A Princely Gift Indeed
3rd Company Techmarine Solloc of the Knights of The Crimson Vigil furrowed his brow as he paced around the curious plasma rifle seated on a pedestal before him, his omnissian axe tapping against the floor provided a comfortable background noise as it reverberated around the Armoury.
He had been previously repairing - and decontaminating - a brother's wargear after his deployment to purge a genestealer cult from beneath an agri-world before Brother Cyras had called for Solloc to attend to a new curiosity.
He had told Solloc of the Denva system, this "Explorer Vita", how she had existed before the Omnissiah had revealed himself to Humanity and forged the Imperium of Man, how she bore no ill-intent unless provoked and of the condition of the citizens upon Denva Secundus.
Curious, but Solloc had seen it before, Mankind was ever fractious in this new age and Denva was no different, that they had not sucumbed to the depravity of the Alien, the Mutant or the Heretic in the centuries since their departure was simple mathematical coincidence.
No, what sparked Solloc's curiosity was not Denva and it's nameless billions, it was the rifle resting before him.
It was clearly not of an Imperial design, this was no M35 Magnacore pattern plasma gun, this was no MK3 Sunfury, it wasn't even similar to the pict-captures Solloc had seen of the venerable Plasma Blasters of the Horus Heresy, it was bereft of the many purity seals and the faint smell of incense that would speak of attempts to placate its machine-spirit, it showed no signs of battle-damage, and most-tellingly, it did not bear the faint black marks that would have spoken of a carbonized operator overtaxing its cooling system.
No, this looked as if it had been constructed very recently.
After it was cleared of any signs of corruption or tech-heresy, Solloc had then endeavoured to examine the condition of the Plasma Rifle's machine spirit, only to stumble upon yet another curiosity.
The machine spirit was docile, infinitely easier to placate than the older rifles in the Armoury, and while Solloc could attribute this to the youth of such a weapon, even the newest examples of plasma weaponry hailing from Ryza and Mars oft had a volatile temper and strict rites of placation and maintenance.
Yet this rifle? It accepted every attempt Solloc had made to placate it, even chirping approvingly when he had deliberately mispronounced the Rite of Activation in an (admittedly foolish) attempt to provoke it.
If he had tried the same with a Ryza or Magnacore pattern, Solloc would have lost a finger to the rifle the moment he depressed the activation rune.
It was a good thing the machine spirit's choler was so restrained...
When both tests of its purity and its spirit had come back green, that left the final test.
Solloc would see how this rifle performed.
As he finished his 50th rotation of pacing around the 'Vita Pattern Plasma Rifle' (marking down the temporary name for the 50 such rifles in the chapter's posession for later classification as he did so), the sound of a bulkhead door opening with a groan from its aged machine spirit interrupted Solloc's musing as a neophyte stepped forward.
The brother-to-be was young, hailing from a civilised world and determined to be of a good gene-stock upon his induction, the scars and stitches of his implants were still visible as he swivelled his head curiously around the Armoury.
+Neophyte Moro.+ Solloc buzzed in binharic, before quickly switching to Low Gothic. "You are 5 minutes late."
Moro winced, a gangly arm raising to his head to scratch his hair, his heart rate and perspiration increasing subtly as his pupils dilated.
"I... am still adjusting to my implants, Techmarine Solloc. Forgive me my tardiness."
Hm. Not the worst excuse Solloc had ever heard. But there would only be so many times that would prove viable.
Acceptable.
With an binharic chirp voicing his comprehension, Solloc motioned for the scout to come closer.
"Did Cyras tell you of why you are here, Neophyte?" Solloc asked, his augmetic eye focusing on the plasma-rifle as Moro sidled next to him.
"He spoke of a weapon that I am to examine?" Moro asked hesitantly, causing Solloc to give another binharic chirp.
"Correct, you are to test-fire this plasma rifle until you exhaust your ammunition or I instruct otherwise, you are to follow my instructions and treat this machine-spirit with the respect and dignity it deserves."
With that, Solloc unfurled the servo-arm from his backpack, delicately lifting the Vitan Plasma Rifle from its pedestal and placing it in Moro's hands.
His grip strength was within acceptable parameters, his hands were clean and trigger-discipline was maintained at all times.
So far, a viable operator.
"It's lighter than it seems. Is this because of the gene-seed?" Moro asked as he looked down at the plasma rifle in befuddlement, lifting it up and down as the machine-spirit within chirped approvingly yet again.
"Correct, you will adjust to the blood of Sanguinius in time." Solloc replied, already moving to the firing range and intoning a rite of amendment to apologise to the rifle's machine spirit, affirming that it was exactly the weight it was supposed to be.
The rifle chirped again. It's choler having not once been provoked by the comment Moro made.
As Moro came to a stop just before the firing range, Solloc readied a basic training program, targets descended from the ceiling or otherwise emerging out of the walls and floors as the Neophyte readied the rifle, clearly relying more upon his hypno-indoctrination than any practical experience.
"Begin."
As soon as Moro had heard Solloc's voice, the Neophyte readied, aimed and pulled the trigger on the first target (an Ork Nob), a baritone thrum of the rifle preceding a blinding bolt of amethyst-purple plasma that necessitated Solloc to readjust the lenses in his helmet.
By the time he had done so, the target was left a smouldering pile of molten slag.
"Again." Solloc instructed, and again, Moro aimed and fired, the perfectly smooth bolt of plasma blasting the head off of a Howling Banshee.
Both the colour and the shape of the plasma proved promising, speaking of both a high temperature and the strength of its magnetic-confinement that Solloc had only seen in
master-crafted plasma weapons.
Solloc instructed Moro to keep firing, the cooling grills on the top of the Vitan Plasma Rifle glowing brighter with each shot.
By the time it reached the thermal tolerance of a Magnacore pattern rifle, the Vitan Plasma rifle showed no signs of overheating, no distressed beeping from the machine-spirit, no crackling energy from the cooling grill, not even a wisp of superheated air, the only sign it had even been fired being the cooling grills glowing brightly.
"Any discomfort, Neophyte?" Solloc asked, only for Moro to pause and examine the rifle again.
"No, the grip still feels cool to the touch."
With a binharic chirp, Solloc performed the Rite of Condition, attempting to ascertain to what extent the Vitan plasma rifle's status might be after such a stress-test.
Again, a chirp, more affirmation, not a single mechanism in need of repairs or replacement, not even an overheat warning.
He had yet to test the remaining 49 examples of the Vitan plasma rifles, but if they were all up to the same standards as this one...
Solloc felt his servo-arm twitch, an ember of reverence and passion flickering in his hearts, an appreciation for the craftsmanship before him.
They would all be equivalents to the works of Baal and the First-Founding.
A princely gift indeed.
"Your part is done, Neophyte, report back to Cyras and see to it you are continuing your training." Solloc instructed, but when he moved his servo-arm to lift the rifle from the scout's hands and to move it back into storage, something curious happened.
Without warning, the plasma rifle suddenly deactivated without either Solloc or Moro depressing the activation rune or intoning the rite of restful slumber, the lights on its outer casing flashing red exactly three times before darkening.
To an operator uninitiated to the secrets of the machine spirits, they would assume that some malfunction had occurred, but Solloc knew better, he had spent over a century handling plasma weapons of all makes and models and had even fabricated several sanctified designs when the Red Thirst was itching in the back of his throat.
This was no malfunction, this was a protest.
Moving his servo-arm away from the rifle, the lights on its display flickered back to life as the machine spirit within chirped, this time at a lower pitch.
"Hm." Solloc raised his brow.
Another chirp, then another flicker.
"Lord?" Moro asked, confusion readily apparent on his youthful expression.
"...I suppose the machine spirit has made a choice, it is yours now, Moro."
Ignoring the lost and confused Neophyte for a moment, Solloc prepared a message to send to the Chapter-Master.
"My lord? This is Techmarine Solloc, I have news on the gift that Cyras had acquired from Denva."
One thing was for certain, the rifle was a delight to work with, and he hoped that it would dutifully serve Moro for years to come.
AN: I was warming up for writing my own works and figured I may as well make something out of the idea in my head for what a Techmarine would think about Vita's princely gift.
@Neablis Omake be upon ye.
Also this is my first time writing Space Marines, apologies if their dialogue seems stilted.
