A wall of bronze doors led into the mighty structure. All were open and from them poured a host of robed figures. Each wore its hood drawn forward to cover its head and each wore the number grid of Adept Zeth as a veil. Many carried strange devices in open boxes or upon their backs.
Leading the figures was a tall, slender adept with a lithe, muscular physique and a cloak of golden-red bronze that billowed behind her in the swirls of hot air.
Without introduction, Dalia knew this must be the Mistress of the Magma City: Adept Koriel Zeth.
Her body was sheathed in a flexible skin of bronze armour, her attire more like that of a warrior woman than a master of technology.
Her features were invisible, hidden behind a studded head mask and opaque goggles. Puffs of steam exhaled from a rebreather mask and a skirt of bronze mail hung low over her shapely armoured legs. Though her body armour obscured all traces of Zeth’s humanity, there was no doubt as to her sex.
Every curve and every plate of armour had been designed to enhance her natural form, her slender waist, the curve of her thighs and the swell of her breasts. Fully a third of a metre taller than Dalia, Adept Zeth approached, and a delicate mist of atomised perfume came with her.
She leaned down to stare at Dalia, the glossy black orbs of her goggles like those of an insect regarding some interesting morsel that had just wandered into its lair. Zedi’s head cocked to one side and a burst of static hissed from the bronze mesh to either side of her rebreather.
Moments passed before Dalia realised that the static had been directed at her, a blurted hash of machine noise intelligible to the binaric fluent.
‘I can’t understand you,’ she said. ‘I don’t speak lingua-technis.’
Zeth nodded and her head twitched as though a switch had flicked inside it.
‘What relationship does the ideal gas law represent?’ asked Zeth, her voice rasping and the words sounding as though they had been dredged up from a little used repository of linguistic memory.
Of all the welcomes, this was one Dalia had not anticipated. She closed her eyes, casting her mind back to one of the first books she had transcribed in the Librarium, a textbook recovered from beneath a ruined tech-fortress of the Yndonesic Bloc.
‘It describes the relationship between pressure and volume within a closed system,’ said Dalia, the words recited by rote from memory. ‘For a fixed amount of gas kept at a fixed temperature, the pressure and volume are inversely proportional.’
‘Very good. I am Adept Koriel Zeth. And you are Dalia Cythera. Welcome to my forge.’
‘Thank you,’ said Dalia. ‘It’s very impressive. Did it take long to build?’
Zeth looked her up and down, the sound of electronic laughter crackling from her voice unit. She nodded. ‘It did indeed. Many centuries of work were needed to build this forge, but even now it is not complete.’
‘It isn’t? It looks complete.’
‘From without, perhaps, but within there is much yet to be achieved,’ said Zeth, her delivery growing more fluent as she spoke. ‘And that is where you come in.’
‘How do you even know me?’
‘I know a great deal about you,’ said Adept Zeth, looking at the space above Dalia’s head. ‘You are the only daughter of Tethis and Moraia Cythera, both deceased. You were born in medicae block IF-55 of the Ural Collective seventeen years, three months, four days, six hours and fifteen minutes ago. You were trained to read and write at age three, indentured to the Imperial Scriptorium aged six, and trained in the art of transcription aged nine. You were apprenticed to Magos Ludd aged twelve and assigned to the Hall of Transcription aged fifteen. You have six commendations for accuracy, twelve citations for inciting behaviour deemed to be incompatible with working practices and one instance of imprisonment for violating the Laws of Divine Complexity.’
Dalia looked up, half-expecting to see illuminated letters displaying her life story for Adept Zeth. She saw nothing, but it was clear from the tone of Zeth’s voice that she was reading these facts from somewhere.
‘How do you know all that?’ she asked.
Zeth reached down and brushed a metallic fingertip across Dalia’s cheek, and she felt a warm glow as the electoo implanted beneath her skin upon her induction to the Hall of Transcription came to life. She reached up and placed a hand on her skin.
‘You can read my electoo?’
‘Yes, but I can discern much more than simple biographical knowledge,’ replied Zeth. ‘All data can be read, presented and transferred with a glance. Though invisible to you, I see a liminal skein of data filling the air around you, each ghost of light a fact of your life. I can see everything about you, all the things that make you a person in the eyes of the Imperium.’
‘I’ve never heard of anything like that.’
‘I am not surprised,’ said Zeth with a trace of pride. ‘It is a function of data retrieval and transfer that I have only recently developed, though I have great hopes for its eventual employment throughout the Imperium. But I did not bring you to my forge only to impress you with my technological developments, I brought you here because I believe your understanding of machines and technology runs parallel to mine.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The Martian Priesthood is an ancient organisation and is learned in the ways of technology, but our grasp of such things is limited by blind adherence to dogma, tradition and repetition. I believe that our future lies in the understanding of technology, that only by experimentation, invention and research will our progress be assured. This view is not widely held on Mars.’
‘Why not? Seems perfectly sensible to me.’
Zeth made the crackling, static laugh again. ‘That is why I sought you out, Dalia. You have a skill I believe will prove very valuable to me, but one that others will fear.’
‘What skill’s that?’
‘You understand why machines work,’ said Zeth. ‘You know the principles by which they function and the science behind their operation. I accessed the schematics of what you did to your cogitator station and followed the methodology you employed upon the circuitry. It was quite brilliant.’
‘I didn’t really do anything special,’ said Dalia modestly. ‘I just saw how I could make it work faster and more efficiently. Anyone could have done it if they’d put their mind to it.’
‘And that is why you are special,’ replied Zeth. ‘Few could have made the mental leaps to see the things you saw, and even fewer would dare. To many of the Martian Priesthood, you are a very dangerous individual indeed.’
‘Dangerous? How?’ asked Dalia, quite taken aback by the notion that she might be thought of as a danger to anyone, let alone the priests of the Mechanicum.
‘Mars enjoys a pre-eminent position within the Imperium thanks to our grip on technology,’ continued Zeth. ‘Many of my fellow adepts fear the consequences of what might happen were that advantage to slip beyond their control.’
‘Oh,’ said Dalia. ‘So what is it you want from me?’
Adept Zeth drew herself up to her full height, the bronze of her armoured skin gleaming red in the reflected glow of the orange skies.
‘You will be part of the salvation of Mars,’ she said. ‘With your help, I will perfect my greatest work… the Akashic Reader.’
1.03
ASCRAEUS MONS WAS a volcano, yet the atmosphere within the Chamber of the First was anything but warm. The fortress of Legio Tempestus had been one of the earliest established on Mars in ancient times and as one of the highest volcanoes on the red planet, it was fitting that it housed one of its most ancient and respected Titan orders.
Carved within the basalt rock of the mountain, the demesne of Tempestus was known as a place of courage and wisdom, a place where warriors of honour came to settle their disputes without violence.
Indias Cavalerio watched from the Princeps Gallery as emissaries from many of the great Legios took their seats within the great amphitheatre carved into the cliffs of the enormous cal
dera of his order’s fortress, knowing the smiles and warm greetings being exchanged hid undercurrents of mistrust and widening divisions.
Divisions that were becoming all too common on Mars.
There was Grand Master Maxen Vledig of the Death-bolts conversing with Princeps Senioris Ulriche of the Death Stalkers, their apparent bonhomie masking decades of disputes involving ancient territorial rights along the borders of the Lunae Palus and Arcadia regions. Across the hall, encased in his life-sustaining exo-skeleton and aloof from all others, was Princeps Graine of Legio Destructor. A dozen others had answered the call to attend the Council of Tharsis (as Lord Commander Verticorda had already dubbed it with his usual taste for the grandiose). Only Mortis was yet to appear.
Verticorda stood in the centre of the grand, echoing amphitheatre, leaning on his ebony, thunderbolt-embossed cane, and swathed in the shadow of Deus Tempestus, the First God Machine of Legio Tempestus.
Towering over the assembled warriors, the great steel engine had stood sentinel over the deliberations of Legio Tempestus for half a millennium, its majesty undimmed and its power tangible, though it had not moved so much as a single joint in over two hundred years.
Next to Verticorda was Lord Commander Caturix, the hunched, ancient warrior’s brother-in-arms and fellow master of the Knights of Taranis. Where Verticorda was aged and revered for his wisdom, the newly appointed Caturix was beloved for his fiery passion, which complemented his fellow commander’s more cautious temperament.
Ever since Verticorda had bent his knee to the Emperor nearly two hundred years ago, the joint commanders of the Knights of Taranis had served as the Princeps Conciliatus between the warrior orders of Mars. It would be their job to ensure that the coming gathering was conducted in a manner befitting the most ancient warrior guilds, that tradition was upheld and honourable discourse permitted.
Cavalerio did not envy them that role, for tensions were running high and this latest insult to an adept of Mars had pushed the mightiest warrior orders of Mars close to open confrontation, a state of affairs that had not transpired on the red sands for uncounted centuries.
Not only that, but warriors from the Knights of Taranis had been involved in this latest combat, so they were hardly likely to be objective. Verticorda could be trusted to keep his anger in check, but Caturix paced the mosaic floor of the chamber like a caged beast.
Skirmishes between orders were far from uncommon; after all, warriors needed outlets for their aggression to develop their skills and foment the proper bellicose attitude needed to command the god-machines.
Lately, these had threatened to boil over into outright warfare.
The sheer affront of the attack on Ipluvien Maximal’s fusion reactor on the slopes of Ulysses Patera had sent shock waves through the Martian community (though to call such a competitive, uncooperative, suspicious and insular organisation as the Mechanicum a community seemed perverse to Cavalerio).
He ran a hand over his scalp, the surface hairless and punctured by sealed implant plugs at his nape that allowed him to command the mighty engines of Legio Tempestus. Similar implants were fused to his spine, and haptic receptors grafted to the soles of his feet and along the tactile surfaces of each of his hands allowed him to feel the Titan’s steel body as though it were his own flesh.
Cavalerio’s frame was tall and wiry, the dress uniform that had once fitted his well-proportioned frame snugly now hanging from his thin body, the result of decades spent vicariously exerting himself through the actions of a Warlord Battle Titan instead of in the gymnasium.
As he looked over at the mighty form of Deus Tempestus, he found himself longing to ascend the elevator to his own venerable war machine, Victorix Magna. The glowering iron face of the ancient war machine stared down at him, the head of a mechanical god of war that lived in his dreams every night.
In those dreams he would be striding across the ashen red plains of Mars on his last march, Deus Tempestus responding to his every command with the familiarity of two warriors who had fought shoulder to shoulder since their earliest days.
Each time he would wake and, finding sleep impossible, walk through the darkened, sparsely populated hangars of the Ascraeus Mons. The hangars were largely empty, since the bulk of the Legio’s strength was deployed throughout the Warmaster’s expedition forces, pushing the extremities of the Emperor’s realm ever outwards and bringing the last worlds of the galaxy under the sway of the Imperium.
His steps would unerringly lead him to the Chamber of the First, where he would watch the sunrise, staring up at the shadowed form of the colossal war machine, its weapons silent and its war banners fluttering in the downdrafts from above.
Cavalerio’s brothers fought under the command of Lord Guilliman, and he could think of no better warrior to lead so august a Legio. He and the few Battle Titans now back on Mars were approaching the end of their refit after campaigning in the Epsiloid Binary Cluster against the green skin and would soon rejoin the war to assure humanity’s birthright to rule the stars.
He eagerly awaited their redeployment, for life beyond the cockpit of a Titan was made up of long moments of incompleteness, every experience deadened. His physical surroundings were bland and tasteless without first being filtered through the Manifold of his Battle Titan.
The moment of connection with an engine was painful, as though it resented the time spent separated from its commander, and it took time to wrestle the warlike heart of the machine to compliance. But once that union had been achieved… oh, how like a god did it feel to be master of the battlefield and lord of so terrible and mighty a power?
Separation was no less painful; the angry need of the Titan to walk made it disinclined to allow its commander to leave without punishment. Aching bones, thudding headaches and searing dislocation were the hallmarks of a separation, and each time was harder than the last.
For now, it was possible for Cavalerio to retain some semblance of humanity, to walk as a man, but he knew it was only a matter of time before he would require a more permanent enmeshing within an amniotic float-tank of liquid information.
The thought terrified him.
He shook off such fears as he saw a ripple of motion near the floor of the chamber and heard a murmur of agitation pass through the Chamber of the First.
Cavalerio looked down from the gallery, seeing two warriors in long dark cloaks and grinning skull-faced helmets stride into the chamber with purpose and strength.
Legio Mortis had arrived.
‘YOU DENY THAT your order took part in the attack on Adept Maximal’s reactor?’ demanded Lord Commander Caturix. ‘That engines of the Legio Mortis wilfully destroyed an artefact of technology and endangered the lives of warriors from the Knights of Taranis?’
‘Of course I do,’ snapped Princeps Camulos, his hooded features making no secret of his disdain for the accusation and his accuser. Despite Verticorda’s cautious welcome to the assembly, Caturix had wasted no time in setting the tone by marching straight towards the senior princeps of the Legio Mortis and all but calling him out for the damage done to his warriors in the reactor’s explosion.
Cavalerio watched the young lord commander, the youngest in the history of the Knights of Taranis, sneer at Princeps Camulos’ answer, plainly disbelieving what he was hearing.
He watched as Caturix circled like a shark in the water with the scent of blood, forced to admire his nerve in facing down so senior a princeps.
Men had been rendered down into servitors for less.
Legio Mortis’ disdain for the Knight orders was well known, as was their reluctance to share power in the Tharsis region from their fortress within Pavonis Mons. With the destruction of Adept Maximal’s forge, it would be difficult for many of the local warrior orders to remain viable – leaving Mortis the undisputed masters of Tharsis, one of the most abundant and productive regions of Mars.
All of which was enough for the finger of suspicion to point squarely at Legio Mortis, but not enough to
hang them. Mortis and Tempestus had long been rivals for dominance of Tharsis, but was that enough to condemn Camulos and openly damn his Legio with this new atrocity?
Camulos was a towering bear of a man, more suited at first glance to be the chieftain of a tribe of bloodthirsty barbarian warriors, but his sheer self-belief and aggressive nature made him a natural Titan commander, easily able to bend the will of a war machine to his own. His armour was black and glistening as though lacquered, the death’s head emblem upon his broad shoulder guards a gruesome testament to his Legio’s famed ruthlessness.
‘I did not come here to be barked at,’ snarled Camulos. ‘Keep your young pup on a tight leash, Verticorda, or I may break him for you.’
Verticorda nodded slowly. ‘The question is withdrawn, honourable princeps.’
Caturix whipped his head around to face his fellow lord commander, but a stern glare from Verticorda silenced the angry outburst that Cavalerio saw gathering in his throat.
‘This council is not a trial or indeed any kind of inquiry,’ continued Verticorda, his voice laden with centuries of authority and redolent with wisdom. ‘It is an organised debate whereby the warrior orders of the Tharsis region might gather to discuss the troubles afflicting our world and decide how to meet them without further bloodshed. Adept Maximal has suffered a grievous loss to his holdings, but we are not gathered here to assign blame, but to see how we, as the guardians of Mars, might avoid such things in the future.’
Cavalerio looked over to where the robed form of Ipluvien Maximal stood in the shadow of Deus Tempestus, as though he took comfort in the nearness of so complex and revered a machine. Adept Maximal had joined the proceedings immediately after the arrival of the Legio Mortis, his corpulent machine-frame wreathed in icy puffs of air vented from the layers of thermal barrier fabrics that cooled the spinning data wheels that made up the bulk of his body.
His head was an oblong helmet of gold fitted with a multitude of lenses upon telescopic armatures, and a morass of sheathed coolant cables emerged from beneath his robes like black tentacles, upon which sat hololithic plates streaming with glowing lines of data.
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