all metrics. Willpower that bordered on supernatural. Patience that allowed him to maintain overwatch positions for hours without movement. The kind of soldier who completed missions regardless of circumstances.
Horn, callsign "Osprey." Comanche heritage, early forties, weathered features that rarely showed emotion. His shooting ability was extraordinary, but the physical enhancements had elevated it to something approaching superhuman. Dynamic vision that could track bullet trajectories in flight. Neural response times fast enough to adjust aim mid-burst. A marksman who made impossible shots routine.
Gao Qi, callsign "Executioner." Asian descent, late twenties, slight frame that belied his lethality. Specialized in infiltration and close-quarters assassination. More importantly, he demonstrated the deepest tactical understanding of anyone in the unit. He could absorb Nolan's lessons, internalize the principles, and apply them creatively in novel situations. Squad commander material, if the situation demanded it.
Big Bane, callsign "Beer." Mexican, early thirties, brother to Little Bane. Exceptional melee combatant whose reserved personality concealed something wild underneath. In training exercises, when close combat erupted, Beer transformed. The civilized mask dropped, replaced by something feral and frighteningly effective. Controlled madness, weaponized.
Little Bane, callsign "Bucket." Mexican, late twenties, brother to Big Bane. The tallest member of the Gang Dogs at two full meters, built like a brick wall given human form. His physical strength exceeded even the other enhanced soldiers. He could carry loads that required two men, operate heavy weapons from unsupported positions, break through obstacles that stopped everyone else.
Five men. Each bringing unique capabilities. Together forming the foundation of something new.
The base's large training ground occupied a chamber specifically excavated for this purpose, roughly fifty meters square with a ceiling high enough for vertical maneuvers. Proper lighting illuminated every corner. The floor was level metal decking, reinforced to handle heavy equipment and armor weight.
Nolan stood at the chamber's center in full power armor, his posture parade-ground perfect. Before him, the five selected Gang Dogs stood at attention in formation, spaced evenly, backs straight, eyes forward.
Silence held for several heartbeats, broken only by the distant hum of environmental systems and the occasional servo-whir from Nolan's armor.
Then he spoke, voice carrying clearly despite the helmet's filtration. "Do you know why I selected you five from among more than four hundred candidates?"
"Report to the leader! We do not know!" The response came in perfect unison, five voices blending into one roar of disciplined acknowledgment.
"Because you represent the best performers across all evaluation categories." Nolan let that statement settle, watching for reactions. Saw none, just continued professional attention. Good. "You will face battles far more difficult than anything previous. Encounter enemies far more dangerous than those you've fought."
He began pacing slowly along the formation's front, armor servos singing with each step. "But simultaneously, you earn the privilege of fighting alongside me directly. Let me be absolutely clear about what that means. The places I deploy are typically the most dangerous, most terrible areas on any battlefield. War zones where ordinary soldiers die in the opening minutes."
His pacing stopped. He turned, facing them fully. "I will equip you with the finest weapons and protection available. State-of-the-art armor. Weapons that can kill anything. But I cannot guarantee survival. Setting foot on these battlefields carries inherent lethal risk that equipment only partially mitigates."
Nolan's cyan eyes swept across them, making individual contact with each man. "If you feel fear, genuine fear that might compromise your effectiveness, speak now. As your leader, I permit withdrawal from the Stormtrooper unit without prejudice. You may return to the Gang Dogs with no shame, no consequences."
Silence answered him. The five men remained motionless, expressions unchanging.
Then, after a pause calculated to emphasize their decision: "We are fearless! We will never compromise!"
The response thundered through the chamber, five voices raised in perfect synchronization, each word sharp and clear.
A smile cracked Nolan's severe expression. "Excellent. Good spirit." He raised one armored hand and waved it in a casual gesture.
Movement erupted from the chamber's periphery. Servo-robots, more than a dozen of them, rolled forward carrying equipment in their manipulator arms. Each robot bore pieces of armor plating, power components, weapon mounts. The components gleamed under the harsh lighting, their surfaces showing the distinctive flow-patterns of necrodermis.
The robots arranged themselves behind each of the five soldiers and began the assembly process. Mechanical arms extended, positioning chest plates, securing them with locking mechanisms that engaged with solid clicks. Back-mounted power packs were settled into place, cable connections made, energy flow initiated. Limb sections followed, each piece customized to its wearer's proportions.
Nolan walked forward, positioning himself where all five could see him clearly despite the servo-robots working around them. "What you're receiving is auxiliary power armor with functionality nearly equivalent to my full power armor. In terms of materials, these suits using living metal are actually more valuable than mine. Necrodermis is extraordinarily rare, extraordinarily useful."
He paused, letting them process that information. Watching as realization dawned, understanding the trust and resources being invested in them.
"This armor significantly enhances your defense and amplifies your already considerable strength. The modular design means that even if sections are destroyed, as long as the power backpack remains functional, you retain mobility and combat effectiveness. Damaged parts can be field-stripped and replaced."
Nolan's tone shifted, taking on an edge of anticipation. "Most importantly, wearing auxiliary armor qualifies you to use our standard weapon. The bolter."
He saw it immediately. The flicker of excitement they couldn't quite suppress. Every Gang Dog had watched him deploy bolters in combat, seen the devastating effects, understood the weapon's superiority. And every one of them had fantasized about wielding such firepower personally.
"I'm certain you've all envied my frequent bolter use," Nolan continued, voice carrying dry amusement now. "And I suspect several of you have secretly attempted to fire one. Haven't you?"
The five men glanced at each other, professional discipline cracking slightly. Uncertainty about whether confession carried consequences or if silence was safer.
"Report to the leader!" Little Bane's voice cut through the moment, loud and clear. "I once secretly tested a bolter, taking advantage of my superior physical strength! The recoil broke three ribs, dislocated my right shoulder, and caused severe muscle tearing in both arms! I lay immobile for half a month until Mr. David authorized Panacea treatment!"
Nolan's smile widened, genuine humor entering his expression. "Very good, Little Bane. Honesty is valuable. And congratulations, for a long time to come, you'll never be separated from that weapon."
He bent down, armored bulk moving with servo-assisted grace, and retrieved a standard-pattern bolter from a servo-robot's extended manipulator. The weapon looked almost toy-like in his massive gauntlet, though it was hefty enough to require two hands for unaugmented humans.
Nolan straightened, holding the bolter casually at his side, and studied the five men with an expression halfway between amusement and predatory intent. "Let me demonstrate something about your new armor."
Without warning or additional preamble, he raised the bolter and aimed at Big Bane. The weapon's muzzle pointed directly at the man's shoulder, close enough that missing was impossible.
Big Bane's eyes widened fractionally but he didn't flinch, didn't move, trusting in his leader's judgment even as a weapon capable of pulverizing concrete aimed at his torso.
Nolan pulled the trigger.
The bolter's roar was enormous in the enclosed space, a sound like controlled thunder. The muzzle flash painted everything in stark yellow-white, shadows jumping and dancing. The bolt round exited the barrel at hypersonic velocity, crossing the minimal distance in microseconds.
Impact.
The round struck Big Bane's shoulder armor dead center. The mass-reactive warhead detected the resistance, armed itself, and detonated. Explosive force erupted outward in a perfect sphere, fragmentation scoring the ceramite surface in radiating patterns from the impact point.
The blast wave hit everyone in the chamber, a physical pressure that made ears pop and chests compress. Smoke billowed, obscuring vision for several heartbeats.
When it cleared, Big Bane remained standing. Motionless except for slight swaying as he recovered his balance. His shoulder armor bore catastrophic damage, great gouges carved through the outer ceramite layer, the underlying structure visible through cracks.
Then, as everyone watched in fascination, the armor began to heal.
The necrodermis flowed like mercury, liquid metal movement that defied conventional physics. It crept across damaged surfaces, filling voids, knitting cracks, smoothing rough edges. The process took perhaps thirty seconds, accompanied by soft metallic sounds like wind chimes made of razor blades.
Finally, the shoulder armor sat pristine once more. Unmarked. Restored. As if the bolter round had never touched it.
"Impressive, yes?" Nolan's voice cut through the awed silence. "Living metal's regenerative properties are remarkable. However, don't allow this demonstration to create false confidence."
He set the bolter aside, his expression turning serious. "The recovery ability is strong but not unlimited. Excessive physical damage overwhelms the repair mechanisms. Magical attacks disrupt the molecular bonds. Extreme temperatures, particularly sustained heat, can temporarily denature the living metal into inert material."
His gaze swept across them again, ensuring they understood. "When that happens, when the necrodermis fails, you're just flesh inside a metal shell. The armor becomes a coffin rather than protection. Remember that."
"So," Nolan continued, straightening to his full height, power armor adding bulk that made him tower over even Little Bane, "before I lead you on your first operational deployment, your training objective is simple. Master the auxiliary armor. Master the bolter. Learn their capabilities, their limitations, how they respond under stress."
He paused for emphasis, letting silence build.
"Your ultimate training goal: assassination protocol. You will cooperate with each other, develop tactics, coordinate approaches, and attempt to kill me. Twenty-four hours per day. No breaks. No cessation. You attack whenever opportunity presents, from whatever angle seems optimal. This training continues until I declare it complete."
The pronouncement landed like a physical blow. Five faces showed varying degrees of shock, confusion about whether he was serious or testing their reactions.
Nolan answered the unspoken question by tossing the bolter aside. The weapon clattered against metal decking, skidding to a stop several meters away.
Then his armored form blurred into motion.
Shadow Step activated, the technique that bent space and perception, allowing movement that eyes couldn't properly track. One moment Nolan stood before them, solid and present. The next, his form seemed to flicker, to exist in multiple positions simultaneously.
Then he was simply gone, vanished from the training ground entirely, leaving only five stunned soldiers staring at empty air where their commander had been.