Mechanicum

by Graham McNeill

  So far, Maximal had said nothing, save to acknowledge the primacy of Verticorda and Caturix in the proceedings, content simply to watch and record events as they unfolded.

  ‘And how do you suggest we do that?’ asked Camulos. ‘By accusing honourable orders of warriors of acts of piracy? To suggest that we would stoop so low as to attack the holdings of an adept so highly regarded as Adept Maximal is outrageous!’

  Cavalerio looked over as Maximal inclined his golden head at Camulos’ compliment. The words felt too tacked on to be believable. For all his bluster, the raid on Maximal’s reactor bore all the hallmarks of Legio Mortis – swift, brutal and leaving virtually no survivors.

  Only the three Knights had survived to speak of the attack, and all of them had suffered severe damage to their machines in the reactor’s detonation. Gun camera footage of the confrontation had been lost in the explosion, and the only clue to the identity of the attacker was a brief description from the sole Knight who had seen the machine.

  ‘In any case, what possible reason could Legio Mortis have for undertaking such an act? We are all servants of the Warmaster, are we not?’

  Mixed murmurs of assent and disagreement spread around the chamber, and Cavalerio felt his choler rise that so many could blindly agree with so facile a statement. Rivalry or not, such a comment could not go unanswered.

  Cavalerio rose from his seat in the Princeps Gallery and said, ‘You mean the Emperor’s forces, surely?’ Heads turned as he rose to his feet and awkwardly descended the steel steps towards the chamber’s floor.

  Camulos watched him approach, squaring his shoulders as though they were about to brawl. ‘The Warmaster is the Emperor’s proxy, it is one and the same.’

  ‘No, actually,’ replied Cavalerio, taking the floor, ‘it’s not.’

  ‘The Chamber recognises Princeps Cavalerio, the Stormlord of Legio Tempestus,’ said Verticorda, using the war-name his Legio had given him in the early days of his command.

  Cavalerio gave a respectful bow to the lord commander and then to Deus Tempestus before turning to Princeps Camulos. The man’s wide shoulders and enormous presence dwarfed him.

  ‘Pray tell why it is not the same thing?’ demanded Camulos.

  ‘The armies we serve are those of the Emperor, not the Warmaster,’ said Cavalerio. ‘No matter that Horus Lupercal commands them, every man, woman and machine that fights in this crusade is a servant of the Emperor.’

  ‘You are splitting hairs,’ spat Camulos, turning away.

  ‘No,’ repeated Cavalerio, ‘I am not. I know that your Legio has pledged a great deal of its strength to the 63rd Expedition and to the Warmaster. I believe that to be dangerous.’

  Camulos turned back towards him. ‘Dangerous? To swear loyalty to the glorious warrior who commands the military might of the Imperium while the Emperor retreats to the dungeons beneath his palace? To swear loyalty to the hero who will finish the job the Emperor is too busy to finish? That is dangerous?’

  ‘The Warmaster is a sublime warrior,’ agreed Cavalerio, ‘but it would be a mistake to think of those armies as belonging to him. Our first loyalty must be to the Emperor, and only a blind man could fail to see how this division is affecting Mars.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Cavalerio?’ snapped Camulos.

  ‘You know what I am talking about. Nothing is said and nothing is ever recorded, but we all know that lines are being drawn. The divisions between the adepts of Mars grow ever more vocal and bitter. Long buried schisms are stirred and ancient feuds reignited. The attack on Adept Maximal’s reactor is just the latest example of violence that’s rising to the surface and spilling out onto the red sands. The factions of belief are mobilising and our world is on the verge of tearing itself apart. And for what? A semantic difference in belief? Is such a thing worth the bloodshed it will no doubt unleash?’

  ‘Sometimes war is necessary,’ said Camulos. ‘Did not the Primarch Alpharius say that war was simply the galaxy’s hygiene?’

  ‘Who knows? It is certainly attributed to him, but what weight do his words carry on Mars? Any war fought here will not be for hygiene, but for misguided beliefs and differences in theology. Such things are anathema to the Imperium, and I will not be drawn into war by the beliefs of religious madmen.’

  ‘Madmen?’ said Camulos, with exaggerated horror. ‘You speak of the senior adepts of Mars? Such words from a respected princeps.’

  Cavalerio ignored the barb and addressed his next words to the assembled princeps and warriors of the Titan orders. ‘Every day, the Legios and warrior orders receive petitions from forges all over Tharsis, begging our engines to walk. And for what? Differences of opinion in belief? It is madness that will see us all burn in the fires of an unnecessary war, and I for one will not lead my warriors into battle for such things. The Legios have always been the defenders of Mars, and we have always stood above the squabbles of the Mechanicum. We have always done so, and must do so now. We must not allow ourselves to be baited.’

  ‘True sons of Mars know that the fire of the forge burns hottest when it burns away impurities,’ retorted Camulos. ‘If blood must be shed to preserve the glory of Mars, then so be it. Kelbor-Hal, the Fabricator General of Mars himself, receives emissaries from the Warmaster, and the great forge masters Urtzi Malevolus and Lukas Chrom have already pledged their labours to Horus Lupercal. Who are we to doubt their wisdom?’

  ‘Then this is not about belief,’ said Cavalerio. ‘It’s rebellion you’re talking about.’

  A gasp of horror swept the chamber at Cavalerio’s words. To even speak of such things was unheard of.

  Camulos shook his head. ‘You are a naive fool, Cavalerio. The things you speak of have been in motion for centuries, ever since the Emperor arrived here and enslaved the Mechanicum to his will.’

  ‘You speak out of turn!’ cried Lord Commander Verticorda. ‘This is treachery!’

  An angry hubbub filled the Chamber of the First, with princeps, moderati, engineers, steersmen and armsmen rising to protest – either at Camulos’ words or at Verticorda’s accusation.

  Following Cavalerio’s example, the senior princeps of Legio Mortis turned to the shouting warriors and said, ‘We are shackled to the demands of Terra, my friends, but I ask you why that should be? We were promised freedom from interference, but what freedom have we enjoyed? Our every effort is bent to the will of the Emperor, our every forge dedicated to fulfilling his vision. But what of our vision? Was Mars not promised the chance to reclaim its own empire? The forge worlds long ago founded in the depths of the galaxy are still out there awaiting the tread of any Martian son, but how long will it be before the Emperor claims them? I tell you now, brothers, that when those worlds are held by Terra, it will be next to impossible to reclaim them.’

  Camulos turned his gaze upon Deus Tempestus and said, ‘Princeps Cavalerio is right about one thing though: a storm is approaching where our vaunted neutrality will not stand. You will all need to choose a side. Choose the right one or it will devour even you, Stormlord.’

  DALIA STARED AT the complex lines radiating from the plans before her, the notations in a tightly-wound gothic script that made reading them next to impossible. Numbers, equations and hand-written notes conspired to make the confusing arrangement of circuit diagrams, build arrangements and milling plans almost unintelligible.

  ‘Give it up, Dalia,’ said Zouche, with his customary angry tone. ‘We’ve all been over this a hundred times. It doesn’t make any sense.’

  Dalia shook her head. ‘No. It does, it’s just a case of following the path.’

  ‘There is no path,’ said Mellicin, her voice arch and weary. ‘Don’t you think I’ve tried to follow the plans? It looks like Adept Ulterimus didn’t think the standard methodology applied to his own work.’

  Dalia rested her arms on the wax paper upon which the plans had been printed. These, of course, were not the originals, which had been drawn many thousands of years ago, but copies transc
ribed by later adepts over the centuries. She closed her eyes and let out a deep breath. She knew she ought to be used to the defeatist carping of her fellows, but their daily negativity was beginning to get to her.

  She took a calming breath, picturing the oceans of Laeran, as described by the poet Edwimor in his Ocean Cantos, which she’d transcribed nearly a year ago. The image of that far distant planet’s world-oceans always calmed her, and she badly needed that calm now, for time was running out.

  No sooner had Koriel Zeth welcomed Dalia to her mighty forge than the adept had turned on her heel and marched deep into the sweltering depths, announcing that Dalia was being taken to where she would be tested.

  Dalia had never been comfortable with tests, knowing she tended to clam up, and her mind go blank whenever she was asked a difficult question, let alone made to sit any form of exam. She often wondered how she’d managed to pass her transcription assessments.

  The gleaming halls of the Magma City were spacious and functional, geometrically precise and machined with a smooth grace. Though there was utter devotion to function in its architecture, form was not overlooked and there was great beauty in the mechanisms of Zeth’s forge. Menials and lowly adepts threaded the halls, chambers and cavernous workspaces, every one according Adept Zeth the proper respect as she passed.

  Each new chamber brought fresh wonders of engineering and construction: enormous, cogged machines surrounded by crackling arcs of lightning; thudding pistons driving unknown engines and enormous caverns of steel where thousands of techno-mats toiled at bronze work benches on the tiniest mechanisms with delicate silver callipers and needle-nosed instrumentation.

  At last they came to a wide chamber lined with rack upon rack of gleaming tools and fabrication devices that she could not even begin to name. A tall plan chest stood at one end of the chamber and four robed individuals stood around a workbench at its centre, each one shaking her hand and nodding as she was introduced to them.

  First was Mellicin, a tall, handsome woman of middling years from the Merican continent, with smooth brown skin and a grafted augmetic faceplate over the left side of her face. She had been coolly welcoming, her remaining eye sizing Dalia up and down with the look of a professional assayer.

  Next was a swarthy, stunted individual by the name of Zouche, a native of what had once been known as the Yndonesic Bloc. His handshake was curt and his brusque welcome had a hollow ring to it. Dalia was not tall by any means, but even she towered over Zouche. She estimated his height at no more than a metre.

  Next to Zouche was a woman named Severine, who had the look of a teacher about her. Her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail and her pale-skinned features looked as though they might crack if her thin lips creased open with even the fraction of a smile.

  Last was a smiling youth who went by the name of Caxton, perhaps a year or two older than Dalia, with a boyish face and a tonsured mop of unruly black hair. His features were open, and of all the greetings she had received his felt the most genuine, and she recognised his accent as having its origins somewhere not too distant from her own homelands, possibly the eastern slopes of the Urals.

  With introductions made, Adept Zeth had lifted a number of waxy sheets of paper from the plan chest and laid them flat on the workbench in the centre of the room.

  ‘This,’ she announced, ‘is one of the last great unrealised designs of Adept Ulterimus, developer of the Sigma-Phi Desolator Engine. Data appellations name it as a theta-wave enhancer designed to stimulate long-term potentiation in humans.’

  Ignoring their blank looks, Zeth continued. ‘It has been transcribed faithfully by the tech-archivists of Ipluvien Maximal from the data fragments recovered from Adept Ulterimus’ tomb below the Zephyria Tholus, and you are going to build it. You will have access to workspace, tools, materials and servitors to perform the manual labour. Within seven rotations you will demonstrate a working prototype.’

  With that, Adept Zeth had departed with a swirl of her bronze cape, leaving the five of them alone in the workspace.

  The first day had been spent in working out what the device was intended to do, no small feat in itself, given that the transcribers had been literal in copying out Ulterimus’ spelling mistakes, corrections and the exact shape and texture of his many crossed-out workings. Sketched images and rough diagrams scattered throughout the plans gave some clues to the device’s function, but it was a painstaking process just to divine what requirement this unrealised device was intended to fulfil.

  A pecking order had quickly established itself within their group, with Zouche and Caxton deferring to Severing who in turn took her lead from Mellicin. Dalia found her place within that hierarchy when she alone was able to decipher the notes and diagrams enough to understand the device’s purpose.

  ‘It’s a machine for enhancing the communication between neurons in the brain,’ said Dalia after a frustrating hour of unravelling a thread of randomly scrawled notes. ‘According to these notes, Ulterimus seemed to believe that a process known as long-term potentiation was what lay at the heart of the formation of memory and learning. It seems to be a cellular mechanism of learning, where the body is induced to synthesise new proteins that assist in high-level cognition.’

  ‘How does it do that?’ asked Severine, looking up from redrawing the circuit diagrams and synaptic flow maps.

  ‘By the looks of this molecular formula, it achieves its function by enhancing synaptic transmission,’ said Dalia, her eyes darting rapidly over the drawings. ‘This wave generator vastly improves the ability of two neurons, one presynaptic and the other postsynaptic, to communicate with one another across a synapse.’

  Dalia’s fingers spiralled over the drawing, her eyes flitting back and forth across the paper and her own notations, oblivious to the looks she was receiving from her fellows as she spoke, the words sounding as though they came from the deepest recesses of her brain.

  ‘Neurotransmitter molecules are received by receptors on the surface of the postsynaptic cell. When it’s active, the device improves the postsynaptic cell’s sensitivity to neurotransmitters by increasing the activity of existing receptors and vastly increasing the number of receptors on the postsynaptic cell surface.’

  ‘Yes, but what does that actually mean?’ asked Caxton.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ asked Dalia, looking up from the plan.

  The silence of her fellows told her it was not. She tapped the plans with her fingertips and said. ‘The device is designed to enormously enhance a person’s ability to tap into areas of the brain that we almost never use, increasing their ability to learn and store information at a rate way beyond anything human beings have ever been able to achieve before.’

  ‘But it doesn’t work,’ pointed out Caxton.

  ‘Not yet,’ agreed Dalia. ‘But I think I know how we can make it work.’

  ‘DO YOU THINK she is right?’ asked Ipluvien Maximal, watching Dalia explaining the function of Ulterimus’ device on a flickering holo-screen. ‘Can she get it to work? No one else has succeeded in a thousand years and you think she can do it in seven rotations?’

  Koriel Zeth didn’t answer her fellow adept for a moment, letting the chilled gusts of air that wafted from his permanently cooled data frame tease the few organic portions of her flesh that still faced the world.

  Maximal’s words were artificially rendered, but Adept Lundquist had crafted his vox-unit and the sound of his voice was virtually indistinguishable from an organically created one. Such an affectation seemed ridiculous to Zeth, given the artificiality of the rest of Ipluvien Maximal, but every adept had his own particular idiosyncrasies, and she supposed hers might seem no less ridiculous to others.

  ‘I believe she can,’ said Zeth. Her voice was still created by human vocal chords, but rendered hollow and metallic by the studded face mask she wore. She wasn’t used to employing her flesh-voice, but indulged Maximal’s peccadillo without complaint. ‘You saw the schema of the device she altered on T
erra. How could she have done that without some unconscious connection to the Akasha?’

  ‘Blind luck?’ suggested Maximal. ‘A million servitors working on a million plans might eventually hit upon something that works by accident.’

  ‘That old truism?’ smiled Zeth. ‘You know that’s impossible.’

  ‘Is it? I’ve seen a few of my servitors perform tasks that weren’t included in their doctrina wafers. Though, admittedly, my servitors do not function as ably as I would prefer.’

  ‘Only because Lukas Chrom outbid you for the services of Adept Ravachol, but that’s beside the point,’ said Zeth, irritated by Maximal’s digression. ‘Dalia Cythera made intuitive leaps of logic, and where she found gaps in the technology, she filled them with working substitutes.’

  ‘And you believe that is because the organic architecture of her brain is attuned to the Akasha?’

  ‘Given that I have eliminated various other factors that might account for her innate understanding of technology, it is the only explanation that fits,’ replied Zeth. ‘Though she does not know it, she unconsciously accesses the wellspring of all knowledge and experience contained within the Akasha, encoded in the substance of the aether.’

  ‘By aether, you mean the warp?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why not call it that?’

  ‘You know why not,’ cautioned Zeth. ‘There is danger in such association, and I do not want prying eyes misunderstanding the concept of what we are trying to do here, not before we fully understand the processes by which we can access the Akashic records and learn that which our ancient forebears understood without the need for dogma and superstition.’

  ‘The source of all knowledge,’ sighed Maximal, and Zeth smiled beneath her mask. Appealing to Maximal’s obsessive hunger for knowledge was a surefire means of quashing any concerns he had regarding their work.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Zeth, baiting the hook some more. ‘The history of the cosmos and every morsel of information that has ever existed or ever will exist.’