by Rob Sanders
‘These deaths are but data to you,’ de Zut said grimly. ‘You can close your blast screens so that you might avoid looking down on your losses. I have no such screen. I live each and every one: in here,’ the astropath said, slapping his palm against his temple.
‘I repeat,’ Vydel said, ‘we acknowledge the burden of such mortis-cries.’
‘And of the astrotelepathic distress calls to have reached us?’ de Zut interrupted. ‘What of the living, priest? Thirsk’s World? Aguilarn Tertius? Eidolica? The Verge Worlds? Fifty-One Xerxi? Port Sanctus? Undine? What of those we could save by breaking your precious Law of Universal Variance? Those who might be saved by others, if you only allow me to pass on their communications? We might be the only ones to have intercepted such calls for assistance.’
‘Out protocols are clear,’ Vydel said, unaffected by the astropath’s entreaties. ‘We are authorised to send one communication. One communication containing our evidence and findings. Observations of enemy conquest strategies, the workings of xenos technologies and the relative successes or failures of victim-worlds to repel invasions. One communication signalling the signum-station’s readiness for extraction and redeployment. These billions you feel for do not perish in vain. The Fabricator General will learn much from their annihilation.’
De Zut pushed himself back into the corner of the compartment, defeated by the cold logic of the tech-priests. Unclipping herself from her observation cradle, Autegra Ziegl allowed herself to drift upwards. Reaching out, she depressed the ceiling plunger, initiating the hydraulic closure of the port blast screen. She had no words of comfort for the astropath. Such capacity had long been surgically sliced from what was left of her organic brain, but she watched de Zut with brazen curiosity as he shook his head and took a long, hard drink from his suckle-flask.
‘I don’t understand you,’ he mouthed before again returning to the zero-gravity teat on the flask.
Ziegl turned to her notatio logi master.
‘Perhaps we should send the intelligence package now,’ she said.
Kelso Tollec turned his ocular-quad on the lexmechanic. ‘What of the data-loss? The analytical deficiencies?’
‘We would be failing both our Fabricator General and the Omnissiah,’ Erhlen Ohmnio said, his cheerful face-mask unchanged.
‘Master de Zut is under your monitorance,’ Ziegl put to Tollec. ‘Can you vouch that he will be able to send communication following the destruction of the cryoforge-worlds? That could take days. It could take weeks. How many more mortis-cries will he intercept in that time?’
The auspexmechanic considered, then admitted to Vydel, ‘Master de Zut’s capabilities and willingness to serve the Machine God with his talents diminish with his intoxication and deteriorating state of mind. He is apparently unsuited for the isolation of surveillance service on a signum-station. I calculate a twenty-six point four five per cent chance that he will abuse his talents and relay the astrotelepathic messages he has received – thereby invalidating our surveillance and possibly betraying our position to an enemy.’
‘Better to send the package incomplete and be of some use to the diagnostiad, than not have it reach them at all,’ Vydel said.
‘But the protocols…’ Erhlen Ohmnio restated.
‘Sub-protocols allow for adaptation in the face of an external threat to the sacred data,’ Vydel insisted. ‘An accident or enemy offensive, for example. I am willing to interpret Master de Zut’s weakness of the flesh as such an external threat.’
Taking the flask of amasec from Orm de Zut, Vydel looked from the defeated astropath to his lexmechanic. ‘Begin preparing the data we have for empyreal translation. Master de Zut will sober up and send our findings to Mars, where, Omnissiah willing, they shall aid the Fabricator General and his choralis diagnostiad in their holy cerebrations.’
NINE
Mars – Olympica Fossae Titan Assembly Yards
The Adeptus Mechanicus haulage barge Internuncia gave an almighty creak as its landing claws touched down in red Martian dirt. Gone was the weightless indifference of the void. The forge-world’s gravity asserted its authority, and the great vessel and its consignment cargo of colossal Titan parts reacquired their crushing cumbersomeness. The drop-freighter was a largely automated vessel, crewed by mummified servitors, servomat drones and robotic cargo loaders. It routinely ferried parts for repair and reconditioning between the Terran Titan depots and the Olympica assembly yards on the Red Planet, transported between the two by the articulated push-tug Sumpter, which was waiting obediently in orbit. The ranking crew member was a helmsmechanic, wired into the gargantuan craft’s tiny cockpit, whose responsibility it was to pilot the barge between low orbit and the planetary surface.
As the massive bay doors opened and mechanised drones fell to the task of loading and offloading their precious cargo, a figure in dark robes broke the angularity of its cover. Not a servitor. Not a drone automaton. A stowaway. Striding down the mountainous ramp behind the broad tracks of cargo robots and between the heavy steps of power-lifter servomats, the figure’s ample hood buried its features. It looked up briefly. Weak rays of early morning sunlight were feeling their way around the imposing architecture of the Olympus Mons forge temple: grand, functional, beautiful. Olympus Mons, forge of the ancients. Cult capital of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Seat of the Fabricator General of Mars. It was a magnificent sight, sitting, as it did, like a colossal crown of glowing chimneys, furnace stacks and temple towers atop the largest volcano in the Sol System. It was a reminder of the power wielded by the Machine God’s servants in the galaxy. An empire allied, but still distinct from the Emperor’s Imperium and ruled from the red majesty of Mars.
At the bottom of the ramp, the figure found a gathering in the great shadow of the haulage barge. A meeting of equally dark shapes, waiting to be convened. A meeting unseen and secret; a meeting of assassins and killers, with death warrants at a glance – for those unfortunate enough to observe such occurrences, by design or by accident, rarely saw the next sunrise.
As monotask machinery and augmented vat-slaves went about their unloading duties, the group presented themselves to the waiting figure. Two wore the red-robed pageantry of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Two more sported cloaks and masks of midnight black over muscle-hugging syn-skin and boots of the same colour. The fifth was hulking and naked, but for being entirely enclosed in a cryo-containment pod. The sarcophagus was positioned upright and steamed with methalon gas, creating a heavy mist that sank to the floor.
‘Sleeper Cadre Red Haven: identify,’ the figure ordered them.
The first of the false-Mechanicus figures stepped forwards and offered the haptic finger ports of her hand.
‘Clementina Yendl, my lord,’ the Assassin said. ‘Temple Vanus.’
The figure took her hand in his gauntleted one and pierced her skin with a hypodermic palm spike. Painful though the experience was, the Assassin didn’t flinch. Holding her hand still, the figure turned his gauntlet and examined the data scrolling across a miniature runescreen inlaid at the wrist.
‘Clementina Yendl, Temple Vanus – Red Haven, confirmed,’ the figure said.
The procedure was repeated. ‘Mariazet Isolde, Temple Callidus – Red Haven, confirmed,’ the figure said to the other forge-world impersonator – her red-robed disguise benefiting further from a bronze mask, authentic cybernetic augmentation and the stench of oil and spoiling flesh.
‘Saskine Haast, Temple Vindicare and Sklera Verraux, Temple Vindicare – Red Haven, confirmed,’ the figure said, identifying the pair of stealth-suited markswomen.
Placing his hand on the side of the upright cryo-containment pod, the figure interfaced with a hypodermic port and drew blood from the occupant.
‘Tybalt the Abolitiate,’ Yendl of Temple Vanus informed the visitor.
The figure inspected his gauntlet.
‘Temple Eversor – Red Haven,
confirmed,’ he said finally.
While the Vindicare markswomen retained their masks and Tybalt the Abolitiate remained reassuringly cryo-confined, both Yendl and Isolde drew back their hoods. Isolde disconnected her Mechanicus Protectorate honour mask with the hand that had not been replaced by a mind-impulse-controlled implant weapon, to reveal a pallid but beautiful face. The flaskless plasma gun glowed beneath the Callidus Assassin’s cloak.
Yendl was a bookish woman, lacking in the surgically refined allurements favoured by many female operatives of the temples. Beauty, for many Assassins, was simply another weapon in their varied arsenals, but Yendl had elected to remain unremarkable by comparison with her cadre companions. Framed between the greying braids on the sides of her head and within the holo-lenses of her spectacles, however, the infocyte’s eyes burned with dark, destructive intelligence. She held an armoured data-slate under one arm, a weighty intel-log that trailed rune cables and data-feeds back under her robes.
‘My lord,’ Yendl insisted. ‘If you don’t mind.’
The figure nodded.
‘And you are right to insist,’ he told her as ghostly overlays rippled through the display of her holo-spectacles and the dots of face recognition beams pulsed from devices built into her frames onto the stranger’s face. The figure managed a grim patience during the brief scan.
‘Well?’ Sklera Verraux said through the vox-filter of her mask. Both Verraux and her sister sniper had tensed at the delay in Yendl’s usually swift cogitations.
‘Drakan Vangorich,’ Yendl said finally.
‘Grand Master – Officio Assassinorum: confirmed,’ Drakan told them.
With the exception of the monster Tybalt, who physically couldn’t know he was in the presence of the highest ranking member of their order, the Red Haven sleeper cadre fell to an obedient knee.
‘Grand Master,’ Yendl said, ‘if we had known that you were coming to Mars in person…’
‘…then I hope you would not have wasted time on ceremony,’ Vangorich told his Assassins. ‘Are we secure?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ the Vanus Assassin assured him. ‘I have had all vox, pict and identifeeds out of this section – surface and orbital – phage-blocked.’
Vangorich nodded: ‘I grace the Red Planet’s presence because the intelligence you have gathered is of grave importance, not only to me and the Officio but also the Imperium. The guardian-vigilance of Assassin sleeper cadres like your own has never been more important. Not since the Great Heresy have the actions of so few endangered so many.’
‘Of course, Grand Master,’ Yendl replied. She knew better than to ask for more details.
‘Now,’ Vangorich said, ‘to Fabricator General Kubik’s transgressions.’
‘This encrypted log contains our gathered evidence and observations in full, Grand Master,’ Yendl said, disconnecting the security data-slate from her cabling and offering the log to Vangorich. ‘In short, my lord, the Fabricator General has been keeping valuable intelligence from the Senatorum.’
‘What kind of intelligence?’ the Grand Master demanded.
‘Results and observations gathered by his priests and adepts regarding the spread of xenos species in the rimward sectors,’ Yendl said. ‘The so-called Chromes. The Fabricator General has had his magi biologis and artisans trajectorae criss-crossing the segmentum, collating data from maximum-security laboratoria, observation posts and signum-stations.’
‘Where are these Adeptus Mechanicus installations?’
‘They are spread across the outer rim sectors, Grand Master,’ Yendl replied, ‘covertly monitoring worlds that have reported infestations of the Chrome vermin-species – including many citing minor outbreaks and Stage One planetary intrusions.’
Vangorich swore under his breath. ‘Kubik was presented with the Critical Situation Packet regarding the Chromes but refuted its threat credibility. All the while establishing his network of observation posts.’
‘The Fabricator General himself could be considered a credible threat,’ Yendl offered.
Vangorich slowly shook his head. ‘Kubik wasn’t wrong – logical bastard. The Chromes themselves aren’t the issue. It’s the predator species driving them corewards. No Critical Situation Packet was presented for them.’
‘No, my lord.’
‘Wienand must have been spitting blood,’ the Grand Master said, half to himself. ‘Was Kubik the source of the Inquisition’s initial information?’
‘Affirmative,’ Yendl said, ‘in the first instance.’
‘Then when the Fabricator General realised that he was onto something significant and beneficial to the Adeptus Mechanicus, he cut her off,’ Vangorich reasoned further. ‘He buried her Critical Situation Packet: the threat assessment his servants had helped to compile. Machines…’ Vangorich marvelled. ‘Wienand?’
‘The lady inquisitor is a frequent visitor to Mars,’ Mariazet Isolde answered. ‘She carelessly leaves her operatives here. They are currently being monitored.’
‘Would you prefer us to take more direct action, my lord?’ Saskine Haast asked.
The Grand Master shook his head: ‘Avoid entanglements with the Inquisition, if possible. If it isn’t possible, then do what you do best.’ With a nod, Vangorich returned his thoughts to Kubik. ‘You said these stations are gathering data covertly?’ he prompted Yendl.
‘They still are,’ the Temple Vanus operative informed her master. ‘Encrypted astrotelepathic intelligence packages arrive daily for the attention of the Fabricator General and his choralis diagnostiad.’ Vangorich lifted his hood in question. ‘The extensive coven of priests and magi he has convened to look to the problems and opportunities created by the xenos threat in the rimward sectors,’ Yendl clarified.
‘What of Adeptus Mechanicus forge-worlds?’
‘Installation personnel are under strict orders not to interfere with what the Fabricator General calls the Grand Experiment. He has not warned or attempted to spare his own servants.’
‘Machines…’ Vangorich repeated. ‘Was the intercept world, Ardamantua, being monitored?’
‘Kubik continues to recieve astrotelepathic updates from the system,’ Yendl said.
‘But the fleet was destroyed above Ardamantua.’
‘The reports are sent from a secure laboratorium aboard the Subservius, a Martian survey brig masquerading as an Imperial Fists fleet tender. Records show that the vessel was engaged in a supply run during the gravitic disturbances on Ardamantua, but she had in fact been ordered by the ranking priest on board, Artisan Trajectorae Van Auken, to haul off in advance of the gravity storm. This was deemed necessary to make observations of the enemy’s arrival.’
‘The Mechanicus had an early warning system for the gravity storms, before Ardamantua?’ Vangorich pressed.
‘Appearance of the vermin-species,’ Yendl said, ‘followed by auditory phenomena on a broadening range of frequencies, followed in turn by seismogravitic disturbances, increasing in magnitude. Their predictive system was established and trialled at Desh, Concorda Corona and Nostroya IV.’
‘I don’t recall these disasters being reported to the Senatorum,’ Vangorich said.
‘They predate Ardamantua, sir. In all likelihood,’ Yendl said, ‘their tragedies were reported as some other kind of phenomenon. These worlds are confirmed as dead, however. They are in the hands of the invader. Grand Master, may I have permission to speak candidly?’
‘Granted, Assassin.’
‘Our protocols for an action are very stringent,’ Yendl put to him.
‘And rightly so.’
‘By the letter of those protocols,’ Yendl said, ‘have not the actions of the Fabricator General justified his termination? He’s withholding a wealth of essential information from the Senatorum and embarking on a course of action – individually determined – that might very well be putting the Imperiu
m in grave danger. An action is justified, my lord. Some might argue warranted and necessary.’
‘Unfortunately,’ Vangorich told her, ‘it is not as simple as that.’
‘But, my lord, aren’t the magnitude of these considerations beyond the politics of the Senatorum?’
‘Nothing is beyond the politics of the Senatorum,’ Vangorich said. ‘I understand your impatience. The need to act. I too have done my time watching those deserving of death breathe on, unpunished, under my blade and in my sights. The Fabricator General’s time will come, and he won’t be alone. The fact is that as of this moment, with the core facing a xenos invasion of unprecedented proportions, we are going to need Kubik and the results of his Grand Experiment. Detest them as I might, the advantage the Martian priesthood are searching for might benefit us all.’
‘Grand Master,’ Yendl persisted cautiously. ‘Forgive me my doubts, but I am not so sure. Beyond a diagnostic analysis of enemy strategic behaviours and the relative successes and failures of Imperial worlds to delay the invasion, it won’t surprise you to learn that the principal interest the Adeptus Mechanicus has in these calamities is the technologies used to promote them.’
‘Kubik is actively researching the xenos technologies?’ Vangorich asked in slow and deliberate syllables.
‘More than that, Grand Master,’ Yendl told him. ‘Kubik has several maximum security projects under excavation and construction beneath the surface of Mars. As yet, we have been unable to gain access to these projects. We know that one is located beneath the Noctis Labyrinth, with other larger excavations taking place at intervals below the Valles Marineris.’
‘What is the Mechanicus building?’ Vangorich demanded.
‘We don’t yet know, my lord,’ Yendl admitted, ‘but much of the data sent back to Mars from the secreted outposts and signum-stations focuses on the teleportation and vector technologies that the xenos use to transport their attack moons over sector-spanning distances.’
