The eloquent Raditus had drawn a very wonderful picture for Nolan, painting verbal images of sleek aircraft and revolutionary dual-power systems with the enthusiasm of a salesman who truly believed in his product.
After lowering his head and thinking for a considerable while, weighing options and calculating probabilities, Nolan finally chose to agree to the Tech-Priest's ambitious construction plan for a new flying vehicle.
It was true that Nolan could potentially use the simulator to obtain other types of aircraft, perhaps even more advanced models from different eras or alternate timelines. The temptation was always there, hovering at the edges of possibility.
But those simulator rewards were basically independent products, single units pulled from the Warp or plucked from dying realities. Perhaps such an elite vehicle would be more than adequate for a small combat squad. It might even prove too much of a luxury for such limited deployment.
However, for Nolan, whose number of personnel was gradually increasing as his organization expanded, the calculus was different. Flying vehicles that could be mass-produced using local resources and available technology were undoubtedly far more cost-effective in the long term. Sustainability trumped individual excellence when building a real force.
Therefore, Nolan had instructed Raditus to use the Valkyrie transport aircraft, currently in its nearly scrapped state, as the basic skeleton and framework. The Tech-Priest would transform it into a prototype aircraft equipped with the dual power systems they'd discussed, creating a proof-of-concept that could be thoroughly tested.
If significant problems were discovered during trials, they could adjust the design data and specifications before committing resources to establishing a full production line. Better to find flaws now than after manufacturing dozens of defective aircraft.
Hearing Nolan's quick agreement and authorization to proceed, Raditus had immediately thrown himself with happy abandon into the modification plan for the new flying vehicle. The servo skull had practically vibrated with enthusiasm as it zipped away toward the workshop.
After Nolan returned to the base hall from the scorching, oppressive air that filled the foundry workshop, grateful for the temperature drop, he settled back into his customary metal seat. The cool surface was a relief against his skin after the foundry's heat.
But almost immediately, he suddenly showed some suspicion in his eyes. A thought had occurred, unwelcome but persistent.
"Could it be," Nolan muttered to himself, brow furring as the pieces assembled themselves in his mind, "that Raditus wanted to repair the Valkyrie transport aircraft but wasn't actually skilled enough? That he completely destroyed the displacement engine while attempting fixes, rendering it totally unsalvageable?"
The more he considered it, the more plausible it seemed.
"And knowing it was our only currently functional flying vehicle, he decided to paint me this elaborate picture, this grand vision of upgraded aircraft, hoping to make up for his mistake before I discovered it?"
Nolan's eyes narrowed further as suspicion crystallized into near-certainty.
"According to the servo skull's mischievous character and tendency toward creative truth-telling, this possibility is far from impossible. In fact, it's probably exactly what happened."
Nolan seemed to have stumbled upon the actual truth of the whole matter, the real sequence of events hidden beneath Raditus's enthusiastic sales pitch. The Tech-Priest had likely broken their only aircraft and was now frantically trying to provide something better as compensation.
But now that Nolan had already chosen to agree to the plan, already given his authorization, it seemed pointless to argue with the servo skull over this relatively minor transgression. What was done was done.
Moreover, Raditus's proposed new flying vehicle was indeed objectively a better choice than simply repairing the old Valkyrie would have been. The upgrade represented a genuine improvement, regardless of the circumstances that had prompted it.
At this moment, Nolan slowly exhaled through his mouth, releasing the mild irritation with his breath. He consciously decided to turn the page on this incident, to simply pretend he hadn't figured out the deception. Sometimes ignorance, even willful ignorance, served better than confrontation.
After all, everyone should be permitted to have some small secrets to conceal. Even mischievous Tech-Priests.
Nolan, who possessed a truly enormous appetite that seemed to scale with his enhanced physiology, turned his attention to the food that had been waiting. He systematically consumed the greasy steaks that had completely cooled on the plates before him, chewing methodically despite the congealed fat.
With enough water and food finally settling in his stomach, he rose from the metal seat, intending to return to his personal lounge for some well-deserved rest. His body ached pleasantly from the earlier training session.
However, another automatic servo robot, this one operating under remote instructions transmitted by David, chose that precise moment to arrive. The construct moved with mechanical precision, transporting massive piles of files related to Imperial Heavy Industries' numerous and varied business operations.
The stack was intimidating in its sheer volume.
Nolan, temporarily deprived of David's direct assistance while the Man of Iron attended to other matters, had no choice but to sit back down in the metal seat with a resigned sigh. Administrative duties would not complete themselves, no matter how much he might wish otherwise.
He frowned slightly while carefully reviewing the contents of each file, forcing himself to focus on the tedious details. Purchase orders. Personnel requests. Budget allocations. Supply chain logistics. Each document required his attention and approval.
He signed on one side of each page, approving execution or suspending implementation depending on the specific circumstances and his assessment of priorities. His hand moved in repetitive motions, signature after signature, until the movement became almost automatic.
Time seemed to blur together, minutes and hours becoming indistinguishable as he worked through the endless paperwork.
Finally, after all the accumulated piles had been processed and handed back to the patient automatic servo robot for distribution, Nolan allowed himself to stop. His expression had grown considerably numb, features settling into a mask of administrative exhaustion.
He yawned violently, jaw cracking open wide enough to reveal the sharp fangs filling his mouth. The yawn went on for several seconds, his body demanding the rest he'd been denying it.
Then he stretched with considerable force, arms extending above his head. The muscles and bones throughout his entire body seemed to produce bursts of crisp popping sounds as joints realigned and tension released. Each crack brought a small measure of relief.
"No wonder I've heard stories of High Lords of Terra or planetary governors who were literally exhausted to death from their endless work," Nolan muttered, speaking his thoughts aloud to the empty hall. "I remember reading that even Primarch Guilliman's hair turned prematurely gray due to managing the complex governmental affairs of the Imperium."
He shook his head ruefully, newfound sympathy for the Lord of Ultramar warming in his chest.
"Processing various files and making constant decisions is genuinely exhausting, far more draining than physical combat. Let's delegate these administrative tasks to David as much as possible in the future." The decision felt wise, practical. "A processor system with an unknown number of parallel cores operating simultaneously is at minimum much faster and more efficient than my single-core biological processor with only one head."
Nolan, who had slumped back against the metal seat in a posture of complete exhaustion, couldn't help but continue murmuring to himself in a self-deprecating manner. The humor helped offset the weariness.
He slowly closed his eyes, heavy lids finally surrendering to gravity. He intended to take just a short rest, perhaps a few minutes to recharge before dragging himself to his actual bed.
However, the very next second, Nolan's eyes snapped open again as if he'd suddenly remembered something critically important. The drowsiness vanished instantly, burned away by a spike of adrenaline.
He subconsciously accessed the simulator interface and navigated rapidly to the salvage page, fingers moving with practiced speed. His pulse had already begun to quicken with anticipation.
At that moment, the countdown timer for the designated salvage showed only a few dozen seconds remaining. The numbers ticked down steadily, each second bringing him closer to discovering what he'd managed to acquire.
Nolan, who had been thoroughly depressed and drowsy just moments before, suddenly became completely alert and energized. Exhaustion evaporated like morning mist under intense sunlight.
He straightened his back instantly, posture shifting from exhausted slouch to rigid attention. His eyes fixed themselves on the countdown display, watching with absolute focus as the final seconds elapsed.
Three. Two. One.
[Specified salvage countdown: zero]
[Designated Salvage: Healing Items]
[Salvage Harvest: Panacea STC???]
The question marks seemed to pulse with significance.
[Note: This is an extremely ancient and precious Standard Construction Template. It records the complete specifications for a genetic drug invented by humanity during the Dark Age of Technology, a pharmaceutical capable of perfectly curing almost all known diseases.]
[Note: This particular STC represents precious technological heritage that was excavated by the Adeptus Mechanicus from buried ruins on the planet Bronze IX. However, it was stolen by an Ork Mekboy not long after its initial recovery. After a prolonged life-and-death struggle between multiple factions, it eventually fell into the possession of the Dark Eldar named Lady Malys, and she remains the current holder of this priceless human heritage.]
[Note: It is rumored that the Haemonculi of Commorragh have already used this template to develop an iterative version more suitable for their specific physiology. The genetic medicine they produce grants users near-complete immunity to all toxins and poisons, and additionally provides the user's body with tremendously powerful regenerative capabilities that border on immortality.]
[Note: Children, endeavor to spread the gospel of universal health to the cold universe. Father Nurgle may suffer from severe depression because of this development.]
At this moment, Nolan's breathing suddenly became much heavier, each inhalation audible in the quiet hall. His chest rose and fell rapidly as his hearts hammered against his ribs.
His eyes remained fixed, unblinking, on the Panacea STC displayed prominently on the designated salvage page. The text seemed to glow with promise, with potential beyond measure.
For a long moment, Nolan couldn't even fully believe that what he was seeing was genuine or some elaborate hallucination born from exhaustion. An STC. A real, functional Standard Construction Template. Such things were the stuff of legends, artifacts so valuable that entire crusades were launched to recover even fragments.
He waited, forcing himself to remain still until the two hearts beating fiercely inside his chest had completely calmed down to something approaching normal rhythm. The pounding gradually slowed, though excitement continued to course through his veins.
Nolan took a deep, deliberate breath, filling his lungs completely before releasing the air in a controlled stream.
He began to read all the labels and annotations of the salvaged item carefully and conscientiously, absorbing every detail with meticulous attention. Each word was examined, each implication considered.
More importantly, he repeatedly confirmed that there were absolutely no hints, warnings, or indications related to Chaos corruption anywhere in the description. No mention of daemonic taint. No suggestion of Warp contamination. The STC appeared to be pure, uncorrupted human technology from the golden age.
Finally, after triple-checking everything and finding no cause for concern, Nolan allowed a smile to spread across his face. Without any further hesitation, he initiated the extraction process for the first Standard Construction Template of his entire life.
The moment felt momentous, historic even in its personal significance.
In the blink of an eye, reality rippled slightly. A black metal cube that stood only about the size of a human head, shaped precisely like a Rubik's Cube with its segmented surface, slowly materialized in the air above his outstretched palm. The object settled into his hand with surprising weight, far heavier than its size suggested.
Nolan, squinting his eyes with intense focus, carefully brought the black metal cube directly in front of his face for closer examination. He held it with both hands, fingers finding purchase in the slight indentations between segments.
He could see very clearly, even in the hall's ambient lighting, that the surface possessed a faint metallic luster that seemed to shift subtly depending on the viewing angle. The material was unlike anything he'd encountered before, neither quite steel nor any common alloy.
Etched into one face in the precise script of Imperial Gothic were detailed instructions. The complex ingredients required to manufacture the Panacea were listed in order of necessity. Below that, the basic operational steps explaining how to interface with the STC and initiate production were marked out with methodical clarity.
Everything was there. Complete. Functional. Ready to use.
After Nolan had managed to calm down his nearly uncontrollable excitement and joy once again, forcing the emotions back under conscious control through sheer willpower, he immediately stood up from the metal seat.
His movements were quick, energized, all trace of earlier exhaustion completely forgotten.
He turned and ran directly toward the material storage room, boots pounding against the deck plating. His long strides carried him swiftly through the familiar corridors.
There were substantial quantities of various materials stored there, accumulated from Nolan's earlier research and experimentation efforts. Samples of compounds. Cultures of biological materials. Chemical reagents of every description.
Among that diverse inventory were at least some of the basic ingredients needed to manufacture the Panacea. Perhaps not everything required for full production, but enough to begin preliminary testing and small-batch synthesis.
The Standard Construction Template was designed for foolproof operation, created during an age when humanity had wanted to spread technological knowledge as widely as possible. The interface was intuitive, the instructions clear.
Even a human with severe intellectual disabilities could gradually figure out the operation through trial and error. For someone of Nolan's intelligence and growing technical knowledge, it would be almost trivial.
The possibilities were already spinning through his mind as he ran. A universal cure. Medicine that could heal almost any disease. The implications were staggering, both for his organization and for humanity as a whole.