Mechanicum

by Graham McNeill

  THE HORUS HERESY

  Graham McNeill

  MECHANICUM

  War comes to Mars

  v1.2 (2011.11)

  The Horus Heresy

  It is a time of legend.

  Mighty heroes battle for the right to rule the galaxy. The vast armies of the Emperor of Earth have conquered the galaxy in a Great Crusade – the myriad alien races have been smashed by the Emperor’s elite warriors and wiped from the face of history.

  The dawn of a new age of supremacy for humanity beckons.

  Gleaming citadels of marble and gold celebrate the many victories of the Emperor. Triumphs are raised on a million worlds to record the epic deeds of his most powerful and deadly warriors.

  First and foremost amongst these are the primarchs, superheroic beings who have led the Emperor’s armies of Space Marines in victory after victory. They are unstoppable and magnificent, the pinnacle of the Emperor’s genetic experimentation. The Space Marines are the mightiest human warriors the galaxy has ever known, each capable of besting a hundred normal men or more in combat.

  Organised into vast armies of tens of thousands called Legions, the Space Marines and their primarch leaders conquer the galaxy in the name of the Emperor.

  Chief amongst the primarchs is Horus, called the Glorious, the Brightest Star, favourite of the Emperor, and like a son unto him. He is the Warmaster, the commander-in-chief of the Emperor’s military might, subjugator of a thousand thousand worlds and conqueror of the galaxy. He is a warrior without peer, a diplomat supreme.

  As the flames of war spread through the Imperium, mankind’s champions will all be put to the ultimate test.

  CONTENTS

  MECHANICUM

  The Horus Heresy

  CONTENTS

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  0.01

  PRINCIPIA MECHANICUM

  1.01

  1.02

  1.03

  1.04

  1.05

  1.06

  1.07

  1.08

  SYSTEMAE MECHANICUM

  2.01

  2.02

  2.03

  2.04

  2.05

  2.06

  2.07

  ORIGENS MECHANICUS

  3.01

  3.02

  3.03

  3.04

  3.05

  3.06

  ADDENDA

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  The Mechanicum

  KELBOR-HAL, Fabricator General of Mars, Forge Master of Olympus Mons

  KANE FABRICATOR, Locum of Mars, Forge Master of Mondus Occulum

  URTZI MALEVOLUS, Forge Master of Mars

  LUKAS CHROM, Forge Master of Mondus Gamma

  REGULUS, Mechanicum representative of Horus Lupercal

  AMBASSADOR MELGATOR, Mechanicum representative to Terra

  KORIEL ZETH, Mistress of the Magma City

  IPLUVIEN MAXIMAL, Forge Master of Mars

  ADEPT SEMYON, Adept of Mars

  Legio Tempestus

  INDIAS CAVALERIO, ‘THE STORMLORD’, Princeps of the Warlord, Victorix Magna

  SUZAK, Princeps of the Warlord, Tharsis Hastatus

  MORDANT, Princeps of the Reaver, Arcadia Fortis

  SHARAQ, Princeps of the Reaver, Metallus Cebrenia

  BASER, Princeps of the Warhound, Vulpus Rex

  KASIM, Princeps of the Warhound, Raptoria

  LAMNOS, Princeps of the Warhound, Astrus Lux

  Legio Mortis

  CAMULOS, Princeps of Aquila Ignis

  The Knights of Taranis

  LORD COMMANDER VERTICORDA, Rider of Ares Lictor

  LORD COMMANDER CATURIX, Rider of Gladius Fulmen

  PRECEPTOR STATOR, Rider of Fortis Metallum

  RAF MAVEN, Rider of Equitos Bellum

  LEOPOLD CRONUS, Rider of Pax Mortis

  Servants of the Mechanicum

  DALIA CYTHERA, Transcriber

  ZOUCHE CHAHAYA, Machinist

  SEVERINE DELMER, Schematic Draughter

  MELLICIN OSTER, Technical Overseer

  CAXTON TORGAU, Component Assembler

  RHO-MU 31, Mechanicum Protector

  REMIARE, Tech-priest Assassin

  JONAS MILUS, Empath

  Behold the coming of the One Supreme Master of Machines! He comes to you from heaven in the drops of rain.

  Sons of Mars listen well, for one will come, mighty and strong, holding the sceptre of power in his hand. Clothed in light and fire, his mouth shall utter eternal words, while his mind shall be a fountain of knowledge and fact. When the Saviour shall appear ye shall see him as he is, a man like ourselves and yet greater by far.

  This will be the first step in the greatest endeavour of Man. It shall begin on the highest peak of the dominion of Ares. When Deimos and Phobos are at apogee and perigee, there thou shalt see the face of the Omnissiah.

  Clad in a body of gold, and wreathed in the firmament of the storm, the Lord of all Machines will stand in the midst of his people, and shall reign over all the dominion of Man. Great shall be the glory of his presence, that the sun shall hide his face in shame.

  For verily I say unto you that he shall be the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the master of flesh and the forger of metal.

  He shall be a light that shineth in darkness and a banisher of ignorance. He shall be the object of devotion and love, which kings might envy and emperors sigh for in vain! He shall desire the good of Ares’ realm and the happiness of Man.

  All must become one in loyalty and see all men as brothers. Ruinous wars shall pass away, and peace shall reign among the stars. Strife and bloodshed and discord will cease. All men shall be as one kindred. The divisions of the stars shall all be one!

  — The Coming of the Omnissiah, exloaded by Pico della Moravec, Primus of the Brotherhood of Singularitarianism.

  0.01

  IT NEVER RAINED on Mars, not any more. Once, when Mars had first known life, back in an age long unknown to man, mighty storms had torn across the landscape, gouging channels in the rock and carving sweeping coastlines from the towering cliffs of the great Mons. Then the world had endured its first death, and the planet had become a cratered red wasteland of empty dust bowls and parched deserts.

  But the red planet lived to breathe again.

  The terraforming of Mars had begun in the earliest days of the golden age of man’s expansion to the stars, bringing new life and hope, but in the end, this was a remission, not a cure. Within the span of a few centuries, the planet had died its second death, choking on the fumes of volcanic forge complexes, continent-sized refineries and the effluent of a million weapons shops.

  It never rained on Mars.

  That thought was uppermost in Brother Verticorda’s mind as he guided the battered bipedal form of Ares Lictor up the gentle slopes of Olympus Mons towards the colossal volcano’s caldera. Resembling a brutish, mechanical humanoid some nine metres tall, Ares Lictor was a Paladin-class Knight, a one-man war machine of deep blue armour plates with a fearsome array of weaponry beyond the power of even the strongest of the Terran Emperor’s Astartes to bear.

  Ares Lictor walked with an awkward, loping gait, thanks to a stubborn knee joint that no amount of ministration from the tech-priests could restore to full working order. But Verticorda handled his mount with the practised ease of one born in the cockpit.

  It never rained on Mars.

  Except it was raining now.

  The brushed orange skies above were weeping a thin drizzle of moisture, patterning Verticorda’s cockpit, and he felt the cold wetness through the hard-plugs in his spine and the haptic implants in his fingers.

  He realised that he too was weeping, for he had never expected to witness such a sight, the heavens opening and precipitation falling
to the surface of the red planet. Such a thing had not happened in living memory, and on Mars that was a long time.

  Two other war machines followed Verticorda, his brothers-in-arms and fellow Knights of Taranis. He could hear their chatter over the Manifold, the synaptic congress that linked their minds, but had not the words to convey his own sense of wonder at the sight that greeted them on this day of days.

  The sky above Olympus Mons raged.

  Billowing storm clouds heaved as though ancient, forgotten gods battled within them, slamming their mighty hammers against wrought iron anvils and hurling forked bolts of lightning at one another. Mars’ largest moon, Phobos, was visible as a yellowed irregularity behind in the clouds, its cratered surface at its closest point to the surface of Mars in decades.

  The mighty volcano, the largest mountain in the Tharsis region and indeed the solar system, soared above the Martian landscape, the dizzyingly high escarpments of its cliffs rising to almost thirty kilometres above the surface of the planet. Verticorda knew this region of Tharsis intimately; he had marched Ares Lictor from the Fabricator General’s forge on the eastern flanks of the mighty volcano three decades ago, and he had led his brother warriors across its slopes uncounted times.

  More lightning flashed and the thousands gathering at the base of the volcano gazed fearfully into the building tempest from towering hab-stacks and ironclad bulwarks of Kelbor-Hal’s domain. Abused skies cracked and roared, distorting under the overpressure of something unimaginably vast, and the atmospherics lit up the sky as far as any eye, fleshy or augmetic, could see.

  Crowds in their thousands, their tens of thousands, were following the Knights up the slopes of Olympus Mons, but they had not the speed or manoeuvrability of the war machines. This wonder was for the Knights of Taranis and for them alone.

  A shape moved in the clouds, and Verticorda halted his mount at the sheer edge of the caldera’s escarpment with a release of pressure on his right hand. The machine reacted instantly. The bond he had forged with it in years of battle was that of two comrades-in-arms who had shared blood and victory in equal measure.

  Verticorda could feel the anticipation of this moment in every sizzling joint and weld within Ares Lictor, as though it – more than he – was anticipating the glory of this day. Golden light flashed above and the drizzle of rain became a downpour.

  A zigzagging pathway had been cut into the cliff, leading to the base of the caldera, nearly two kilometres below. It was a treacherous path in ideal conditions, but in this deluge it was close to suicide.

  ‘What do you say, old friend?’ asked Verticorda. ‘Shall we greet these new arrivals?’

  He could feel the machine straining beneath him and smiled, easing up the power and walking the Knight towards the edge of the cliff. The steps were designed for the long strides and wide treads of a Knight, but were slick and reflective with rain. It was a long way down and not even the armour or energy shields that protected a Knight in battle would save him from a fall from this height.

  Verticorda guided Ares Lictor’s first step onto the cut path and felt the slipperiness beneath its feet as though he walked upon it himself. Each step was dangerous and he took care to ensure that each one was taken with the utmost reverence. Step by step, inch by inch, he walked Ares Lictor down the path to the cratered plain below.

  Golden light suddenly burst from the clouds above, dazzling and brilliant, and bolts of scarlet lightning danced like crackling spider webs between the ground and sky. Verticorda almost lost his footing as he instinctively looked up.

  A mighty floating city of gold was descending from the heavens.

  Like a mountainous spire sheared from the side of some vast, continental landmass, the city was studded with light and colour, its dimensions enormous beyond imagining. A vast, eagle-winged prow of gold marked one end of the floating city, and colossal battlements, like the highest towers of the mightiest Martian spire, rose like gnarled stalagmites from the other.

  Rippling engines flared with unimaginable power on the colossal edifice’s underside, and Verticorda stood amazed at the technology required to prevent such a monstrous creation from plummeting to the ground. Flocks of smaller craft attended the larger one, its dimensions only growing larger the more it emerged from its concealing clouds.

  ‘Blood of the Machine,’ hissed Yelsic, rider of the Knight at his back. ‘How can such a thing stay aloft?’

  ‘Concentrate on your descent,’ warned Verticorda. ‘I don’t want you losing your footing behind me.’

  ‘Understood.’

  Verticorda returned his attention to the pathway, negotiating the last three hundred metres bathed in a cold sweat. He let out a long, shuddering breath as he took his first step onto the surface of the Olympus Mons caldera, enjoying the strange new sensation of mud sucking at his feet.

  By the time the Knights reached the base of the cliff, the enormous craft had landed, its gargantuan bulk surely offset by some dampening field to prevent it from collapsing under its own weight, or sinking deep into the Martian surface. Roiling clouds of superheated steam and condensing gases billowed outwards from the ship and as they swept over Ares Lictor, Verticorda smelled the scents of another world: hard radiation, the ache of homelands long forgotten and thin, achingly cold, mountain air.

  He told himself it was ludicrous to sense such things from a ship that had just made the fiery descent through a planet’s atmosphere, yet they were there as plain as day.

  ‘Spread out,’ said Verticorda. ‘Flank speed.’

  The Knights loping alongside him moved into a combat spread as they strode through the hot, moist mists. Verticorda felt no threat from the unknown craft, yet decades of training and discipline would not allow him to approach it without taking precautions.

  At last the mist thinned and Verticorda pulled up as the enormous golden cliff of the vessel’s flanks rose up before him like a mountain freshly deposited on the planet’s surface. Its scale was awe-inspiring, more so than even the fastnesses of the Titan legions or the data mountains of the Temple of All Knowledge.

  Even the mightiest forge temple of Mondus Gamma on the Syria Planum paled in comparison to the scale of this vessel, for it had been fashioned with deliberate artifice and not the combined forces of millions of years of geological interaction. Every plate and sheet of the enormous vessel was worked with the care of a craftsman, and Verticorda struggled to think of a reason why so many would labour for so long and with such devotion to ornament a vessel designed for travel between the stars.

  The answer came a moment after the question.

  This was no ordinary vessel, this was a craft built with love, a craft built for a being beloved by all. No ordinary man could inspire such devotion and Verticorda suddenly felt an overwhelming fear that he was in the presence of something far greater and far more terrifying than anything he could ever have imagined.

  A shrieking blast of steam vented from the ship and a colossal hatchway was limned in golden light. Huge pneumatic pistons – larger than a Titan – slowly lowered a long ramp, easily wide enough for a regiment of gene-bulked Skitarii to march down in line abreast. The ramp lowered with no sign of strain on the vessel, and the brightness within poured out, bathing the Martian landscape in a warm, welcome glow.

  Verticorda twisted Ares Lictor around on its central axis, and felt a shiver travel the length of his spine as he saw the entire rim of the volcano’s crater lined with onlookers. With a thought, he increased the magnification through the viewscreen and saw thousands of robed adepts, menials, tech-priests, logi and workers gathered to watch the events unfolding below.

  Crackling, voltaic viewing clouds coloured the sky behind the crowds and flocks of servo-skulls buzzed overhead, though none dared approach within the swirling electromagnetic field that surrounded the craft.

  The huge ramp crunched down and Verticorda squinted into the light that blazed from within. A silhouette moved within the light, tall and powerful, glorious and ma
gnificent.

  The light seemed to move with him and as Verticorda watched the figure descend the ramp, a shadow fell across the surface of the plain on which the craft had landed. Though he was loath to tear his gaze from the magnificent figure, Verticorda looked up to see a convex ellipse of darkness bite into the glowing outline of the sun.

  The light from the storm-wracked skies faded until the only illumination came from the figure as he stepped onto Martian soil for the first time. Verticorda knew immediately that the man was a warrior, for there could be no doubt that this sublime figure had been made mighty by battle.

  Verticorda felt the collective gasp from the thousands of spectators in his bones, as though the very planet shuddered with pleasure to know this individual’s touch.

  He looked back down and saw the warrior standing before him, tall and clad in golden armour, each plate wrought with the same skill and love as had been lavished upon his vessel. The warrior wore no helm and was fitted with no visible breathing augmetics, yet seemed untroubled by the chemical-laden air of Mars.

  Verticorda found his gaze dwelling on the warrior’s face, beautiful and perfect as though able to see beyond the armoured exterior of Ares Lictor and into Verticorda’s soul. In his eyes, his so very ancient eyes, Verticorda saw the wisdom of all the ages and the burden of all the knowledge contained within them.

  A crimson mantle flapped in the wind behind the giant warrior and he carried an eagle-topped sceptre clutched in one mighty gauntlet. The golden giant’s eyes scrutinised the blue-armoured form of Verticorda’s mount, from its conical glacis to the aventailed shoulder plates upon which the wheel and lightning bolt symbol of the Knights of Taranis was emblazoned.

  The warrior reached out towards him. ‘Your machine is damaged, Taymon Verticorda,’ he said, his voice heavy and yet musical, like the most perfect sound imaginable. ‘May I?’

  Verticorda found himself unable to form a reply, knowing that anything he might say would be trite in the face of such perfection. It didn’t occur to him to wonder how the sublime warrior knew his name. Without waiting for a reply, the warrior reached out, and Verticorda felt his touch upon the joints of Ares Lictor’s knee.