by Thorpe, Gav
Exasas paused to locate the conjunction between logistarius and xilliarkus that he currently occupied, tracing the routes from the mothernodes around the hub to the Higher Wisdoms etched into the outer ring. Over and over he moved a needle-thin digit across the rune for hierakos. It was perhaps the most important tenet of the Cult Metalica, a measure of a tech-priest’s dedication to the ideal of rank based upon progress towards the twelve Higher Wisdoms. Though of considerable rank among the skitarii, Exasas had stalled in the middle term of his path to enlightenment, secondary even to the moderatus prime. He had envisaged a period in which service upon one of the great god-machines of the Legio Metalica would elevate his progression to knowledge, but the truth was that opportunities for accomplishment had been severely curtailed. Only continued examination and refinement of his theorem provided any measurable increase in understanding the mysteries of the cosmic engine.
Exasas lifted away the slender manipulative tendril and moved towards the gate that led directly into the czella, the prescribed term for the command module in the lexicon of the Legio Metalica. A single portal barred entry, flanked by two herakli combat servitors. Each vat-grown brute was as big as a kastelan and modified with multi-barrelled assault cannons and jagged-toothed sawhands. They stared dumbly at the magos from under their heavy hoods, their eyes almost lost in the expanses of their flat faces. Exasas extended a noospheric link to the door control systems and the panel between the herakli hissed out of sight into the bulkhead.
Ghelsa stopped and turned on the stair, waiting for Delta 6-Terror to catch up. ‘Delta 6-Terror, confirm your mission.’
‘Confirm that our status is faithful.’
‘And you have an ongoing duty to protect the faithful?’
‘Good. Then you cannot allow any harm to befall us until we are designated as unfaithful.’
Ghelsa complied, ignoring the deepening frown that creased Harkas’ brow.
‘Can you self-categorise us as unfaithful?’
‘Like trying to escape?’ Ghelsa asked, with a meaningful look at Harkas.
‘And if anyone tried to harm the faithful, would that also be evidence of unfaithfulness?’
Harkas’ sharp glance signalled his realisation.
They reached the lowest level of the atrium. At the far end was the gate into the antae between two silvered pillars. The two halves of the gilded portal made the iron skull icon of the Legio, and around them were moulded the twelve runes of the Higher Wisdoms.
The entrance was guarded by a squad of skitarii, their white coats streaked with bloodstains and oil smears, in places ragged from shrapnel and burned by plasma or promethium near misses. They wore steel-coloured armour beneath and each had at least one bionic, a leg or hand or skull, silver in colour to honour their metal-clad forge world. The alpha stepped forward to halt them and held out a mechanical hand. Her other arm was a reticulated bionic tentacle that curled around the grip of a radium carbine.
‘The antae is sealed,’ she said.
Only the skitarii alpha’s chin and mouth were visible beneath her visored helm, her lips forming a thin line as she considered this. Ghelsa heard a sharp crackle and realised it was a vox-caster built into her suit.
‘We have a kastelan requiring entry, magos,’ said the alpha. ‘Escorting…?’
She looked up at the kastelan and waved a hand towards Ghelsa and Harkas. ‘Who are they?’
‘Kastelan with unidentified companions,’ the alpha said.
Ghelsa tried her best to remain calm, taking particular care to regulate her breathing. She measured each breath in and out, reminding herself that her body was just a biological mechanism. She had served the Machine-God faithfully, and even if her mortal shell were destroyed her soul would survive.
A whirr drew their attention to a circular panel on the plinth of the gate, adorned with another cog symbol of the Cult Metalica. It rotated slowly through several turns and then swung outwards, revealing a hole. For a moment a green shimmer lit the interior, and then a servo-skull emerged. It drifted forward on its anti-gravity field, its eyes glowing with jade power.
The floating skull descended, trailing slender cables and tatters of parchment inscribed with benedictions of the Machine-God. Its lifeless eyes regarded Ghelsa first, small lenses within the eye sockets clicking into place as it focused.
It drifted to Harkas, and then turned its attention to Delta 6-Terror. A brief spurt of binaric erupted from the servo-skull’s speaker and the construct replied with an equally short spasm of sound.
It then rose up, reversed towards the capstone and disappeared back into its hole. The cover swung shut and locked back in place.
Ghelsa looked up at the large portal, absently tapping the multi-tool with her metal-tipped fingers, the sound swallowed by the atrium. She steadfastly refused to look at Harkas, telling herself that she did not need to see what the inquisitor was doing.
A hidden mechanism clanked within the gate and the outline of a smaller entrance appeared in the left-hand door, though it was still twice Ghelsa’s height, capable of admitting a magos or kastelan. With a wheeze of hydraulics, the door opened inwards. A billow of incense issued forth, its musky smell both familiar yet alien to the tributai. She only knew it second-hand, clinging to the robes of the tech-priests, lingering in the air after their departure. It reminded her of the Initiations, and brought back memories of her implantation ceremony when she had earned her exo-skeleton and the mark of the faithful on her forehead. She remembered the incantations, the words incomprehensible but as regular as the beating of her heart, issued with digital precision by the tech-priests officiating the induction.
Caught up in recollection, it took her a moment to realise that she wasn’t imagining the mechanical chant – it was coming from the open door. And it was not just one voice but many, each separate but part of a whole like the links of a chain or the gears and belts of a motor.
It was the will of the Machine-God given linguistic form.
‘Praise the Omnissiah,’ she declared, filled with the urge to declare her faith. ‘Hail the Machine-God!’
The skitarii alpha waved for them to proceed.
Harkas went first, but glanced back up into the atrium, perhaps considering a last attempt to flee. He stepped over the lip of the door, plunging into the whirl of light and vapours.
Ghelsa stood trembling at the threshold. It was not apprehension that caused her to delay, but anticipation. Regardless of the circumstances, she was about to enter a sanctum of the Cult Metalica. It was hard not to think of it as a reward for her efforts over the last few hours.
Nothing was further from Ghelsa’s thoughts. As she stepped into the antae she could not stop a broad grin, feeling more intoxicated by the occasion than any amount of illicit Machine-spirits had ever made her.
The czella was noospherically shielded, so that at the instant of access the magos was confronted by a welter of fresh
information exchange. He did not have to tap into a feed – it was simply there, filling the air like the swirls of incense. Updates and datalogs seeped into his cogitators as he moved through the archway and headed towards his assigned monitoring position. Detecting the noospheric signal emanating from Exasas, the station’s spirit awoke, broadcasting a medley of welcome and security messages that the magos unconsciously swept aside into short-term archive.
He accessed the meteorological profile that Monderas had highlighted but there was no need to rely on the prognostications within – the tumultuous environment of the Aza Fai Alessa was plainly evident from the surveyor readings and the view through the main canopies.
Beyond Az Khalak the mountains reared into steep peaks that scraped the clouds, their flanks scoured down to dirt and rock by millennia of previous industry. The fortress guarded a pass of sorts, a vast natural gorge broad enough for the battle group to advance along at wide dispersal, stretching deep across the central highlands that dominated the main southern land mass of Nicomedua.
The clouds themselves were dark thunderheads touched with strange coruscations of red that lit them from within, a product of unnatural climate alteration. At some unknown time in Nicomedua’s history the world had been augmented with atmospheric processors, presumably to boost agricultural production. The mountains themselves had been turned into housing for these vast climate manipulators, their pinnacles pierced with hundreds of large venting shafts that had since been turned into a sprawling network of caves and corridors that had homed millions before the rebellion. During the Age of Strife the processors had fallen into inevitable disrepair and their malfunctioning had created extreme and erratic storm conditions around the mountain, not just affecting wind and precipitation but actively eroding the upper layers of atmosphere so that the highlands were infrequently bathed with heightened levels of stellar radiation.
One such burst was already affecting the weather patterns, creating a monumental tempest in the valley lands directly ahead of the battle group’s advance. Jagged spears spat groundwards in a continual discharge, lighting the darkness that swathed the pass. The tips of the mountains were wreathed with their own blue halo of glimmering plasma, as were the hundreds of gargantuan conductor rods that had been erected to harness the energy-generation potential of the constant storms.
The battle group’s remaining Warhounds advanced towards the atmospheric maelstrom, silhouetted against the flashes of power. The Imperator and Warlords followed just a few minutes behind, leaving the smaller Reavers and Warriors to form the rear of the group.
Even at range Exasas could feel the noospheric disruption of the stormhead. As tinnitus might befoul the hearing of a normal human, so the tech-priest sensed a background buzz through his datasystems.
Iealona [general broadcast/imperative]:
A tension sparked through the datalinks but Exasas could not separate the growing external influence on the noosphere from the negative impact of his companions’ apprehensions. The noosphere entered a lull phase, the only contact from the unthinking servitors, all sentient minds within the command module turned inwards to their own monitoring systems. From the princeps senioris flowed a sense of purpose, the Casus Belli set upon its course with a solid determination despite the perils ahead. Positive indicators caressed Exasas’ calculations, improving the outcomes of his extrapolations.
In the stillness of the noosphere Exasas picked up a flurry of ciphered exchanges between the moderati. Remembering Monderas’ comment about such coded conversations, the magos wondered what this peak in activity signified. A possible explanation revealed itself just a few seconds later, when the princeps senioris issued a battle group-wide pronouncement.
Iealona [general broadcast/imperative]:
Taken aback by this announcement, it took Exasas a while to process the full implications. Even as he made subservient inquiries through the noosphere he gave voice to the protest that boiled up.
Exasas [interrogative]:
Iealona:
Exasas [protest]:
Iealona:
Though there was no rebuke assignation on the transmission it was hard for Exasas to interpret these words as merely literal. It was highly irregular that he had not been informed earlier of the princeps senioris’ desire to reinforce the skitarii complement.
Gevren:
Exasas [substantive/imperative/rebuke]:
The magos’ outburst was fuelled, in part, by indignation at the moderatus’ innuendo, that he had been in some way inefficient in his defence of the Imperator.
Iealona [injunctive]:
The princeps senioris’ statement was accompanied by the full weight of Casus Belli’s personality, impressing upon the tech-priest the importance of their position. Exasas’ concerns felt petty against the Imperator’s needs, and had he been consulted he would have accepted reinforcement, if not outright argued in its favour. It was irrational to allow the emotive substance of being circumscribed to dictate the future safety of the Imperator.
Exasas [apology]: [inquiry]
Monderas [datalog]:
To Exasas, who typically measured interactions in milliseconds, it seemed a very long time to wait.
The haze of incense obscured a floor polished to a mirror shine, so that Ghelsa caught occasional glimpses of her own reflection between wisps of diffused scarlet. It was cold underfoot, bare metal beneath her naked feet. The ceiling was the same, and it felt as if she had stepped into a droplet of molten plasteel, metal in all directions in imitation of the sacred ground of the forge world that had created the Titan.
Six plain columns lined the walls to each side, their fluted capitals merging with the vaulted ceiling. Recesses between the pillars housed murmuring servitors, each no more than a torso and head attached to the wall, their lips in ceaseless motion. Listening carefully, she made out a scattering of phrases from the babble of techna-lingua.
The Eighth is Supreme, being divisible by the cardinal and the binary.
Upon the vox do we hear the voice of the Machine-God rendered mortal.
Unto every Design is laid Wisdom. Beneath every Wisdom lies a Design.
No machine is arbitrary, for in its workings is found the faultless logic of the Omnissiah.
They were all teachings of the Cult Metalica, lessons she had attended since her earliest memory. Much of it she still did not understand, but had learned by rote to honour the Machine-God.
&nbs
p; Ghelsa had thought to see white-clad figures attending to the arcane systems of the Casus Belli, but then remembered that they were in the antae, the outer chamber. The louder chanting of techna-lingua came from beyond a doorway at the far end, reverberating along a broad passageway.
She took a step towards the door, eager to see the tech-priests at their stations.
It drifted away, its suspensor field cutting interwoven vortices through the incense. Ghelsa noticed more servo-skulls close to the ceiling, hovering beneath the vaults. She could not tell if their glinting eyes were active or dormant, or whether any other mind monitored what they saw.
Ghelsa wanted to pace, she was so full of apprehensive energy, but contented herself with adjusting the grip width of the multi-tool. The buzz of its small motor vibrated in her hands as the jaw opened and closed.
‘Is that really necessary?’ said Harkas, scowling.
She threw him a sour look but stopped, his chiding making her feel foolish.
A movement at the doorway drew her attention. A figure swept into the antae borne upon six many-jointed legs that clacked noisily on the hard floor. The body was long and hunched, concealed for the most part beneath layers of pale robes, showing only a flash of segmented metal and dangling pipes as the magos moved closer. Four spindly arms, each within its own voluminous sleeve, waved and swayed as the senior tech-priest advanced.
Ghelsa peered into the shadow of its cowl and gasped. Its face was almost untouched by bionic enhancement, a slender female visage framed by coils of wire. Ghelsa was accustomed to the insect-like masks of the tech-priests and it took her a moment to adjust to the juxtaposition of unadulterated human flesh among the sprawling mechanics.
