More Adeptus Mechanicus from Black Library

FORGE OF MARS
Contains the novels Priests of Mars, Lords of Mars and Gods of Mars, plus the Quick Read ‘Zero Day Exploit’.

SKITARIUS
An Adeptus Mechanicus novel

Discover the war machines of the Adeptus Mechanicus in

KNIGHTS OF THE IMPERIUM
A Warhammer 40,000 novella

TITANICUS
A Warhammer 40,000 novel

Explore the origins of the Adeptus Mechanicus in

MECHANICUM
A Horus Heresy novel

THE KABAN PROJECT
A Horus Heresy Quick Read

Visit blacklibrary.com for the full range of Warhammer 40,000 novels, audio dramas and short stories, as well as many other exclusive Black Library products.

It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.

Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Astra Militarum and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants – and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

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SELECTED: DENTRICA I OF III
ENGAGE NEURAL CONGRESS – WIRELESS AUTOSHUNT ACQUIRED
UPLOADING… +DATA STORM+

Omnid Torquora waited for the heavy elevator doors to shudder aside. As they did, the darkened diagnostiquorum chamber was revealed to the magos explorator. The bridge of the Maestrale was the nexus from which the arkcruiser was controlled, but the might of the Adeptus Mechanicus army that fought on the world below was coordinated here.

Torquora strode from the elevator, the car sighing as the tech-priest’s monstrous metal form departed. With the clunk of heavy steps, Torquora crossed the chamber.

While the magos explorator’s organic body was but a cable-interfaced sack of spoiling meat, the Machine-God had made Torquora much more. As he had explored the most lethal corners of the galaxy and fought the enemies of the Omnissiah over trinkets and ancient technologies, the tech-priest had indeed become less and less of a man. He had not only lost limbs and the function of flesh – he had been stripped of his humanity. But what the xenos had taken from Omnid Torquora, the Omnissiah had replaced and enhanced. The magos explorator was no longer human. He had become something beyond such constraints. He had transcended the limitation of base organics to assume an aspect of the Machine-God Himself.

The ghoulishness of Torquora’s cadaverous features sat within the darkness of his robes, hidden by the blinding intensity of his blaze-blue optics. His butchered body had travelled to the far reaches of the galaxy and had been chewed up and spat back at the Adeptus Mechanicus for augmentation. Now it was a punctured nest of cables, pipes and lines. About the stench, the withered flesh and wired bones, Omnid Torquora wore the glory of metal and intricate workings. Like an armoured sarcophagus, a suit of clinker-plate and heavy hydraulics enveloped him. Mechanical legs carried the deck-denting progress of his form. Brute appendage-cradles supported the weight of stowed heavy weaponry. An armoured hood of overlapping plates extended over his cranium like a mechanical headdress.

To some, Omnid Torquora was a metal monster, a servant of the Omnissiah so consumed with the holy Quest for Knowledge that he had forsaken much of his mind for the processing power of supercogitators, auspexes and meme-banks. He had become a stomping, whirring, crackling priest-machine, whose reactor, when it fired, drowned out the insignificance of lesser constructs with its thunder. To others, Torquora was exactly what the Great Maker intended for the galaxy. An itinerant idol. The brutal fusion of flesh, feeble from the womb, and the Omnissiah’s glorious workings.

As the baroque tech-priest wound his way between the runebanks and phylactic console interfaces, he trailed the oil-stained length of his accommodating robes. The chamber was a silent hive of god-fearing industry. Servitors, masked and robed, moved about the nests of runebanks, running cables and plugging their masters into the labyrinthine network of feeds that draped from the ceiling and snaked through the consoles. Cyber-cherubim descended in a small flock about Omnid Torquora. The drones swooped about the monstrous magos on engineered wings, attending to his needs. They varied in size and appearance, from infant cherubs to flapping, foetal constructs. Each dragged an interface or length of cable and began porting their master into the phylactic of information that flowed through the diagnostiquorum.

Magi, logistae and the tech-priests of the diagnostiquorum were hard at work, their minds connected to those of the Mechanicus’s servants throughout the fleet and fighting on the planet below. The dark chamber boasted no ports or windows, for the priests of the diagnostiquorum saw the bloody wonders of battle through thousands of optics, omnispectrals and interfaced eyeballs. Through their runebanks, they devoured the hard data fed to them from vane arrays, tethers and stream umbilicals. The thoughts of skitarii soldiers were theirs to know. The havoc of battle, victory and death was to them a torrent that reduced the pict-streamed, the chemical and experiential to cold data. Data to be processed, amassed and collated.

Unlike the runebank-interfaced tech-priests, Omnid Torquora did not require a throne and console. He was his own walking runebank. His auxiliary appendages slipped out from his robes, and their multi-digits went to frenetic work across the cogitators and logic engines housed within the armoured pulpit that projected from the priest-machine’s chest.

With his flock of cherubim circling, porting and interfacing, the magos explorator came to a halt at the hub of the dark chamber. As his diagnostiquorum of priests monitored the battle below – from every apocalyptic cannon crash to the flash of each targeting reticule – Omnid Torquora in turn monitored them. Through the cybernetic forces of the Adeptus Mechanicus, the priests saw all, felt all and knew all. Through the diagnostiquorum, Omnid Torquora came to know even more. Through them he advised and guided skitarii soldiers. He became a conduit for the Motive Force and – when the occasion demanded such measures – he would become one with the servants of the Adeptus Mechanicus. He was a puppet-master for whom the cybernetics of skitarii officers and soldiers were armour to wear and weapons to wield.

<Engage neural congress,> Torquora announced through the priestly consciousness of the chamber. <Wireless autoshunt acquired. Upload…>

Torquora’s mind became a feverish constellation of thoughts, imperatives and raw data. The tech-priest’s supercogitators tamed the torrent of infostreams, the blizzard of pict feeds and omnispectral miasma. It was a searing privilege to experience the Machine-God’s holy war through so many optics, augurs and targeters. To comprehend the Motive Force through an unfolding data-storm of events, both planet-shattering and inconsequential. It was how Torquora imagined the Omnissiah experienced the galaxy – through the hallowed workings of all true constructs at once and in glorious union.

It had been half a year, Martian-standard, since Omnid Torquora had initiated the attack on Velchanos Magna. As the warp storm of the Great Gyre had retreated, the forge world had been revealed like a treasure over which the Dark Mechanicum and the Traitor Space Marines of the Iron Warriors had fought. Now, the indomitable forces of the Adeptus Mechanicus contested the world. Furnished with the precious data of an expendable and exploratory attack, Torquora’s forces now fought both the subjugated Mechanicum and their Iron Warriors overlords. For 344 days, the Adeptus Mechanicus had taken the fight to the tainted, the machine-corrupted and the Chaos-pledged. For 344 days, Omnid Torquora had taken his station in the diagnostiquorum of the arkcruiser Maestrale and led his skitarii legions, his engines of mass destruction and his priests-militant in battle.

Like plucking a star from a cosmos of consciousnesses, Omnid Torquora selected one of his soldiers. The tech-priest could immerse himself in the skitarius, while at the same time monitoring all others.

Ballistarius First Class Unix 77-Endocek was a gunner riding out the undulations of his Ironstrider engine. The walker, its monotask servitor-driver and Endocek belonged to the Novo Nine-Two Saggitariaq. The unit was making progress through the assembly avenues of the Graia-Mactoria. As the walkers stalked past the wreckage of half-constructed battle tanks and the possessed macromachinery assembling them, they were fired upon by warped gun-servitors and hench-units of the Dark Mechanicum. Still responding to the darkness of their active protocols, the polluted constructs tried their best to defend the smouldering, battle-smashed installation.

Leading the column of Ironstrider engines, Unix 77-Endocek’s roving omnispectral beams stabbed through the smoke and darkness, searching for targets. Dark Mechanicum followers were taking cover behind the shattered shells of tanks, sheltering among the corrugated roof tops and taking aim from within stilt-mounted observation pods that still stood along the length of the assembly avenue. Acquiring each in turn, 77-Endocek despatched them with cold precision.

The Graia-Mactoria echoed with the lonely blast of single autocannon shells. The twin barrels of the cognis weaponry had the capability to turn vehicles and buildings into shot-shattered wrecks with fully automatic streams of devastating gunfire. Such tactics were considered a waste of time and ammunition without necessity, and the ballistarius first class opted for the searing accuracy of single shots, blasted alternately from each barrel. Each round tore through the mangled metal of cover, through buckled doors and the spiked barricades of roof-mounted forts and emplacements.

The rabid gunfire and code-shrieks of the enemy fell silent as, one by one, the rounds turned the tainted into streaks of streaming gore across metal and rockcrete.

Hunchbacked installation thralls burst forth from a reinforced control cabin at the Ironstrider engine’s feet, blasting sickly beams up at Unix 77-Endocek from their baroque lasrifles. The Ironstrider ballistarii would not be stopped, however. Hauling their grips and triggers up and pushing the barrels of the autocannons down towards the ground, the Novo Nine-Two Saggitariaq chewed up the miserable thralls with monstrous gunfire. Urging his servitor-driver and Ironstrider engine on, 77-Endocek stepped down on a malformed menial who was slapping his malfunctioning rifle with a palm. Leaving the mound of pulverised bone and flesh in its wake, the engine strode on with the ballistarius blasting gun-servitors from overhead wire walkways.

Omnid Torquora allowed himself to drift, his phylactic presence moving from construct-consciousness to construct-consciousness. Blinking between the optics and augurs of skitarii soldiers, the magos explorator saw a planet at war. From the ground, through the shaky pict streams and spooling data, Torquora watched the servants of the Dark Mechanicum die. He watched skitarii macroclades stoically advance through the twisted metal, demolished structures and cybernetic cadavers of the ruinous forge world. He monitored the progress of spindly Sicarian ruststalkers and infiltrators as they silently picked their way through the shattered industriascape, stabbing Dark Mechanicum hereteks in the back of their power packs, slitting feeds and cutting hooded heads from the shoulders of code-polluted tech-priests.

Two leagues to the south, the Onager Dunecrawlers of the V Column Adamanica-Phractora had closed on Dark Mechanicum battle tank contingents. The area had been the fabricator districts of the leaning Noctroi Hive but now was a cratered, cannon-blasted wasteland of drifting smoke and crackling energies.

Within the Dunecrawler designated Arachsus-440, Omnid Torquora willed himself into the electro-amniotic tank of the vehicle’s driver. 1-Lotun Cacheca was interfaced with the crawler and its machine-spirit, spearheading an Onager attack on a ramshackle armoured division. The Dark Mechanicum ranks were made up of smoke-belching battle tanks, dozer-bladed conveyers and spider-legged walkers. As the Dunecrawlers made flaming shells of the enemy tanks, scuttling over the derelicts with their crab-like legs, Torquora moved between 1-Lotun Cacheca and Ipsota 6-Dramski, the Onager’s designated gunner.

Rotating his gatling launcher, Dramski hammered rocket after rocket into a battle tank whose lightning cannon had glowed to readiness. Successive explosions tore through the tank, a final blast sending the wreckage skyward in a raging fireball. As the derelict landed and bounced back through the Dark Mechanicum lines, 1-Lotun Cacheca followed it through the flames.

Leading the slow, leg-stabbing crawl of a charge, Arachsus-440 breached the enemy lines, drawing the fury of Dark Mechanicum tank fire down on itself. The vehicle’s Emanatus force field became a globe of rancid light as Dark Mechanicum walkers and battle tanks turned the monstrosity of their energy weapons on the Onager Dunecrawler. Omnid Torquora felt the field integrity of the vehicle’s defences drop even as 1-Lotun Cacheca did.

The Dunecrawler had greater problems, however. As well as the putrescent energy of the heavy beam storm, the Onager’s augurs had picked up an armoured conveyer, thundering towards it at ramming speed. A nightmare of spiked track, serrated dozer blades and cyborg shock troops clinging to its twisted architecture, the conveyer bounced up and over the lips of craters before accelerating straight for the spearheading Dunecrawler.

Stepping back and lifting a single arachnoid leg, 1-Lotun Cacheca allowed the armoured conveyer to pass before his hallowed vehicle. As the conveyer back-tracked, the skitarii driver brought the tapering talon of the leg down to skewer through the conveyer’s roof and troop compartment. Cybernetic shock troopers began to clamber up and across the spiked wreckage of the transport. Ipsota 6-Dramski cycled from gatling launcher to cannons on the turret array before hammering the enemy into blood, oil and frag.

Suddenly, another vehicle was amongst them. While the Arachsus-440 attempted to extricate its leg and blast boarding shock troopers to oblivion, a spindly spider walker had mounted the enmeshed vehicles. The dish of an irradiator burned into the Onager’s armoured shell from a mounting on the walker’s underbelly, while the vehicle’s single, monstrous claw slammed through the side of the driver’s compartment.

Omnid Torquora felt the breached tank empty of its electro-amniotic fluid. The crooked, crackling pincers of the spider walker’s greatclaw had pierced the armour plating. Extended, they arced and spat either side of 1-Lotun Cacheca’s sagging form. The compartment interior showered Cacheca with sparks. Above, Torquora lived the horror of Ipsota 6-Dramski’s death, as a corruption-leaking cyborg stood over the gunner on the roof of the Dunecrawler and ran its rifle-mounted heavy chainblade through him.

With 1-Lotun Cacheca’s biometrics faltering, Torquora assumed control of the skitarius’s workings and failing systems. In his last moments, the driver felt the Machine-God’s presence. The Motive Force acted through him, and Omnid Torquora through the Motive Force. As the crackling pincers closed about him, Torquora willed the bionics of Cacheca’s arm up towards the Onager’s controls. With automotive power and hydraulics fading, every second was a mechanised agony as Torquora reached out with a dying gauntlet.

Slamming a bank of switches down and stabbing at a thick button with an armoured finger, Torquora willed 1-Lotun Cacheca to carry out a final duty. Hauling down on a pair of plunger handles, the skitarius initiated the vehicle’s destruct sequence. Torquora would deny the Dark Mechanicum even the derelict scrap of the vehicle. The tech-priest felt the machine-spirit of the Arachsus-440 purge its precious banks of collected battlefield data along a stream umbilical and up towards the Maestrale. Overloading the vehicle’s power core, Torquora felt the searing pincers of the claw arc-sizzle and close, cutting 1-Lotun Cacheca in two.

Withdrawing, Torquora found his way to Rota Volatis-22, gunner of the Dunecrawler Hermektris-600 that was making its way up behind. As Arachsus-440 exploded, a nova of detonating fuel-rods, ammunition and power enveloped the surrounding vehicles. While the pinned conveyer and a closing battle tank erupted in a chain reaction of detonations, the scaffold structure of the decimated spider walker skittered and sparked in the flames. As the driver of the Hermektris-600 took the Onager on and Rota Volatis-22 ended the enemy walker with a neutron laser stream, the column of Adeptus Mechanicus Dunecrawlers stalked on through the opening in the Dark Mechanicum lines.

SELECTED: DENTRICA II OF III
ENGAGE NEURAL CONGRESS – WIRELESS AUTOSHUNT ACQUIRED
UPLOADING… +COLD WRATH+

Omnid Torquora travelled the dread freightways of Velchanos Magna in phylactic communion with his warriors: vanguard skitarii whose ranks crackled with the radioactivity of their radium weaponry, rangers who climbed up through the shattered floors of hab-blocks and took aim at Dark Mechanicum priests with their transuranic arquebuses. He lived the death-dealing charge of Sicarian ruststalkers as they carved a path through hordes of corrupt skitarii temple guard. The scrapcode-chuntering constructs defended the contested ruin of Gamma Hydrax to the last warped soldier.

While the killclades and legions of Torquora’s skitarii fought on, the machine that was the Traitor forge world maintained its fell production. While habs, entire hives and cratered deserts of orbitally-bombarded ruin were given up to the Adeptus Mechanicus advance, clusters of Dark Mechanicum forge temples and assembly yards toiled night and day to reproduce the forces sacrificed to Torquora’s invaders. For every warped cyborg, cult-thrall and weaponised servitor the hereteks lost, the gene-mills and forges of Velchanos Magna brought forth ten more replacement abominations.

Worse, such invaluable installations were guarded by daemon engines that savaged attacking skitarii cohorts and tore through columns of Ironstrider engines. Even Onager Dunecrawlers struggled to survive the otherworldly savagery of these infernal machines and the droves of possessed battle-automata that supported them. Above the forge temples were twisted Dark Mechanicum cruisers, maintaining their suicidal station in surface-grazing orbit. The monstrous vessels blotted out the stars, replacing the light with a fell glow of their own from flight decks and holds.

Repaired and sustained by the forge world’s mighty shipyards, which remained in Traitor hands, the disfigured cruisers protected the key production centres on Velchanos Magna from Adeptus Mechanicus arkcruisers and skitarii ground invasions alike. Visiting warp-fuelled bombardments, scything plagues of Hellblades and the air strikes of fighter-bombers on advancing legions of cybernetic soldiers, the twisted vessels ensured that clusters of forge temples maintained their horrific rates of production.

Omnid Torquora, conversely, had but a few forge ships to repair and maintain his cybernetic forces, their vehicles and their weaponry. He had nothing in the way of shipyards for the vessels of his battle-scarred fleet or temples to provide him with reinforcements. It had been the reality of this equation that had created a stalemate scenario between the Adeptus Mechanicus and the corrupt constructs of the Dark Mechanicum for the last 344 days.

Torquora’s skitarii legions were battle-hardened veterans, whose sweeping victories honoured their magos explorator but whose numbers he could not replace. The Dark Mechanicum forces were made up of corrupt constructs, polluted tech-priests and freakish fusions of daemon and machine. They could not stand against the indomitable onslaught of Torquora’s forces, but they did not have to. Moments after they fell, their warped forms were replaced by something that had been engineered, dreadfully augmented and infused with daemonic malignance in a forge temple but an hour before.

With every loss and every moment the Dark Mechanicum held their production centres on the dark side of the planet, the odds turned against Omnid Torquora.

The far side of the planet was a blasted mess. Tidally locked, one half of the forge world was bathed in eternal night while the other half suffered the perpetual bleakness of day. For Omnid Torquora, blinking between skitarii soldiers fighting daemon engines in the infernal twilight between, the daylight seemed worse.

In the dull glow of the distant star, the full twisted horror of what warp storm isolation had done to the once magnificent forge world was clear. The proud industry of the planet was now a twisted malaise of crooked tower-stacks and ventscrapers that poured the poison of corruption into skies once tarnished only with honest industry. The very architecture was twisted and tangled – a labyrinth of barbed buildings and razored wire, lost in soul-draining mists of damnation. The warp-saturated metal and stone assumed mind-aching shapes that honoured the dark creators of the world and afflicted the servants of the Omnissiah with their perversion.

Reactors arced otherworldly energies that crackled across the serrated roof tops. Where chemical seas had long dried up, the air shivered above the fiery blaze of liquid metal lakes. Canals of molten iron criss-crossed the globe with a patchwork of daemonic malevolence. Gene-mills spawned a never-ending horde of corrupted freaks, while the temple forges – once bright centres of technological achievement – were now architectural abominations dedicated to daemon overlords and the Ruinous Powers of the galaxy.

It was in these palaces of mighty craft and endless industry, originally built to honour the Machine-God, that the worst atrocities had been committed against the sanctity of the machine. Temples had been turned into warp-spawn forges, fusing daemonic entities to tainted workings of diabolical design. The resultant abominations stalked the forge world, eager to indulge their hatred of everything pure and visit the destruction of their obscene weaponry upon the forces of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

In the south, entire quadrants of the forge world’s industriascape had been decimated, leaving behind mangled architecture, flame-cleansed sand and cratered waste. There, giants ruled. The arkcruisers of the Adeptus Mechanicus had blasted installations, forge temples and construction yards from the face of the planet with apocalyptic accuracy, and the great war machines of the Centurio Ordinatus trundled through the death and destruction, their colossal tracks mulching constructs and buildings alike into the quaking ground.

The Ordinatii were grand expressions of the Omnissiah’s will. Towers and sky-scraping chimneys trembled and collapsed at their approach. The beams of lesser weaponry sparked harmlessly off the great, globed surfaces of dispersion fields and the supra-armoured forms of the holy machines themselves.

Horizons were lost in the blinding flash of blessed weaponry delivering the wrath of the Great Maker. Missiles raged up into the sky from the war machines before dropping like thunderbolts towards their targets and blanketing enemy sectors in a catastrophic carpet of flame. The great dishes of sonic disrupters bathed forge districts in powerful energies that quaked buildings to rubble and split the earth asunder.

The forge world was not without its own warped versions of such machines. Twisted behemoths trundled and crawled across the field of battle like ancient monsters, mindlessly decimating loyalist and Traitor forces alike with streams of energy drawn directly from the warp. Nova cannons blasted explosive shells between the war machines of both forces, crashing through shield and plate at near approaching the speed of light. Derelict giants ground to a halt, wreathed in flame with tech-priests and soldiers spilling from emergency exits. Several even detonated, turning entire battlefields of warring constructs into frag storms of fiery destruction.

Through such utter decimation, delivered from orbit or visited upon Velchanos Magna by the behemoth clashing of the Ordinatii war machines, walked the god-machines of the Collegia Titanica. While Ordinatii Minoris and ferocious Scout Titans stalked the southern ruins, ripping through regrouping cohorts of troops and tank formations, Battle Titans of the Legio Interfectra and the Ironoclast clashed.

Warlords and Reavers of the Legio Interfectra flanked colossal Imperator Titans as the Adeptus Mechanicus god-machines demolished hab-towers with their passing and turned sub-hives into decimated pyres of metal, rockcrete and corpses. As Omnid Torquora’s skitarii legions advanced in their mountainous shadow, the Titans of the Legio Interfectra engaged the monstrous deviancy of the Ironoclast. Formerly the Legio Fortiori, the machines of the Ironoclast were now warped giants of heretekal design that burned with an infernal inner fire. The ground shook with their feral charge. Huge storms of dust and soot enveloped the gargantuan clashes. From within the murky maelstrom, the heavens cooked with the beams and blasts of turbolasers and plasma annihilators. Scrap and shrapnel rained as the possessed god-machines of the Ironoclast tore through Warhounds and Reaver Battle Titans with chainfists and crackling claws.

From the fleet arkcruisers, to the gargantuan war machines of the Centurio Ordinatus and Collegia Titanica, all were under Omnid Torquora’s command. The archmagos had plenipotentiaries and skitarii aides attending on his tech-priest captains, the Grand Master of the Legio Interfectra and the Lords Ordinatus. His word and the determinations of the diagnostiquorum were carried through the ranks of the Legio Cybernetica, the siege-smiths of the Ordo Reductor, the war savants of the Auxilia Myrmidon and the tech-priests dominus who warred in the name of the Machine-God. All were Torquora’s to command through the word of his machine emissaries or interfaced actions of his own. A powerful fleet and an Adeptus Mechanicus army were at his fingertips. The cold wrath of the Omnissiah was his to wield.

And yet, Velchanos Magna had not fallen to the Cult Mechanicus.

SELECTED: DENTRICA III OF III
ENGAGE NEURAL CONGRESS – WIRELESS AUTOSHUNT ACQUIRED
UPLOADING… +CORDON+

With his skitarii legions, his tech-priests and an army of the Omnissiah’s finest war machines at his disposal, Velchanos Magna should have been Omnid Torquora’s months before. He had the hard data, the materiel and the indomitable will to conquer the forge world – yet still it remained in the hands of the Traitors.

The Dark Mechanicum and hereteks of the forge world were skilled in their dread arts and determined to the last construct. But it was not their fell faith that had sustained them against Torquora, nor their worship of the Abystra-Dynomicron, the daemon entity that possessed the liquid iron core of the planet. It had been the Iron Warriors that had upset Torquora’s estimates, undone his equations and pushed his probabilities to their limits.

The warsmith Idriss Krendl had once led his Iron Warriors to Velchanos Magna for supplies, infernal weaponry and repairs. Stealing ancient knowledge and techno-artefacts from the forge world’s vaults and revealing to the Adeptus Mechanicus of Satzica Secundus the wonders of a Geller bomb, the warsmith had waited for the Machine-God’s servants to damn themselves. Testing the terrible weapon, the tech-priests of Satzica Secundus had not only weakened the Dark Mechanicum of Velchanos Magna but also plunged their own forge world into a warp storm of their own making.

Now Idriss Krendl had not one forge world beneath his merciless boot, but two. Two centres of colossal industry to produce armies of slave-constructs, infernal engines, weapons of mass destruction and daemonships for the Iron Warriors fleet. Omnid Torquora could not know what such a maniac would do with such resources, but the Iron Warriors were born conquerors and their warsmiths brutal tyrants. Whatever Idriss Krendl had planned for the galaxy, it would be celebrated in blood and iron. Of that, the magos explorator was sure.

For now, Torquora had blockaded Velchanos Magna, but Satzica Secundus was a rich prize waiting to be plucked by the warsmith. The archmagos aimed to deny Krendl the bounty of his tainted forge world and the dark blessing of reinforcements.

<Archmagos,> a tech-priest said from a nearby console. <Blockade runners. Sector 34.>

Torquora blinked back to the deck of the diagnostiquorum, with its humming banks and silent priests in communion with the forces on the planet’s surface.

<Give me a visual feed,> the archmagos ordered.

Within moments his mind was filled with the glorious vista of the Maestrale’s forward lancet screens. He could see what Tech-priest Captain Cyntreq Voltram was seeing on the arkcruiser’s command deck. The blackness of space, besmirched with the aethyric static of the nearby warp storm. The nightmare of Velchanos Magna rolling beneath the cordon of Adeptus Mechanicus warships, a patchwork of monstrous industry and utter destruction. Gaping like a blazing wound in the forge world’s surface, Omnid Torquora could see the vast rift that uncovered the daemonic planetary core, exposed and raging with infernal brilliance.

Across the colossal chasm, Torquora saw the scaffolding of dry docks and shipyards. In their warped and tangled midst, Chaos cruisers were being constructed. The skeletal frameworks of new raiders and escort ships were visible, while system ships, Dark Mechanicum arkfreighters and Iron Warriors strike cruisers sat suspended over the molten fury of the Abystra-Dynomicron in various states of repair and augmentation. Daemonships sat in scaffold webs of fell significance that marked out patterns and ruinous symbols about the possessed craft. It was from the shipyards that the blockade runners had departed.

‘Tech-priest Captain Voltram,’ Torquora said, but his words proceeded from the lips of a servitor stationed on the bridge. The consular unit was embedded into a column beside Voltram’s throne.

‘Archmagos,’ the tech-priest captain voxed back.

‘Identify.’

‘Dark Mechanicum corvette, my lord,’ Voltram said, ‘running behind a pair of adamanticlads. They aim to test us.’

‘There will be no test,’ Torquora told his tech-priest captain. ‘You will see to it.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Trajectory?’

‘They’re heading for the Mandeville point, archmagos.’

‘Predictable. Magnify…’

The Maestrale’s screens brought up the blockade runners in searing detail. The Dark Mechanicum vessels were twisted perversions with little regard for pattern or grace. Their sub-light engines stormed behind them, leaving ghostly, glowing trails in the vessels’ wakes as they rocketed up from the shipyards and out of orbit. The adamanticlads were system ships with no warp capability to speak of. Their bulk was dedicated to armour plating, defensive fields and batteries designed to hold off pursuing craft. Such vessels had been constructed and augmented with one purpose in mind: to break the Adeptus Mechanicus cordon surrounding Velchanos Magna.

Torquora knew from experience of boarding such vessels that they carried little in the way of crew. They were battering rams designed to soak up all Torquora’s fleet had to throw at them, ensuring the safe delivery of the precious corvette to the Mandeville point where the vessel would translate into the warp. At least, it would if Omnid Torquora ever failed in frustrating such an attempt.

Blockade runners had become a regular challenge, the heavily defended shipyards vomiting forth vessel after rank vessel with the intention of one day finding an opening in the cordon. Like the vessels that had preceded it into certain destruction, the corvette undoubtedly carried representative tech-priests from Velchanos Magna, sent by Idriss Krendl to establish a Chaotic concord with Satzica Secundus and secure a fleet of reinforcements. Most of the time, single attempts were made to breach the line of Cult Mechanicus ships stationed around the forge world. Occasionally, several attempts were mounted simultaneously to stretch the coverage of Torquora’s fleet.

‘Receiving messages from the Quantica and the Motive Force, my lord,’ Tech-priest Captain Voltram reported. ‘Blockade runners breaking from the surface.’

‘Where?’ Torquora asked.

‘The poles,’ Voltram said.

Omnid Torquora allowed himself to drift through the constellation of augmented consciousnesses. Blinking into the minds of skitarii storming an immobilised Chaos Titan in the southern districts, Torquora saw second-hand the Dark Mechanicum vessels rising from gargantuan pit-hangars at the pole. In the north, the archmagos saw the surface from the perspective of a spindly Sicarian infiltrator. The princeps was directing his murderous skitarii to butcher the tech-priests and artisans manning an arc reactor crowning the northern pole. Prompting the infiltrator to look up from his blades and the mauled hereteks crawling away from him, Torquora saw a heavily armoured monitor vessel rise from a hidden dry dock ahead of a black, spiny raider.

Torquora was suddenly there, on the bridge of the Motive Force, the Quantica and the Maestrale, his modulated orders erupting from the withered lips and vox-hailers of consular units.

‘Engage! Nothing gets through. Nothing.’

As the blockade runners surged up from the forge world, the arkships of the Adeptus Mechanicus opened fire. In the silence of space, macrocannon batteries and banks of super-heavy lasers blazed in a staggered blast that worked its way down the length of the vessels. The shields of monitors, adamanticlads and armoured system ships took the onslaught, crackling and glowing to a furious nimbus of light.

‘Again,’ Torquora ordered. ‘And again.’ The archmagos knew that in the gunnery sections deck-priests would be orchestrating the labours of monstrously augmented servitors and the priming of the cannons whose barrels protruded from the sides of the arkcruiser.

As the Maestrale and her flanking escort ships fired again, the shielding of the adamanticlads flashed to overload and critical failure. The vessels took the beams and blasts head-on, the apocalyptic energies punching through the reinforced plating of prows and down through the length of the ships.

One detonated, a beam cutting through its superstructure and triggering the explosion of its raging sub-light engines. As the blinding flash momentarily bleached the void and then subsided, the second adamanticlad disintegrated, falling away from the corvette in blazing sections. Fearlessly, the Dark Mechanicum corvette surged on towards the Maestrale. Torquora knew why. The tech-priests and hereteks on board would rather face the doom of the arkcruiser’s broadside than report failure to their merciless Iron Warriors overlords.

‘Grant them the Machine-God’s absolution,’ the archmagos ordered. Torquora watched as the twisted corvette disappeared in a blanket of white. The blaze of cannon fire enveloped the ship like a storm. As filters and screens compensated and the energy blast of the broadside faded, Omnid Torquora saw that the blockade runner was gone, wiped clean from the darkness of the void.

‘Motive Force,’ Torquora said, ‘Quantica, report.’

‘Blockade runners neutralised,’ Tech-priest Captain Verrid of the Motive Force reported.

‘Quantica? Respond.’

‘Defence monitors destroyed, archmagos,’ Parsimon of the Quantica told him. The tech-priest captain hesitated. ‘But an Infidel-class raider made it through the cordon.’

‘Parsimon…’

‘It has sustained damage and is currently being swarmed by interceptors from the carrier bays of the Haptis.’

‘Nothing gets through, captain,’ Omnid Torquora warned Parsimon.

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Have the Haptis break station,’ the archmagos ordered, ‘and authorise Tech-priest Captain Byterius to run the raider down and destroy it.’

‘Affirmative, my lord.’

The diagnostiquorum faded. The static of vox-feeds bled away. Omnid Torquora sank back into communion with the servants of the Omnissiah, fighting for their lives and functionality down on the planet below. The forces of Chaos were not only testing the Adeptus Mechanicus in the void. The war for Velchanos Magna raged on.

The once-sacred soil of the forge world had been bathed in the corruption of the warp storm that had enveloped it. The very core of the planet was possessed by a monstrous entity of the aethyr, its molten pollution running through every furnace and forge. It was a part of everything. Every weapon, vessel, building and cybernetic soldier had been blessed with iron from its daemonic form. The contaminated priesthood of the Dark Mechanicum had poisoned the planet further with their hereteknologies and worship of the Abystra-Dynomicron. Now the Chaos Space Marines of the Iron Warriors Legion held sway, Idriss Krendl bending the daemon, the possessed planet and the Dark Mechanicum to his unbreakable will.

Torquora moved from skitarius to skitarius. From officer alphas and princeps to the cybernetic soldiers who fought their way across the planetary surface. From crawler columns to Sydonian Dragoons, charging through clouds of incense on their Ironstrider engines. Holy warriors of the Machine-God, their gleaming war-plate and crimson cloaks were no more. Their armour was dented and beam-scorched. Their greatcloaks were tattered remnants, streaming behind them like battle standards that refused to fall. Their workings were shattered and their bionics exposed but on they fought, their indomitable steps taking them from battle to battle. For half a year they had striven to return Velchanos Magna to the rust-red empire of Mars. For half a year they had fought beside tech-priests, battle-automata and colossal war machines for the glory of the Great Maker. However, they had never before faced enemies like the Iron Warriors.

What once had been an industriascape that covered the planet with its endless toil and production was now a warzone. Omnid Torquora had blasted entire sectors to oblivion with the apocalyptic weaponry of his arkcruisers and Ordinatii. He had walked with the god-machines of the Collegia Titanica, through his consular units on the command decks of Reavers and Warlords, razing hives and temples to the ground. His legions of skitarii soldiers had mulched cadaver-constructs into the ground with the cold determination of their progress. In their wake the cybernetic soldiers left a mangled wasteland of blasted buildings, warped wreckage and flesh-fused scrap.

Between the cratered expanses of flame and wreckage-strewn wilderness, the Iron Warriors had laid their claim. Bringing the tactical genius of their daemon primarch and the experience of an eternity of sieges fought and won, the Chaos Space Marines had been quick to secure the forge world’s key strategic sites: the forge temple principal, shipyards, space ports, reactor complexes, forges and assembly yards. The hab-stacks and hives of Velchanos Magna were allowed to burn along with the blasted devastation of districts and installations deemed not worth defending.

While the production powerhouses of the capital forges continued to spew out the corruption of Dark Mechanicum skitarii, gun-servitors, battle-automata and daemon engines, Idriss Krendl and his Obliteratii warband oversaw the transformation of the Traitor forge world. Forge temples, ports and gargantuan assembly yards became mangled fortresses, these key installations now surrounded by colossal embankments of scrap and demolished rockcrete.

Possessed giga-machinery, dozers and heavy-duty hump-freighters toiled round the clock to build mountainous bulwarks of twisted metal and smashed stone about strategic sites of ongoing production. Bodies, bones and the mangled workings of smashed constructs filled the gaps between macrogirders and shattered wall sections. Cementing the sloping walls of wreckage was molten iron that welled its daemonic way up through the towering mounds of warped destruction, cooling to a metallic, scrap-embedded shell.

From orbit, such fortifications appeared like clusters of fat, dormant volcanoes, housing forge temples and monstrous installations within. On the ground the similarity was even more striking, with bubbling springs of molten metal erupting from the mountainous scrap-faces and streaming down the slope towards the Adeptus Mechanicus forces mounting uphill assaults.

Torquora had lost so many cybernetic soldiers on those slopes. Streams of molten iron had carried them away in deluges of daemonic fury. Twisted gun emplacements opened fire upon ascending cohorts from elevated positions, camouflaged by the surrounding scrap. Artillery rained down on them from siege mortars, cannons and bombards launching their salvos of warped death and destruction from within the embankment walls. When Torquora’s skitarii cohorts and killclades did manage to reach the summit ridge, they found the inner slopes to be swarming with Dark Mechanicum constructs.

The archmagos had even lost Titans and colossal Ordinatus war machines to assaults on the fortress forges. The monstrous and ancient form of the Ordinatus Helicon was a shattered wreck smouldering in the shadow of one such embankment. The demolished god-form of the Bellum Indomitat lay at the foot of another, the battle for the Titan’s hallowed scrap being fought by skitarii from the 10/17 Auxilliex-Itinerarii and a small sea of code-screeching tech-thralls that spilled over the rim of the ridge to claim the wreckage.

Idriss Krendl and his Iron Warriors orchestrated their side of the devastation from their strike cruisers, destroyers and the battle-barge Forgebreaker. Such vessels, along with the daemonships and twisted arkcruisers of the Dark Mechanicum, held perilous station above the monstrous fortifications. From low orbit the vessels added the apocalyptic firepower of their cannon batteries to the defences, felling the Titan god-machines and colossal weaponry of the Centurio Ordinatus upon approach.

Through the optics of skitarii soldiers about to die, Torquora had watched smoke-spewing gunships and rusted landers descend from the Iron Warriors vessels. When the Adeptus Mechanicus forces made headway against the code-shrieking hordes of Dark Mechanicum constructs, the Obliteratii would descend.

Bearing a warped curse of the flesh, Krendl’s Iron Warriors were monsters indeed. Brutally malformed, the Chaos Space Marines had outgrown the limitations of their armour. Shattered helms revealed the smeared flesh of ghastly faces. Muscles and sinew had burst obscenely from the tarnished ceramite of their power armour, giving the Iron Warriors a hunched and savage appearance. Their arms were great grotesque claws of fleshmetal or club appendages, from which erupted the gaping barrels of heavy weaponry spawned straight from the ruinous temples of their own bodies. Armoured plate seemed embedded in the horrific brawn of their forms. They were abominations, hulking perversions of what they had once been. Enhanced. Afflicted. As one with their weapons.

When they took to the field of battle they killed with a bitter, hate-fuelled ferocity. For the Obliteratii it was not enough to end a foe. Torquora’s doomed skitarii were crushed, torched and blasted to shreds. Targets were not executed with the economy of a single shot but were utterly annihilated, hammered into the ground by a storm of iron. The long-lost nobility of the Iron Warriors’ hideous features contorted about the insanity of battle roars and bellows. Within the warped flesh of their faces, however, their eyes burned with a dark intelligence. Like all servants of havoc and ruin, they were out of their minds, but Krendl’s Obliterators were precision monsters. Angles were estimated. Cover was utilised. Strategies were employed to devastating effect.

As vanguard skitarii were clawed into butchered bionics and bloody workings, Omnid Torquora withdrew. The archmagos took with him the last moments of alphas and their cybernetic soldiers as they were lost in the shredding hail of gunfire, las-beams and storm fronts of tainted flame. There was still a lot to be learned, and much data to be gathered, from such deaths. Tactics could be adapted and future approaches calibrated. For Torquora it was still not a pleasant experience, living the last savage moments of a life. Feeling the Iron Warriors simultaneously indulge their ancient hate and the physical power of their warp-diseased bodies.

The archmagos was not the only one to study his enemy’s strategies. While the Iron Warriors fortified the districts and temples they needed to keep Velchanos Magna and hold off the Adeptus Mechanicus, their own assaults demonstrated skill and dark calculation. Monitoring the frequency and outcome of such offensive manoeuvres, Torquora came to the conclusion that Idriss Krendl was not to be underestimated. Most of the time hordes of rancid constructs were despatched to frustrate the regrouping of skitarii legions and delay the colossal machinery of war. Krendl did not waste materiel and the foetid lives of Dark Mechanicum creations on retaking target installations and areas that had no strategic advantage.

The Ortorqus Chasma deep core mines were different.

0010

SELECTED: DENTRICA I OF III
ENGAGE NEURAL CONGRESS – WIRELESS AUTOSHUNT ACQUIRED
UPLOADING… +ILLOGICAL+

‘Captain Byterius of the Haptis for you, archmagos,’ a diagnostiquorum priest informed Torquora.

‘Patch him through.’

‘At once, my lord.’

Torquora waited for his vox-channel to switch frequency.

‘Captain Byterius,’ Torquora said. ‘I sincerely hope you have good news for us.’

‘I was not aware failure was an option, archmagos,’ Tech-priest Captain Byterius said, the metallic drone of his voice warped and crackling with the vox-relay.

‘Report.’

‘The Haptis managed to draw level with the blockade runner,’ Byterius said. ‘There was a brief engagement, my lord. I regret to inform you of some minor damage sustained by this blessed vessel.’

‘The blockade runner, captain,’ Torquora said, urging Byterius to complete his report. Amongst the cascade of code scrolling down before his optics – every imperative issued, casualty suffered and victory secured on the battle-ravaged planet below – the tech-priest had identified something that demanded his immediate attention. ‘Be brief.’

‘The Infidel-class raider is no more, my lord,’ Captain Byterius said finally. ‘She was crippled by our interceptors. My vessel’s cannons delivered the judgement of the Omnissiah. I would like to nominate my gunnery crews and servitor-pilots for Class II file commendations and…’

‘That vessel breached the cordon and almost made it to the system’s Mandeville point,’ Omnid Torquora warned Byterius. ‘If it had succeeded, it would have carried missives to Satzica Secundus, establishing a concord and requesting reinforcements. Think on that, tech-priest captain, before you begin allocating recognitions.’

‘Yes, archmagos.’

‘Have the Haptis return to her station,’ Torquora ordered.

‘As you command, arch–’

Torquora cut the channel dead and returned to his feeds, the deluge of data in which his cogitators were drowning: servo-skull pict feeds, skitarii voxmissions and binaric codestreams uploaded from the planet’s surface. One particular piece of data drew his attention.

‘Sector 77 again?’ Torquora said, the cold modulations of his voice carrying across the darkened chamber.

‘Skitarii rangers report a build-up of troops on the Euphracta Fossae,’ a tech-priest said, standing and pulling back his hood to reveal the baroque mask and rebreather within. Another took to his feet before his console, and then another.

‘The Drastok 4-14 Radiphracts laying siege to Forge Temple Pharatoi have identified a large column of vehicles leaving the installation,’ the second diagnostiquorum tech-priest said. ‘They did not engage our skitarii. Alpha Konduis could not spare forces to pursue. He reports them taking a south-southwest heading at speed.’

‘Air support?’ Omnid Torquora put to the third. He had seen this pattern before in the same sector.

‘A temple wing out of Autolica disengaged from battle with Marauders from the Tarantis 8/70,’ the tech-priest said, his tri-optics blinking. ‘Servitor-pilots identified the manoeuvre as illogical, given the temple wing’s successes.’

‘Heading?’ Torquora asked.

‘Inbound, sector 77,’ the tech-priest said before all three resumed their thrones.

‘They’re coming for Ortorqus Chasma again,’ Torquora said. ‘Advise your charges in the area. There is going to be an attack.’

SELECTED: DENTRICA II OF III
ENGAGE NEURAL CONGRESS – WIRELESS AUTOSHUNT ACQUIRED
UPLOADING… +THE OMNISSIAH FORBIDS IT+

There should have been nothing unusual about the Ortorqus Chasma deep core mines. The Planum Ortorqus was an ancient mining field, its surface riddled with vast, gaping holes as black as the depths of space. Long exhausted of their mineral bounty, the deep core mines were all but abandoned.

Omnid Torquora had made it a priority to take the district early in the war and secure its colossal main shaft. The Ortorqus Chasma was an ancient excavation that ran deep into the forge world’s rocky crust and mantle. As a target, it was without strategic merit and yet Omnid Torquora fortified the derelict mining operations with some of the best skitarii soldiers and Adeptus Mechanicus materiel at his disposal. The fortification of a worthless site had not gone unnoticed by some of Torquora’s diagnostiquorum priests and the skitarii officers with whom they maintained phylactic communion. It had intrigued the enemy also.

Routinely, the forces of the Dark Mechanicum were sent to breach the defences around the Ortorqus Chasma. Thousands of code-corrupted constructs marched on the trenchworks about the deep core mines, only to join the mangled carpet of warped flesh and rusted bionics belonging to units that had failed before them. Omnid Torquora did not know why such repetitive attempts were made. Only he knew the significance of the mines. Perhaps Idriss Krendl had come to understand the vulnerability they represented. Perhaps the Iron Warriors warsmith was siege-fevered and simply wanted the installation and gaping entrance to the Ortorqus Chasma because Torquora denied it to him. Either way, the Iron Warriors and their Dark Mechanicum allies were coming to claim the mines as their own.

‘Authorise the Marauders to pursue,’ the archmagos ordered. ‘What else do we have in the sector?’

‘The Canis Corporalis and supporting skitarii lay siege to the hab-stacks of Metra-Minoria, my lord,’ a diagnostiquorum tech-priest nearby announced.

‘Have Princeps Venedict break off his attack,’ Torquora said, ‘and take station over the trenchworks.’

‘As you command, archmagos.’

Torquora felt his way through the blizzard of minds fighting on the planet below. Blinking from one experience to another, the archmagos found himself once more amongst the searing beams and stub-chewed nightmare of the Traitor forge world.

Ultic-11 Quistron was ranking alpha of the 51st Tenna-Noitraloid. The rangers of the Noitraloid had been stationed in the Ortorqus trenchworks for half a year. As Torquora established phylactic communion with the skitarii officer, he found Quistron on his rounds. Accompanied by a trio of servo-skulls that orbited him like a system of moons, Quistron trudged through the ash and soot of the outer trench. From orbit the trenchworks appeared as concentric cracks about the colossal openings of the deep core mine shafts, with accessways dug between the outer trench and the crescents of reserve trenches running within. It was the ranger alpha’s daily duty to patrol the length of the trenches, auditing ammunition and recording the service requirements of equipment, emplacements and skitarii soldiers alike.

The 51st Tenna-Noitraloid wore the burns and punctures of battle on their war-plate with cold pride. Regardless of Ultic-11 Quistron’s unvoiced assessment of the deep core mines and their strategic pointlessness, the rangers had secured the excavated trenchworks and held them against increasingly savage assaults.

But for the sound of distant battle, the outer trench was quiet. As the hydraulics of Quistron’s long legs took him up the length of the excavation, his servo-skulls monitored, audited and assessed the battle-readiness of each section. Skitarii manned emplacements, surrounded by crates of ammunition and heavy-duty power packs. The barrels of heavy stubbers, autocannons and eradication beamers reached out from the outer trench, creating an overlapping kill-zone of fire arcs in the blasted wasteland beyond. Cybernetic soldiers peered over the edge of the trench, their telescoptics extending, while their comrades made adjustments to mortars.

Columns of rangers clutching galvanic rifles moved up and down the line, saluting their alpha with noospheric blurts. Their bionics were smashed and jury-rigged, their filthy red trenchcloaks ash-stained rags. As Ultic-11 Quistron passed, he acknowledged the uplinked status reports of sub-alphas and the sightings of skitarii soldiers leaning into transuranic weaponry, their optics screwed into scopes and long barrels aimed across the trench top.

<Alpha Quistron, listen to me carefully,> Torquora intruded.

The skitarii officer stopped, his servo-skulls gliding round about him.

<Archmagos,> Quistron acknowledged, feeling Torquora’s presence like the channelled intervention of the Machine-God Himself. <You honour my workings and my trench.>

<In a little under three minutes, your trench will suffer what appears from orbit to be a very determined attack. The enemy is on the move, Quistron-unit. They must not be allowed to take the Ortorqus Chasma. I forbid it. The Omnissiah forbids it.>

<I understand, archmagos,> Quistron transmitted. <Shall I send for the tech-priest dominus, my lord?>

<Do so,> Torquora ordered. <I fear we shall need him.>

SELECTED: DENTRICA III OF III
ENGAGE NEURAL CONGRESS – WIRELESS AUTOSHUNT ACQUIRED
UPLOADING… +SYSTEM SHOCK+

By the time Tech-priest Dominus Theronymous Gant returned with the servo-skull the skitarii alpha had sent, trench augurs had picked up signals of the approaching horde. An army of corrupt constructs was on the march, the ghoulish light of afflicted workings like a rash on the diseased darkness. Lifting his head above the trench and focusing his telescoptics, Ultic-11 Quistron saw the silhouettes of the enemy approach. Through the derelict remains of once great factories and production complexes, the Dark Mechanicum troops advanced. Spindly automata. Warp-fevered skitarii. Bloated gun-servitors with horrifically-augmented heretek priests driving them on.

While Torquora had entrusted the tech-priest dominus with the security of the deep core mines, Gant had entrusted Alpha Quistron with the fortification of their position. ‘Well?’ the ancient tech-priest asked crabbily, his cable-shot torso and the spidery hydraulics of his legs hidden beneath his cloak.

‘Looks like the bolstered ranks of the Geronteus Forge temple guard,’ Quistron informed his master.

‘Did I not read that the Geronteus Forge was destroyed?’ Gant said.

‘It seems, my lord, that what remained of their number have been salvaged and infused with further corruption and dark purpose.’

‘Something’s not right, archmagos,’ Gant said. Torquora concurred.

‘The archmagos agrees, master,’ Quistron said.

‘The enemy would not mount an attack on this site with such remnants,’ Gant said, almost to himself. ‘Alpha Quistron, ready your skitarii. I want this horde of walking detritus disassembled and returned to the scrap heap as soon as they are in range.’

‘Affirmative, dominus.’

Gant turned and extended the long metal talon of a spindly bionic hand out towards a pair of robed servitors that followed him.

‘You had better fetch my weapons,’ the ancient said. ‘It seems there will be bloodshed.’

The servitors did not have bottom jaws and simply nodded their obedience before making for the trench accessway.

<Avengers out of Autolica,> Omnid Torquora said, his words echoing through Alpha Quistron’s brain and cogitator coils. <Inbound.>

Moments later, the dish arrays set in the remains of the derelict surface mining installation confirmed number and heading. Tech-Priest Dominus Gant had already heard the throaty rumble of the fighter wing’s approach.

<Rangers,> Quistron ordered, <take cover. Aerial assault.>

‘They wish to soften us up, eh?’ Gant rambled on. Switching vox-channels, the tech-priest relayed his orders to the ordnance officers and priests of the Ordo Reductor waiting amongst a nest of weapons platforms situated between the deep core mine openings. ‘Targets inbound. There’s a storm coming. I can feel it in my workings. Make it so.’

The strike fighters bled from the darkness of the night sky. Their black fuselages were adorned with spikes and razored wire that wound itself about the lengths of the aircraft. Wings were mounted with blades and serrations while their engines choked and guttered, leaving behind a trail of warp-scorched vapour.

As the tech-priest dominus’s servitors returned with their master’s ornate weaponry – the drones weighed down with extra ammunition – Torquora heard the boom of Ordo Reductor cannons with Quistron’s ears. The sky above the trenchworks turned into a maelstrom of lightning and thunder. The heavens were rocked by the flash of detonating explosive shells and the electromagnetic pulse that crackled through the air like a firework, dissipating in the smoke and shot.

As the first Dark Mechanicum strike fighters descended for an attack run, several of the front runners were torn to fiery pieces. Ordo Reductor cannonry blitzed through the sky, turning Avengers into fireballs of unnatural flame. Other aircraft banked to avoid the shell storm but crackled with electromagnetic resonance. As the warp-encrusted workings of their engines died, the strike fighters began to plummet and spin, thunderbolting into the ash and ruin of the battle-torn wasteland below.

‘Intensify,’ the tech-priest dominus ordered, prompting the ordnance officers to drive their servitor crews on to swifter clearance and firing.

As the first wave of Avengers turned to fiery streaks and raining scrap, the flesh-fused servitor-pilots of the following strike fighters accelerated into a dive. Bringing the swarm of Dark Mechanicum aircraft into a ground-hugging column, the lead Avengers howled across the trenchworks. As they did so, their bolt cannons roared to life.

<Take cover,> Alpha Quistron ordered, grabbing a nearby cybernetic soldier by the shoulder. The skitarius had been tempted to take a blast at the passing aircraft but Quistron had pushed him back to his post. <Your targets are out there,> Quistron told him, slamming his greatcloaked back against the earthworks of ash and stone.

As the rotor cannons tore up the trench, blitzing through the stepping-stone walkways and boggy shallows, the tech-priest dominus was unmoved. The crabby ancient stared up at spiked fuselages as they flashed overhead. He had activated a stasis field that enveloped his form with a globed shimmer. Several skitarii crossing the trench from an accessway were bolt-riddled into thrashing corpses that came to rest awkwardly in the shallows. One of Gant’s servitors disappeared in a shredding storm of bolts and a lascannon emplacement detonated, sending skitarii flying and bathing the trench in the arcing crack of unleashed energies.

As the timer on Gant’s stasis field expired and deactivated the device, a shower of arrested bolts cascaded into the shallows of the trench, dropping before the tech-priest dominus. Lifting an eradication ray and aiming it after the swarm of fighter aircraft, Theronymous Gant blasted an Avenger out of existence.

<Enemy in range,> a sub-alpha reported. Amongst the ruins, the corrupted had broken into a charge. Soot and ash billowed about them as gangly automata strode and cybernetic abominations of the Geronteus temple guard charged.

Omnid Torquora moved from skitarii ranger to ranger, experiencing their opening salvos as his own. Transuranic arquebuses bucked as they delivered their monstrous shells. Automata dropped in a shower of shattered workings and rancid bio-plastic. The chatter of heavy stubbers filled the air while the searing beams of emplacement weaponry cut across the field of battle.

<Present,> Alpha Quistron ordered, prompting the rangers of the 51st Tenna-Noitraloid to rest their galvanic rifles on the top of the trench. As they did so, the Dark Mechanicum skitarii accelerated, chewing up the ash and rubble with their hydraulics.

‘Mortars cleared to fire,’ the tech-priest dominus voxed back to the reserve trench, and the bombards behind him launched their shells into the sky. Descending ordnance rocketed rubble and dust upwards, blasting bionic limbs from the advancing temple guard. Fat gun-servitors, ripe with corruption, exploded and deadly automata were knocked from their feet.

<Lock your targets,> Ultic-11 Quistron commanded. Torquora felt the calibration of targeters as the skitarii rangers zeroed in on the charging constructs.

<Fire!> Quistron said, his cogitator measuring the range to the closing enemy.

In fearful unison, servitor shells blasted from the barrels of the galvanic rifles. As though a stretched wire had swept across the battlefield, the temple guard were yanked back. What followed was a sequence of explosions as the servitor shells overloaded the power cells and reactors of the wounded cybernetic soldiers. With corrupt skitarii falling and detonating about them, code-mad temple guard ran on with suicidal abandon. Mortars rocketed metal and warped flesh up at the heavens. Heavy stubbers and cognis autocannon emplacements cut through corrupt constructs, bullet-streams scything through them in swathes.

<Fire at will,> Quistron transmitted, authorising his soldiers to pick off temple guard who, by some miracle, had negotiated the unfolding havoc of the approach.

Omnid Torquora felt skitarii slip from his phylactic communion as the Autolican Avengers came around for another pass. As the archmagos felt the skitarii die, he moved from the cold perspective of one to another. The battlefield was total pandemonium. Mortar fire tore up the ground. Cannons split the sky asunder. The beams of lasguns stuttered down into the trenches while servitor shells blasted cybernetic soldiers into paralysed wrecks. Bolts shredded through rangers and their ash-stained cloaks. Heavy stubbers punched slugs through the ripe vat-flesh of gun-servitors.

As insane constructs leapt into the trench, feverishly attempting to climb up the other side, Ultic-11 Quistron levelled his phosphor blast pistol and enveloped a scrambling cybernetic soldier in a blaze of chemical brilliance. A gangling automaton – all scything limbs and madness – appeared at the foot of the trench, reaching down with mechadendrites to seize a pair of rangers aiming their rifles up at the robotic nightmare. Grapnel-stabbing them through the chest, the possessed machine tossed the skitarii’s bodies back into the advancing Dark Mechanicum constructs.

Lifting his eradication ray, Theronymous Gant blasted the mechanical monstrosity, turning the automaton’s appendage-weaponry into searing absence. With every spreading stream of energy, the tech-priest dominus stripped the possessed machine of the devastating tools of its trade. Finally, Gant took the automaton’s legs out from under it, allowing its barrel torso and head to crash uselessly to the ground.

While skitarii fought for their lives against the suicidal rush of Dark Mechanicum troops, Omnid Torquora had the luxury of detachment. To Quistron and his rangers, the battle was a blizzard of tracked trajectories, the flash of warnings and spooling data. Torquora could see the battle beyond the frenzy of impending death and the code-shrieking constructs of Chaos. He saw Marauders from the Tarantis 8/70 roaring in overhead, and the thunderous approach of Omnissian god-machines.

Transmitting coordinates for an air strike with surgical accuracy, Torquora watched through skitarii optics as a wall of flame erupted along the trench line. With the deep chunter of Marauder bombers passing above, charging constructs were lost to the inferno. As the flame cleared and charred cybernetic remains rained down on the field of battle, Quistron peered through the settling devastation.

<Enemy armour on the approach,> the skitarii officer announced. Phylactically blinking into Quistron’s experience of the battle, Omnid Torquora could see a column of armoured personnel carriers bouncing over and through the ruins, their tracks pulverising the rubble. The Rhinos were battered and streaked with rust, their exhaust quads streaming black smoke. Spiked dozer blades smashed through the stunted remains of buildings, while barbed tracks mulched through the bones and corroded bionics of the dead.

‘Pass the word,’ Theronymous Gant called to an injured skitarii soldier. ‘Mortars to adjust for armour approach.’

Torquora ordered the bombers around for a second run but his calculations swiftly told him that they would be too late. The armoured personnel carriers were stopping for nothing. Spreading out, they smashed through the rearguard of their own infantry. With constructs and the bodies of Dark Mechanicum skitarii impaled on spiked dozer blades and bouncing broken off armour plate, the archmagos realised that the Rhinos intended to breach the trenchworks at any cost.

Servitor rounds and stubber slugs sparked off the dented shells of the Rhinos as they tore on towards the trench. Lascannons seared beams through the hulls of the carriers but failed to bring them to a halt. Smashing through Dark Mechanicum forces and leaving a haze of blood and oil in their wake, the Rhinos’ supercharged engines roared. Smoke raged from their exhausts as the rusted carriers accelerated up the mounds of dead. Thrashing their barbed tracks up the ramp of mangled combat chassis, bionics and charred bodies, the Rhinos accelerated into a messy jump.

Tracks raged overhead as Quistron and Theronymous Gant lowered their heads. Most of the armoured carriers failed to reach the other side of the trench. Their speed and mounting had been sufficient but the trench wall of mulched ash and rubble simply collapsed under their weight. As the tracks spun, the wall fell away, allowing the vehicles to slide back into the trench.

‘Axe,’ the tech-priest dominus said. His remaining servitor, laden down with ammunition and weaponry, presented his master with the cog-serrated blade of his power axe.

<Grenades,> Ultic-11 Quistron commanded, drawing several skitarii rangers to his side.

Scuttling across to the closest Rhino, Theronymous Gant swung his axe at the vehicle. Burying it in the metal of the rear access hatch, the tech-priest dominus tore the door aside. Quistron brought up his pistol. Whatever attempted to exit the vehicle would die. The rangers prepared to lob their grenades through the opening, persuading the vehicle’s occupants to emerge into certain death.

Omnid Torquora took in the interior of the Rhino. Through the optics of the skitarii and Alpha Quistron he had every angle possible. He only required one to confirm what he was looking at. Within the armoured personnel carrier was a single servitor, a miserable thing savagely wired into the vehicle. Its hands and feet were fused to the controls and its thighs had been power-riveted to the seat. The armoured transport carried no additional troops. The space was taken up by a monstrous contraption, counting down on a series of chrome dials. Omnid Torquora knew a bomb when he saw one.

<Get out of there!> the archmagos transmitted, his warning like a shot through the minds of surrounding skitarii and their officers.

Tearing his power axe from the mangled hatch, Theronymous Gant scuttled into a retreat. Quistron pushed his skitarii rangers away from the trap, but a few seconds later everything turned to flame. Torquora flinched as the bomb detonated. Safe in the diagnostiquorum, high above the battlefield, it was surprising how much it affected him. For a moment, phylactic communion was broken.

The archmagos could see the brief flash of detonations from orbit. Pulling feeds from the Marauder bombers high above the battlefield, tormented by swarms of Autolican strike fighters, Torquora could now appreciate the enemy’s plan. He watched the glorious dread of its execution as Rhino after Rhino, rigged to blow, blasted craters into the earthworks and sent rivers of flame through the network of trenches.

Establishing communion with a ranger designated Ansis-86 Oltega, Torquora found the skitarii soldier stumbling about the decimated trenchworks in the daze of system shock. A trenchcloak trailed him aflame and the cybernetic soldier limped, a piece of shrapnel embedded in the workings of his knee.

Watching through the soldier’s remaining, cracked optic, Torquora saw the skitarius’s vision flicker with different filters and the hiss of static. His overlays streamed with data and emergency protocols. Through the miasma of information, Torquora saw that many of the Rhinos had not detonated. Helping grievously wounded skitarii soldiers to their feet, Ansis-86 Oltega found Theronymous Gant on the ground before one such vehicle. Reacting to his imperatives, Oltega grabbed the tech-priest dominus and dragged him from the shallows. He was heavy, even with half of his spidery legs blasted free.

The Rhino was a rust-eaten wreck of a transport. One of its tracks was broken while the other thrashed off the ground where it had become trapped in the collapsing trench. Its colouring was the same as the others, dull grey bar a peeling stripe of black and yellow chevrons. It bore some kind of faded iconography on its flanks. Leering at Oltega was a slender metal skull atop an eight-pointed star. The symbol of the dreaded Iron Warriors.

The side of the vehicle suddenly crumpled, as though some monstrous force had struck the hull from the inside. Oltega pulled the tech-priest dominus through the boggy shallows and up against the far wall of the trench. One of Gant’s arms was a tangled mess of servos and cabling, but he managed to draw back his scorched hood with the sparking talon of the other. His face was a mask of baroque augmentations and burned flesh. His optics faded in and out as he pulled himself up to see what was happening within the crashed Rhino.

The impacts continued, warping the hull out of shape. Simultaneously a great, crackling claw stabbed up through the rusted metal of the compartment roof, tearing aside the plate as though it were foil. Like hulking monsters, the Iron Warriors erupted from the armoured personnel carrier. Clawing, stamping and barging their way out of the shattered wreck, the flesh-cursed Obliterators destroyed the vehicle from within. The foremost unholy fusion of man and weapon bellowed his bitter jubilation. The clubs of his hands had long breached the confines of his plate and gauntlets. Splinters of plate sat embedded in his warped flesh, while the clubs themselves were weighted with the barrels and nozzles of heavy weaponry.

A skitarii ranger stumbled and splashed in the shallows of the trench, desperately trying to prime a damaged rifle. Slapping it with the palm of a gauntlet, the skitarii struggled to get some life out of the sparking weapon. Lifting his arms, the first of the Iron Warriors blasted forth a sub-atomic stream of agitation from nozzles set in his fused fists. The superheated blast enveloped the ranger, who never got to fire his weapon, instead turning into a thrashing madman enveloped in sickly flame before drifting away on the breeze as vaporised dust.

Another Iron Warrior barged past with a snarl, his armour barely holding the abominate brawn of his form. The fleshmetal and warped muscle of his arm glowed as he fired streams of searing energy. The beams cut skitarii soldiers in half and blasted injured rangers into the ground.

Torquora couldn’t believe it. He was going to lose the Ortorqus Chasma deep core mines. Like fireships set amongst a flotilla, armoured personnel carriers had been rigged to blow, blasting the trenchworks into a waterlogged mess and obliterating the skitarii who held them. Then, the Iron Warriors had arrived in a second wave. Unleashing themselves on the Adeptus Mechanicus in their moment of disorientation, the Iron Warriors intended to force their way to the mines. Perhaps more Chaos Space Marines and corrupt constructs of the Dark Mechanicum would arrive by gunship or lighter once the brutes had dealt with the Ordo Reductor and their artillery pieces.

The Iron Warriors seemed to get some dread pleasure from killing the wounded skitarii of the outer trench. It was not a thirst for blood, Omnid Torquora decided, ever studying the ways of his foe. The Obliterators seemed to enjoy the horror and anarchy of battle, the violent indulgence and merciless exercise of their considerable abilities, which only victory allowed. The mutated Iron Warriors were like bitter monsters of old, things that lived in the bowels of the earth, only venturing to the surface to bring destruction to those who stood in their way. Torquora watched as the hulking horrors clawed the skitarii of the 51st Tenna-Noitraloid into chunks of raw flesh and dismembered bionics. He saw one beast stream furious gouts of green flame from nozzles set in his monstrous palms, turning the demolished earthworks into an inferno. All along the line, Chaos Space Marines were bursting out of Rhinos and unleashing their abomination on the skitarii soldiers.

Tearing his burning cloak from his back, Ansis-86 Oltega limped a few steps back and fell to his knees beside the tech-priest dominus. Torquora heard the skitarius offer a prayer to the Machine-God, an appeal for assistance, for victory in His hallowed name. Grimly watching the havoc unfold, the archmagos thought to answer such a prayer.

Stripping away the skitarii soldier’s humanity, Torquora dialled back the emotional framework of his operations. Searing Oltega’s focus to a narrowing set of concerns, Torquora blessed the cybernetic soldier with ignorance. He was an empty vessel, like a weapon without ammunition. Ready for the Machine-God’s intervention. As the voice of the Omnissiah, Torquora intended on taking Oltega’s body for his own: the beating of his heart, the powerful hydraulics of his augmented limbs and the capabilities of a construct bereft of fear.

Something huge kicked the shattered frame of a burning Rhino aside. Behind it was a monstrous Iron Warrior, hideous of features and bristling with weapons whose barrels protruded from the huge clubs of his fists. Many of the Obliterators had forged on towards the reserve trenches, clawing, stamping, streaming and blasting their flesh-spawned corruptions down at the skitarii there. The rifles of rangers, in turn, barked and flared, thudding servitor shells into warped flesh. The thing standing before Oltega and Theronymous Gant had held back to enjoy the killing.

Resting an armoured boot on the back of a ranger’s head, the Iron Warrior pushed the skitarius down into the shallows, waiting for him to drown. The barrels of rotary autocannons turned within the splayed fleshmetal of the Chaos Space Marine’s arms as he willed them to whirring intensity. With a belt of ammunition spawned from his monstrous flesh and feeding the weapons, the Iron Warrior blasted autofire into dying skitarii attempting to crawl away. The thing seemed to take a dark pleasure in playing with its victims’ expectations before ripping through their bodies with short streams of fire.

Two murderous executions along, the Iron Warrior found Oltega and his tech-priest dominus. Torquora reached down into the priest’s burned robes. He knew he could not drag Gant to safety. Fading in and out of operative consciousness, the tech-priest dominus could not help himself. Inside the scorched material, Torquora found Gant’s stasis field generator. The device was battered and shorting. Setting the defence field to maximum strength and length of time, Torquora had Ansis-86 Oltega limp backwards. As a personal defence, the field could not protect two and it activated only as soon as the skitarii soldier was clear.

Hobbling back, the piece of shrapnel still embedded in the workings of his knee, Torquora saw the hulking Obliterator notice him. The Iron Warrior raised an arm, his mouth wrapping itself around a crooked grin. Willing his rotary cannon to blurring revolution, he aimed the weaponised limb at Oltega and the tech-priest dominus.

As the revolving barrels blazed with a cone of rapid fire, a shell-storm erupted. Torquora looked about in desperation. Death was but seconds away. There was little time for any plan more complex than snatching up a piece of armoured plate from where it sat half-submerged in the shallows.

Originally part of a detonating Rhino, the fragment was quite large. Holding it up before him like a shield, Torquora just got it between Ansis-86 Oltega and the furious stream of shells. The projectiles pranged and sparked off the armoured plate. The skitarius was knocked this way and that as the force of impacts turned him left, right and stumbling back.

As the Iron Warrior swept back and forth with his blazing cannon, Gant’s stasis field stopped the swarm of shells mere inches from his smashed body. Sparking and shorting within his robes, the damaged field generator began to falter. The globed shielding spat and dissipated, showering the ground with shells that had been suddenly arrested in their deadly path. Fizzling on and off, the stasis field caught much of the second stream of fire blasted Gant’s way. Several shells got through, however, slamming into the tech-priest’s cable-threaded torso. Gant went to grunt but was frozen moments later in his ongoing agony as the field re-established its integrity.

As the Iron Warrior brought both arms up and unleashed the full fury of his warp-spawned weaponry, Torquora was blasted back against the demolished trench wall. Autofire hammered into the plate and blasted several fingers from the gauntleted hand with which the skitarius held it. Dents and pits began to appear in the back of the armoured plate, indicating that it could not take much more of a mauling.

Waiting for a moment’s respite and with the Iron Warrior stomping through the shallows towards him, Torquora heard the rotary autocannons whir to a stop. As he flung the armoured plate away, the skitarii soldier leapt for the trench wall. This was not as easy as it appeared with shrapnel embedded in the workings of his leg. Hauling the skitarius’s body up with the hydraulics of his arms, Torquora heard the Obliterator splash through the demolished trench towards him, his cannons rotating with a sickly whine. Any second, the Iron Warrior would thrash him with autofire.

Pulling himself up, Torquora reached down for the skitarii soldier’s damaged leg and hauled it over the edge. Gunfire tore into the trench wall, ripping up the rubble, ash and sludge that crowned the trench top. Omnid Torquora kept his head down as the Chaos Space Marine roared his frustration, gunning his rotary cannons into furious blurs.

Hiding on the far side of the trench, Torquora found himself amongst the mangled malaise of the smouldering dead. Rolling away from the gunfire, the archmagos was soon tangled in bodies and charred bionics. Lying flat on the ground, with his cracked optic pointing up into the sky, he saw the last of the Marauder bombers shot out of the air by the swarming Autolican strike fighters. As the rotary cannon fire died away, Torquora could hear the Iron Warrior sloshing back and forth through the trench waters, attempting to re-acquire him.

Lying still, Torquora felt something tighten about his throat. It was in fact, Ansis-86 Oltega’s throat that was being throttled. A warp-corrupted temple guard, burned and blasted by the air strike, was still driven by some rancid imperative or foetid desire to destroy in the name of his overlords. He had the smouldering servos and skeletal framework of his single operative arm-appendage clamped around Oltega’s neck like a vice.

Torquora monitored the failing life signs of the skitarius as the Dark Mechanicum soldier hissed static and hauled for all it was worth. Fortunately for Torquora, it was not worth very much and he felt the scorched servos begin to give. Slamming his armoured elbow into his adversary’s chest, Torquora felt something break beneath the burned flesh. Repeating the savage manoeuvre and bringing Oltega’s entire weight down on the code-corrupted soldier, Torquora felt the hold give way as something split within his foe’s ripe torso. Like a fruit, he burst, leaking blood and stinking innards out onto the battlefield.

Crawling arm over augmented arm, Torquora dragged Oltega’s body along the trench and away from the Iron Warrior. A little way up, he found himself staring up the gaping barrel of a heavy grav-cannon. The weapon belonged to a trench emplacement. Slumped against it, with his gauntlets still wrapped around it, was a skitarii gunner. Trying his best to be silent, Torquora slithered down into the emplacement like a serpent. Pulling the bolt-mauled gunner away from the grav-cannon, the archmagos checked the weapon’s power and priming.

Torquora suddenly heard the stamping splash of the Obliterator coming towards him. Grabbing the swivel crank, he thrashed the handle round and around, feverishly turning the weapon’s mounting. As the Iron Warrior reached Torquora, he brought up the fleshmetal of his appendage cannon. The monster snarled his frustration away, thinking that he finally had his hiding target.

Instead the Iron Warrior found himself – as Torquora had moments before – staring down the barrel of the heavy grav-cannon. Charging the weapon, the archmagos tugged on the trigger. The Chaos Space Marine was broken in two by the gravitic force of the cannon. Smashing the monstrosity back into the shallows, Torquora blasted it again, hearing the breaking of metal-fused bones and the rupture of warped organs. Feverishly yanking back on the trigger, the archmagos pulverised the abomination, crumpling armour, splattering brawny flesh and smashing the Iron Warrior into a broken, shrieking thing half buried in the trench.

Swiftly releasing it from its mounting, Torquora slid the length of the grav-cannon back down into the trench. Hobbling backwards through the waters, the skitarius dragged the deadweight of the weapon with one bionic hand while carrying the cabled power pack with the other. There was no way that the skitarii ranger could wield the weapon without assistance, but Torquora wasn’t going to let that stop him.

As the Iron Warriors stormed the reserve trenches, smashing and blasting the cohorts of skitarii defenders there into oblivion, Torquora hauled the grav-cannon back to Gant. Checking the tech-priest dominus, he found that the stasis field generator had finally failed. The ancient tech-priest sat in a small mound of interrupted shells and was quietly dying from those that had found their way through.

Heaving the length of the grav-cannon up onto a partially demolished wall, Torquora rested the barrel on the rubble. Dropping the power pack and cable into the water at his feet, the archmagos knelt down and rested his shoulder against the weapon. The skitarius’s targeter was malfunctioning but with the Iron Warriors taking their monstrous appetite for death and destruction into the reserve trenches, Torquora had the hulking abominations’ backs to him.

Peering down the length of the barrel, Torquora fired the heavy grav-cannon. Pulling on the trigger and angling the balanced weapon on the wall, Torquora sent force blasts searing across the trenchworks at the Chaos Space Marines. Like the impact of invisible boulders, the grav blasts demolished Iron Warriors and broke their backs. The Obliterators were knocked from their feet and had their armoured legs swept out from under them. Several lost weaponised appendages and even heads to the irresistible force of the grav-cannon.

Torquora ducked as the Iron Warriors returned fire. The wall lit up with lascannon beams and balls of flesh-spawned plasma. Crawling away, the archmagos felt the wall collapse and the grav-cannon blasted to uselessness. Dragging himself next to the tech-priest dominus, Torquora sat against the trench wall and waited for death. The death of Ansis-86 Oltega. The death of Theronymous Gant. The death of the skitarii soldiers in the reserve trenches. It was only a matter of time now. The deep core mines would belong to the Iron Warriors.

Torquora felt the thunder of approaching footsteps through Oltega’s battered frame. The trench waters rippled with the impact. Torquora saw that three hulking Iron Warriors had returned to finish Oltega, each of their flesh-tangled arms a nest of spawned weaponry.

It ended here for him also, the archmagos told himself. Without the deep core mines and the possibilities for victory they offered, Torquora knew that the war for Velchanos Magna was lost. The Adeptus Mechanicus fleet could not go on forever without resupply and reinforcement. Idriss Krendl could simply wait them out, holding out for the inevitable tipping point to come.

Then he saw it. A smoke-sheened silhouette coming out of the darkness. As Oltega’s filters continued to cycle, Omnid Torquora could make out the colossal shape of a Warhound Scout Titan. The recalled Canis Corporalis, under the command of Princeps Venedict. It was the approach of the Titan that Torquora had felt.

‘…archmagos?’ Theronymous Gant managed next to him, his smashed modulator reducing his voice to a wheezing hiss. The tech-priest knew that Torquora was with them there, guiding the actions of Ansis-86 Oltega.

‘Yes, tech-priest dominus,’ Torquora said, the words spoken in the voice of the skitarii soldier.

‘Do… what has to be… done,’ the ancient said, lifting the spindly talon of a finger and pointing up at the Canis Corporalis. Torquora realised that Gant had also seen the Titan approach.

As the hulking Iron Warriors lifted their warped weaponry, Omnid Torquora relayed his orders to Princeps Venedict on the cramped command deck of the towering Warhound Titan. As he spoke, Ansis-86 Oltega’s lips moved also.

‘Princeps Venedict, this is your archmagos,’ Torquora told him. ‘Target trenchworks breach and enemy insurgents. Exercise extreme prejudice. Collateral losses are not a factor. I repeat, defending forces are expendable.’

Like a giant metal predator, the Warhound Titan turned on its identified targets. Presenting the vulcan mega-bolters it mounted on each arm, it locked them forward of the thrusting command deck. Torquora heard the roll of thunder that was a pair of gargantuan firing mechanisms clearing.

Suddenly everything was ear-splitting sound and the rumble of massive shells thundering into the earth. The trenchworks disappeared as rubble and ash rocketed skyward. Gargantuan bolt rounds eviscerated the earthworks, emplacements and derelict carriers. The skitarii of the 51st Tenna-Noitraloid rocketed upwards in fountains of blood, oil and shredded workings.

Torquora watched as the stormquake of magna-bore bolt shells ripped up through the reserve trenches. Within moments the Iron Warriors were lost in a maelstrom of death and destruction that not even they had foreseen. The archmagos watched as the Obliterators aiming at him were blasted from existence. Within thunderous seconds of apocalyptic horror, Theronymous Gant and Ansis-86 Oltega had joined them.

0011

SELECTED: DENTRICA I OF I
ENGAGE NEURAL CONGRESS – WIRELESS AUTOSHUNT ACQUIRED
UPLOADING… +ELECTROMANCER+

Omnid Torquora woke. He had been dreaming.

It was unusual for a tech-priest of his augmentation and lineage. So much data flowed through his receivers and cogitator coils, however, that it was almost impossible for him to be truly at peace. Spooling code and information triggered odd fragments in his meme-banks. Relayed pict feeds sometimes ghosted their way into his sleeping mind, like the spectral layering of crossed channels. Spending so much time in phylactic communion with others, living their thoughts and experiences, meant that sometimes Torquora unconsciously returned to past engagements. Past victories. Past failures. Past deaths.

He had been dreaming of Ansis-86 Oltega and the skitarii soldiers of the 51st Tenna-Noitraloid. Servants of the Omnissiah that Torquora had personally sanctioned to death. The apocalyptic gunfire of the Canis Corporalis. The decimation that ripped through the trenchworks of the Ortorqus Chasma. Ash and dust. Blood and oil. The maelstrom of monstrous bolt rounds shredding reality about them.

The archmagos had done only what was necessary. He had no doubt of that. Greater guilt than that weighed upon his conscience. Dark responsibilities. The unravelling fates of entire worlds. Torquora’s bottomless appetite for data and secrets ancient and terrible had led him to Perborea and the Stella-Xenithica. Into the trap laid by Idriss Krendl.

The recovery of the Geller bomb STC template. The construction and testing of such a device and the intended doom it had visited upon Torquora’s home world. None of this would have been possible without the archmagos and the eternal Quest for Knowledge – a quest Torquora had come to question.

As the static of his optics cleared and his reactors warmed to operation, Torquora found himself in front of the baroque viewing port of his personal chambers. Through the armourglass screen, busy with hololithic overlays and annotations, he saw the forge world of Velchanos Magna. Even from orbit, the price of war was evident. Entire districts were aflame. The twisted magnificence of temples had been swallowed by mountainous fortifications. Through the devastation, canals and furnace channels criss-crossed the mauled planet, burning to daemonic brilliance as the Abystra-Dynomicron fed Dark Mechanicum forges and the never-ending demands of the tyrannical Iron Warriors.

Omnid Torquora’s personal servitors moved about the chamber in silence, fearful of waking their master from a fitful slumber within his hulking, sarcophagal suit. While he had slept, his servitors had silently obeyed their maintenance protocols, polishing the burnished clinker plates of Torquora’s armour. The magna-hydraulics of his legs and the heavy weapons cradles of his arms had been anointed with unguents of the holiest grades, while the monstrous weapons themselves had been blessed with consecrated oils. The tech-priest’s reactors had been charged and his power cabling stowed, while what remained of his long-butchered organics had been sustained with protein pastes, intravenously fed through a network of torso-plugged pipes and lines.

As his systems came back online, dependent sub-systems returning to life also, Torquora’s chest-mounted multi-digits went to work within the pulpit. Even in the short time the archmagos had been asleep, much had happened on the planet’s surface. A world at war never slept. Objectives had been taken. Sieges had been broken. Thousands of warriors had died. Torquora’s overlays became crowded with scrolling data reports, tether requests, pict feeds and codestreams.

Cutting through them was the signature of a voxmission in waiting. The communication bore the priority authorisations of the skitarii sentinels standing on either side of his chamber’s entryway.

<Proceed,> Torquora transmitted.

<I have members of the Luminen here requesting an audience, my lord,> the skitarii sentinel outside the doors informed him. <Should I admit them?>

Torquora should have been expecting the electro-priests of the Holy Luminen. The brotherhood routinely demanded the archmagos’s attentions, having one problem or another with the way in which he was conducting war on the Omnissiah’s enemies or utilising the resources of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Originally advisors to the Fabricator General on Satzica Secundus, he had assigned them to the office of the Fabricator Locum and his mission to test the Geller Device. Such a move suggested to Torquora that Voricar Trega did not trust his Fabricator Locum.

During the manufacture of the Geller Device, the Luminen had advised Engra Myrmidex on techno-spiritual matters, guiding him through their interpretation of the Motive Force and the sparks of life. Torquora suspected that the Fabricator Locum hadn’t valued their input and creed-thumping insistence as much as the Luminen thought he needed it. Upon leaving Satzica Secundus at the head of the Adeptus Mechanicus fleet, Myrmidex had arranged for the convocation of electro-priests to be accommodated in chambers aboard the Maestrale rather than the Fabricator Locum’s flagship. With the death of Engra Myrmidex, the Luminen had become Torquora’s problem.

<Admit them,> the archmagos ordered.

The air hummed about Torquora with the energy flux of his reactors. Hydraulics and pistons fired, turning the tech-priest and his sarcophagal suit around. From the cadaverous face hidden in the depths of his hood, Torquora’s optics burned.

The bulkhead door shuddered upwards and the party of Luminen entered. The electro-priests wore their full robes, the folds accommodating their dorsal generators and electrostatic halo-capacitors. They drew back their robes out of respect, revealing heads that were shaven and flesh that glowed with charged subdermal circuitry. About their heads they wore blindfolds to hide the empty sockets of their eyes, for their eyeballs had long boiled away with the intensity of bio-electricity coursing through their bodies. Instead they experienced the galaxy as a crackling vision of the Motive Force. They claimed to see only truth through such a gift, but Torquora knew them to be as manipulative and power-hungry as any other priest in the ranks of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

‘Master Diodemus, Master Piezon, brothers all,’ Torquora greeted the Luminen. ‘How can I be of assistance to you?’

The electromancers entered as a convocation but soon split off to stand about their masters. Having the Luminen on board was trial enough for Torquora, the electro-priests attempting to advise, guide and question as they had done when meddling in the Fabricator Locum’s affairs. Worse still, however, the convocation of priests was divided by faction. This meant that the Luminen – who claimed to see the true light of the Omnissiah’s intention – could not agree amongst themselves, let alone with Torquora.

Attica Diodemus and Candesca Piezon stepped forward, making the sign of intersecting knuckles in honour of the Machine-God. Master Diodemus was known as the Taketh. He was a Fulgurite by creed and, like his priests, carried a capacitor stave that could leech machines, constructs and base flesh alike of the power that sustained them. Batteries drained, bionics died and hearts stopped beating at their command.

While Diodemus was a miserly pedant, who favoured the gathering of strength and the power of potential, Candesca Piezon was a vessel of barely restrained righteousness. As Master of the Corpuscarii, he was known as the Giveth. Along with the priests of his faction, he wore electrostatic gauntlets within the flared sleeves of his robe. With these the Corpuscarii could visit the holy rapture of electrocution upon the Machine-God’s foes, delivered through a living lightning that proceeded from the gauntlets.

‘You can plot a course for Satzica Secundus,’ Attica Diodemus said.

‘Why would I do that, Master Diodemus?’ Torquora asked him. ‘Our enemies are here.’

‘Our allegiance is to Satzica Secundus and the Fabricator General,’ Diodemus said. ‘Our forge-kin require our return and assistance.’

‘Satzica Secundus is lost to us,’ the archmagos said. ‘It may have been our home once but now it lies at the heart of an erupting warp storm.’

‘An anomaly you created, archmagos,’ Diodemus accused.

‘That the Fabricator General created in ordering the construction of the Geller Device,’ Torquora returned. ‘That the Fabricator Locum created with his hasty deployment of the device.’

‘You allowed the Fabricator Locum to perish,’ Candesca Piezon said, his words burning on the air, ‘as you allow our forge-kin to perish now.’

‘Hard data, Masters Luminen,’ Torquora said. ‘The servants of the Machine-God live or die by it. The Iron Warriors would have destroyed us all in their surprise attack. Through the sacrifice of the Fabricator Locum–’

‘And half of our fleet and skitarii legions,’ Piezon snapped.

‘–I have averted disaster, learned much of our enemies, and taken advantage of both factors to visit the wrath of the Omnissiah upon our foe.’

‘You have had half a year to prove such advantage but here we are, archmagos,’ Attica Diodemus interjected. ‘Fighting over a polluted world of darkness and ruin.’

‘Which is what we will find if we attempt to return to Satzica Secundus,’ Torquora said.

‘We have consulted the logi,’ Diodemus informed the archmagos. ‘We have heard the numbers speak. They tell us the same that they tell you: that the Iron Warriors cannot be defeated by a force of our size. By a force ten times our size.’

‘And the logi are right,’ Torquora said, ‘but they are not in full possession of all the variables.’

‘Meanwhile the Fabricator General and the loyal constructs of the forge world might be fighting for their souls. Awaiting our return and reinforcement.’

‘It’s too late for them.’

‘How can you know?’ Candesca Piezon asked.

‘You agree with Master Diodemus?’ Torquora put to the Corpuscarii priest.

‘I agree that the Machine-God’s light needs to be brought to the darkness that lays siege to our home world.’

‘Once we have defeated our enemies here – the architects of our collective ruin,’ Torquora said, ‘then I promise you we shall return to Satzica Secundus. But not as liberators. We shall return to purge it of corruption.’

‘You would war against your own people?’ Piezon asked in outrage, ‘and turn against your Fabricator General?’

‘Yes,’ Torquora told the convocation of priests. ‘For it would be heresy not to do so. Do you think the priesthood of Velchanos Magna chose their fate? I can keep blockade runners from escaping the system and keep those who would twist our forge-kin to their dark will from Satzica Secundus. The Iron Warriors and the Dark Mechanicum will not be their undoing. But our forge world turns beneath tainted stars, saturated by the corruption of the storm. Like the priesthood of Velchanos Magna, they are lost. Flesh. Iron. The very dirt of the forge world’s surface will have been warped by the dread forces of the warp storm. We cannot save our compatriots’ workings or their souls, for they are already part of the madness that infects the unreality in which they are immersed.’

‘Where is your evidence?’ Attica Diodemus said.

‘While I can blockade the planet,’ Torquora said, ‘I cannot prevent messages being passed from Velchanos Magna to our lost forge world. The Frater Astropathica has intercepted such messages being sent from the planet below. He has lost two astropaths to the mind-twisting madness of these communications and their interpretation. He believes, however, that they signify a suggested accord and a sharing of dark secrets and knowledge between the two fallen forge worlds. The Iron Warriors want both forge worlds under their boot. More importantly, the Frater Astropathica believes that he has intercepted an affirmation from Satzica Secundus in return.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ Attica Diodemus said, looking to Master Piezon.

‘The Fabricator General would never give in to corruption,’ Piezon said. ‘He would not become a thing untrue and lead his people into damnation.’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ the archmagos said. ‘Perhaps Voricar Trega no longer rules Satzica Secundus in the Machine-God’s stead. Ultimately, it really doesn’t matter what you believe.’

‘You cannot come between a construct and the Motive Force,’ Candesca Piezon warned Torquora.

‘No,’ the archmagos agreed, ‘but we can come between the Iron Warriors and Satzica Secundus. Help me destroy our enemy. The forge world might be lost but if Idriss Krendl and his Obliteratii reach it, our people will forever be slaves to darkness. We can save them from that.’

‘By murdering our forge-kin?’ Piezon said.

‘Perhaps you have been fighting the Iron Warriors long enough,’ Diodemus added. ‘It seems you have developed a taste for wanton bloodshed.’

‘They cannot be saved,’ Torquora told them.

‘Then construct another Geller Device,’ Diodemus said. ‘A weapon to cleanse Satzica Secundus of the warp storm that afflicts it.’

‘Aye,’ Piezon agreed. ‘Deploy the weapon.’

‘And suffer further for our dauntless enterprise?’ Torquora said. ‘I will see an end to this madness, once and for all. There is a reason the Geller Device was lost to the Adeptus Mechanicus. It is a failure. We are experimenting with forces we will never understand, punching holes in reality all over the galaxy. The warp cannot be controlled or eradicated. As a medium it is defined by its mutable unpredictability. I will not unleash such forces again. Artefacts such as the Geller Device are the harbingers of doom.’

‘You speak against the holy Quest for Knowledge,’ Master Piezon accused.

‘I speak against the foolhardy Adeptus Mechanicus,’ Torquora told them, ‘whose priests roam the galaxy like carrion crows, picking the past clean of dangers long lost and ushering them into the present. Nevermore. Nevermore. Such artefacts should be uncovered only so they can be destroyed and plague the galaxy no more with histories repeated.’

‘We cannot be part of this,’ Attica Diodemus said, shaking his head. ‘You ask us to indulge technoheresy…’

‘You ask us to break with Mars,’ Piezon said.

‘Your Fabricator General is lost,’ Torquora said, ‘and your Fabricator Locum is dead. All that was once cold and pure of Satzica Secundus exists here in this fleet, of which I am ranking tech-priest. I speak with the authority of the Machine-God Incarnate. You speak with the authority of the dead and the damned.’

‘You are mad…’ Diodemus said.

‘No. I am resolute,’ Torquora said. ‘Your forge world and Fabricator General have turned traitor. If you insist upon serving them still you shall force me to charge you with heresy.’

Piezon and Diodemus looked to one another, reading the electrostatic charge of each other’s presence. Piezon nodded, to himself and the Fulgurite priest. He turned to leave the chamber, with his electromancers behind him. The Fulgurites followed. As Attica Diodemus made to depart, he stopped and leant on the shaft of his stave.

‘There are many forms of heresy, my lord,’ he told Omnid Torquora before leaving the chamber. The bulkhead door rumbled closed behind him, locking with a heavy clunk.

The archmagos stood alone. He felt the self-inflicted bite of recrimination. Burdening the Luminen with truths that were not theirs had been imprudent. Unwise. Dangerous. Then, of course, there had been the untruths they had forced him to tell.

‘Security authorisation: 1/22/00/4. Accept,’ Omnid Torquora announced to the chamber, following the sequence with a blurt of binaric code.

The deck section upon which the archmagos was standing cleared its seals with a jet of pressurised gas. The section descended at a slow rumble into the chamber below.

Situated beneath the archmagos’s private quarters was a hidden laboratorium. Artisans, magi aethyricus and servitors moved about the chamber, hard at work. At the descent of their archmagos, the tech-priests stopped to acknowledge the one who was both their Mechanicus master and the magos overseeing their clandestine project. In the centre of the chamber was a Geller Device, an aethyric bomb constructed according to the STC template specifications. It was twice the size of the device crafted on Satzica Secundus and calibrated at Torquora’s command to deliver ten times the immaterial payload.

‘Status report,’ Torquora put to the priests.

‘Construction of the Geller Device is almost complete, my lord,’ a magos aethyricus told his master, ‘and it awaits a target of your designation.’

‘Excellent, magos,’ Omnid Torquora replied. ‘I have one in mind.’

0100

SELECTED: DENTRICA I OF I
ENGAGE NEURAL CONGRESS – WIRELESS AUTOSHUNT ACQUIRED
UPLOADING… +THE SANCTITY OF THE MACHINE+

It began with the phylactic signature.

Omnid Torquora had been making his way down to the diagnostiquorum. He had been alerted to a fresh attack on a skitarii operations base on the Ash Wastes of Cytonia, a downed Titan god-machine in the Targaria Mountains, a column of Dunecrawlers hit by gunships on the Numinsk freightway and yet another determined assault on the deep core mines of the Ortorqus Chasma.

The archmagos cursed himself. He should have done a better job of hiding the site’s significance, perhaps by fortifying other seemingly unimportant targets. Now Idriss Krendl smelled a strategy, a site Torquora desperately wanted to hold on to. This only convinced the Iron Warriors warsmith – whose tactical instincts were demonstrated all over the planet – that it was necessary to deprive the archmagos of it.

As Torquora marched down the passageway, the broad frame of his armoured suit requiring passing deck servitors, skitarii soldiers and tech-priests to hug the opposite wall, his supercogitators and runebanks processed the torrent of information being relayed to him. Troop movements. Casualty audits. Data-tethers. A Titan manifold interface. Observational data from infoslaves, scryer drones and servo-skulls drifting through the myriad warzones of the Traitor forge world.

All this the archmagos processed through the supercogitators housed in his armoured chest pulpit. With slender multi-digited appendages feverishly at work at runescreens and glyph-keys, Torquora allowed himself to become distracted by a phylactic signature. It simply wasn’t possible. The identification belonged to Ansis-86 Oltega.

Omnid Torquora had been with the skitarius when he had died. He had sanctioned the cybernetic soldier’s death for tactical advancement and the assurance of a successful enemy attack thwarted. Oltega’s identification showed up first at the Cytonia operations base as part of the Advensis VI Regnaulticon – a ranger cohort to which the soldier did not belong. Torquora had one of his diagnostiquorum attempt to establish phylactic communion with Oltega but was informed that no such data-tether existed.

From there Oltega boarded the troop compartment of a lighter bound for the forge ship Steropes with a hold full of skitarii soldiers in need of repairs and cybernetic surgery. He was not listed among those in need of maintenance. Directing a security-automaton to investigate aboard the forge ship, Torquora detected the briefest suggestion of a struggle in the automaton’s feeds before the machine went abruptly offline.

By now convinced that he was monitoring the progress of an infiltrator, the archmagos had a demi-clade of Sicarian ruststalkers assembled on the flight deck of the Maestrale, waiting for a cargo-hauler Oltega had commandeered from the hangar bay of the forge ship. A search of the cargo-hauler revealed only a servitor pilot and an open airlock hatch. The infiltrator had left the vessel early, leapt for the hull of the arkcruiser whilst exposed to the void and gained entrance by way of a maintenance hatch.

Grinding to a halt in the passage, his deck-crumpling footfalls slowing to a hydraulic sigh, Torquora scanned the feeds and local vox-channels for unusual activity. The infiltrator had made it aboard the Maestrale without raising an alarm. He seemed familiar with the systems, identification and organisation of skitarii contingents about the fleet and demonstrated some knowledge of the Maestrale.

Torquora, ever eager to gather data, test contingencies and learn from his enemy, had allowed the infiltrator the freedom to demonstrate his strategies. This would only assist the archmagos in identifying vulnerabilities and addressing weaknesses in the fleet’s security. The infiltrator had got much further than Torquora had anticipated. Now, aboard the arkcruiser, the archmagos was loath to let him get much further. Oltega’s identification signatures had disappeared. His wasn’t the only one. Several skitarii sentinels and a deck sub-alpha’s feeds died – one near the maintenance bays and two on the upper barracks decks.

Omnid Torquora turned and made his way back towards his personal chambers, his hydraulic legs thudding into the deck. Feeling his way through the ship, its section logs, runebanks and skitarii vox-channels, Torquora made a discovery that tested the logic coils of his cogitators. While the identification signatures of Ansis-86 Oltega had disappeared, the authorisations of an unregistered skitarii alpha had replaced them. At a sentry-point, a security bulkhead and under the scrutiny of a patrolling infoslave servo-skull, the infiltrator had used authorisations and clearances that Torquora had known well.

Biometric profiling at a barbican leading to the refectorium deck just beyond Torquora’s chambers confirmed the identity of the infiltrator. His flesh couldn’t lie.

<Sub-Alpha Ethtech,> Torquora transmitted to the duty officer charged with the ship’s security. <Place the upper decks on alert, then report to my chambers with a sentinel squad – heavily armed, if you please.>

<At once, archmagos,> the skitarius returned.

By the time Torquora reached his chambers, Ethtech and his skitarii were already there. The sub-alpha was checking the life signs and data returns of the two skitarii sentries stationed at the archmagos’s chamber bulkhead. They were dead. Torquora was less surprised than the sentinel squad, who immediately fell to covering the open bulkhead door with their arc rifles. Torquora had felt their deaths and even caught a glimpse of their killer in the pict feeds of their final moments. Having access codes to the refectorium deck and the archmagos’s personal chambers sealed it for Torquora. There could be no doubt as to the identity of the infiltrator now.

<Omnispectrals,> Sub-Alpha Ethtech ordered.

<Scanning,> a skitarii sentinel told him. Then confirmed, <One signal.>

<Sub-Alpha Ethtech,> Torquora said. <We have an enemy intruder on the ship. A saboteur. Possibly an assassin. I want him taken alive – do you understand?>

<Yes, archmagos,> Ethtech said, before addressing his squad. <Re-calibrate weaponry. 7-Modifex Betoc, Garmonic-4 Fectra: remain with Lord Torquora.>

Filing into Torquora’s chambers, the skitarii sentinels hugged their arc rifles to their shoulders. Their optics peered down the length of their barrels as they aimed this way and that – scanning corners, clearing alcoves and side-chambers as they searched the room.

The intruder did not wait.

The side of a skitarii sentinel’s head erupted in a shower of brain and cranial augmetics. Before the warrior had time to hit the deck, two others were down – one cybernetic soldier clutching a blasted throat and rebreather, another taking a round in his mask.

The chamber filled with light and storm as Sub-Alpha Ethtech and his sentinels blazed streams of lightning about them. The torrent tore through runebanks and raged in spidery arcs across burnished walls. Baroque furniture was blasted across the room and shattered while podium hololithics and port-screen overlays were scrambled into static.

<Lock on target and–> Sub-Alpha Ethtech announced, but he got no further. The infiltrator came out from behind a sizzling column with pistols blazing. Ethtech took round after round to the chest, his war-plate providing little or no protection. As the skitarii officer hit the chamber floor, Garmonic-4 Fectra opened a channel.

<Reserve sentinels to the refectorium decks immediately,> the skitarii transmitted.

<Follow us please, archmagos,> 7-Modifex Betoc told Torquora, retreating with Garmonic-4 Fectra back up the passage. Torquora stood his ground, watching as skitarii stumbled before the open chamber door. As they fell back onto the polished metal of the floor, the silent whoosh of pistol fire finished them.

<Archmagos,> Garmonic-4 Fectra said. <This is not something we will discuss. We have to get you to safety.>

<No,> Torquora said as arcstreams seared wildly across the chamber, even feeling their way through the open bulkhead as skitarii sentinels were executed and fired their last. Laying gauntlets on Torquora’s weapons cradles, 7-Modifex Betoc and Garmonic-4 Fectra pulled at the tech-priest’s monstrous frame.

<Archmagos, please,> 7-Modifex Betoc said. <There is protocol.>

It was futile, however. Omnid Torquora might just have been the withered, cable-shot remains of an old man, but his armoured suit was as broad as an Adeptus Astartes Dreadnought and weighed as much as an armoured personnel carrier. There would be no removing the archmagos to safety.

As the last of the skitarii sentinels were dropped by expert pistol fire, the infiltrator stepped out where Torquora could see him. He was dressed in the shattered war-plate and rags of a skitarii ranger. The scavenged, bolt-shredded uniform and warped combat chassis bore the identifications of Ansis-86 Oltega – killed in action on the planet below. The cybernetics were a perversion of the ranger’s form, half-hidden beneath the ash-stained, bolt-savaged trenchcloak that the infiltrator held about him.

In a pair of black metal claws, he carried what appeared to be radium pistols that glowed with a fell illumination. The barrel of each pistol tapered into a baroque silencer. Torquora’s rad-censers told him that the pistols weren’t crackling with radiation but with something much, much worse. As the infiltrator stepped forward, his weapons pointed downwards, he spread the brains and workings of the felled sentinels across the polished floor.

Betoc and Garmonic stepped forward to protect the archmagos, blazing streams of electrical fury at the infiltrator. The nightmare figure became a globe of sizzling brilliance as the arcstreams met the energy interference of a Dark Mechanicum field generator. As the fire died away and the spherical shielding spat with the last of the dissipating energy, the infiltrator advanced, lifting his pistols. Adapting aim and targeters, the dark figure pulled on the triggers, unleashing round after round into the cybernetic soldiers. Their war-plate was as nothing to the passage of the cursed slugs.

Their life signs and returns faded away on Torquora’s overlays as the archmagos’s targeting reticules danced across the analysed vulnerabilities of the infiltrator’s twisted form. The squad of skitarii sentinels was dead. The tech-priest’s augurs only detected one biometric signature in the chamber. Beneath the rags of his disguise and the infiltrator’s scavenged, jury-rigged cybernetics, was flesh that Torquora’s runebanks recognised.

‘Stroika-unit…’ Torquora said, the modulations of his voice echoing along the passage.

The infiltrator said nothing. With the warping defence field shimmering about him, the cybernetic abomination that had been Haldron-44 Stroika, alpha primus of Torquora’s skitarii legions, shrugged off his trenchcloak. The stolen war-plate of the dead Oltega, recovered from the ruined trenchworks surrounding the deep core mine, slipped from his combat chassis like a second skin. With the identifications of Oltega’s bionics, the biometric returns of his flesh and the codes of an alpha primus, Stroika had made it into the presence of an enemy commander.

Ejecting his pistol magazines and allowing them to clunk to the floor, the twisted thing that had been Haldron-44 Stroika reloaded his warped weapons and slipped off his shattered helm. Without his disguise – which had been enough to give the impression of a horrifically wounded skitarii soldier in need of maintenance and cybersurgery – Stroika was a butchered mess. The pallid sickliness of his skin was threaded with warp-encrusted cables and lines pumping a black treacle of intravenous corruption into his flesh.

Oltega’s recycled workings had been modified by Dark Mechanicum hereteks into the mangled brilliance of cybernetics all spikes, serrations and razored appendages, with the barbed frame of the twisted combat chassis stretching Stroika’s feverish skin to transparency. The hunch of a warp-fuelled reactor erupted from the former skitarius’s mauled back, powering his bionics and the field generator that enveloped his heretical form in a sphere of immaterial energy. His warped flesh bore the horrors of torture and merciless experimentation while the impassive mask of his face sat over cranial augmentations that sparked and sizzled, causing Stroika to twitch and contort his features. His eyes were covered by the black glass of goggles which lent the infiltrator the inhumanity of a predatory insect.

Torquora reached out for the former alpha primus, attempting to establish phylactic communion with the wretched construct, but found nothing. Whatever Dark Mechanicum butcher had presided over his transformation had torn such capabilities from Stroika’s brain.

For a moment, confronted with the horror of what Haldron-44 Stroika had become and what Idriss Krendl and his heretek priests had put him through, the archmagos felt a pang of regret. The warsmith had twisted Stroika into a ruinous weapon. An assassin, driven by cursed workings, warped flesh and a bitterness born of newly discovered hate. Torquora could almost feel the cankered hostility of the warrior he had left to suffer at the hands of Krendl and his infernal priests.

Responsibility. It was a redundant concept, buried deep within a humanity that the archmagos had long thought lost. He was not built for the processing of such sentiment. Like white blood cells attacking the source of an infection, his protocols and imperatives zeroed in on the emotion. Appropriated it. Modified it for purpose.

Omnid Torquora felt responsible for Stroika. For the thousands of skitarii soldiers he had allowed to die on Velchanos Magna in the name of data collation. For the billions of forge worlders on Satzica Secundus who were now slaves to darkness – all because of his feverish need to explore, discover and appropriate the perilous technologies of old. All in the name of the Great Maker. Responsibility found expression in resolution.

The Machine-God needed serving in ways anew. The Adeptus Mechanicus had lost its way. Like a runaway monitor train, armoured and uncaring, running at full speed but with no one at the controls, the Adeptus Mechanicus would soon run out of track. They would be derailed of their holy purpose – if they hadn’t been already – and crash spectacularly in some apocalyptic accident of their own making. Destroyed by appetite and greed.

Omnid Torquora would bring the runaway ambitions of the Adeptus Mechanicus to a halt. The Martian empire would be saved from itself. It would be like the machine and endure, rather than tear itself to pieces with destructive demands and discoveries.

‘By all that is cold and pure,’ Torquora announced, ‘by the sanctity of the machine, all things logical, true and Omnissian – I compel the corruption of this construct to release his soul, caged as it is within the confines of heretical augmentation.’

Stroika’s face twitched and his cranial bionics sparked with unnatural brilliance. He brought up a pistol and aimed it at his former master.

‘Great Maker,’ the tech-priest said, ‘whose Motive Force infused this servant once with the spark of life and service to the machine. Whose blessed algorithms guided, whose oils consecrated and whose augmentations made more of this once-true construct than he could ever have been…’

The silencer muzzle of Stroika’s pistol wavered and shook with the Machine-God’s benedictions. It did not stop the infiltrator’s clawed talon pulling back on the trigger in bitterness, silent rage and pain.

Torquora felt the round pass hot through his workings. Bathed in the immaterial power of the warp, the shells were simultaneously part of the moment – the physical presence of metal casing and force – and the unreality of the beyond. Torquora’s systems alerted him to the fact that the pistol slug had passed straight through his conversion field, through the clinker-plate of his armoured shell and into the hydraulics, cabling and workings of his suit. His optic overlays flashed with diagrammatical data, damage reports, power readings and diagnostics. Ignoring the hololithic miasma, he took a thudding step towards Stroika and his raised pistol.

‘… embrace the glorious workings of this, Your servant, and admit him once more to the wondrous interface of godly communion.’

Stroika fired again. The trembling silencer jumped twice, three times as the weapon thudded shells into the approaching tech-priest, two into the pulpit and one in Torquora’s armoured hood. Overlays warped and sizzled as the supercogitators and runebanks of the pulpit reported battle damage to their own systems. One of the shells had plucked at the hood of Torquora’s robes, right next to his corpse-face, burying itself in the suit plate clinkered about his hairless, age-mottled head. Another warp-irradiated slug had ripped through his workings and passed hot through the flesh of his cable-ported torso. Automedicae subroutines took over and elixirs of alchymic regeneration flooded the body socket, going to work at the ragged wound in the tech-priest’s side.

It was a feeling of searing immediacy. For so many years, Omnid Torquora had fought the foes of the Omnissiah with the wonder of his technologies and through the phylactic manipulation of his warrior-servants. It had been a long time since Torquora had actually fought an enemy face to face.

‘I ask you, God of the Machine,’ Omnid Torquora continued, each weighted step taken with the righteous determination of a priest invoking his deity, ‘Omnissiah Incarnate. He who hears all, sees all and knows all. Call unto him – this tempered tool, this weapon of Your holy arsenal. Cleanse him of callings untrue. Untwist what has been twisted. Flush the pollution of false belief from flesh and iron. Bring forth in his workings the protocols of blessed operation and the doctrinal imperatives of mechanical obedience. Manifest in him the cold strength of iron true and the spark of service once known in his wayward flesh.’

Torquora watched Haldron-44 Stroika struggle against the blessings and benediction with which the tech-priest showered him. Stroika’s pallid flesh steamed at the words, while the black curd of the taint pumping through his body dribbled down his chin at the Machine-God’s invocation. He bent double and vomited forth a stream of bubbling corruption onto the polished floor of the chamber.

As Torquora closed on him, the afflicted construct’s pistols came back up, rattling in his metal claws. As his cranial augmentations sparked, energies crackling about his head, Stroika tried to fight all but forgotten protocols, subroutines and the cold tyranny of imperatives – the inflexibility of orders passed down from the Omnissiah Himself. The very word of the Machine-God.

With each shower of sparks and cranial crackling, Stroika’s expression of blank hatred contorted to spiritual agony. The pistols lowered and then came up. They dropped with Stroika’s struggle before being thrust back at the tech-priest with a murderous desire drawn from the very bottom of his polluted soul.

‘Enough…’ Stroika spat from corruption-spattered lips. His claws tightened about the suddenly still pistols.

‘Yes,’ Torquora told him. ‘Enough, Stroika-unit.’

As Stroika yanked back on the triggers, intending to riddle Torquora with warp-charged shells, Torquora enacted his aegis protocols. The tech-priest’s armoured suit suddenly came to life. Magna-hydraulics and chunky pistons fired, bringing stowed heavy weapons around in their appendage cradles. Two monstrous, hydraulic arc-claws opened at the ends of heavy cybernetic arms like the petals of a metal flower. The brute barrels of a torsion cannon slid down a carriage rail to lock into place beneath one claw. On the other arm a squat weapons array slotted into position, the revolving barrels of its gatling arrangement sitting between the outstretched talons of the crackling arc-claw.

Stroika’s pistols bucked as shell after cursed shell rocketed towards the tech-priest. Torquora returned fire with the autocannons of his Icarus weapons array, sending a blizzard of slugs at Stroika. The shells flashed the unnatural colours of the warp as the assassin’s shielding did its best to soak up the blistering autofire. The immaterial rounds from Stroika’s pistols hammered through the workings of Torquora’s armoured suit, thudding into his withered shoulder and through his gut. Cycling the Icarus array about the thick hydraulics of his weapons appendage, Torquora fired rocket after rocket at Stroika. The warp-fuelled shielding seemed to hold against the blinding detonations, though Stroika was driven back with every colossal impact.

Stomping forward, Torquora kept the devastating barrage up, rockets reloading with every clunking revolution of the gatling array. Stroika was blasted back and forth by the rocking explosions, the exotic energies of the Dark Mechanicum field generator collapsing under the onslaught. As the smoke and glare of detonations faded, Torquora found Stroika coughing up corruption, half bent over. His energy shielding flickered on and off before fizzling to a shimmer, while his flesh was scorched by rocket fire. One of his pistols had been knocked from a blasted claw, and Stroika fought to reload the other.

‘Submit as a true construct of the Blessed Omnissiah,’ Torquora said, autoloading rockets and aiming the tri-barrels of his torsion cannon at Stroika. ‘The Motive Force compels you!’

Stroika howled his spiritual agonies at the deck while his flesh seared to blackness about the cursed metal of his combat chassis. Slamming a fresh magazine of warp-irradiated bullets into his pistol, Stroika went to shoot again. Charging his torsion cannon, the tech-priest blasted a force-stream of particles at him from the weapon’s flared muzzles. As the gravitational fields hit Stroika, the torsion cannon’s barrels began to turn and rotate about one another. Knocking him back with their frame-smashing force, the locked fields of each barrel mercilessly tore and twisted at Stroika: shearing an arm off at the joint, crumpling the metal of his combat chassis within his tortured flesh and shattering the automotive hydraulics of his legs.

Hitting the far wall, Stroika landed as a shattered mess of ruptured flesh, twisted limbs and leaking corruption. Behind him, Torquora heard the synchronous fall of footsteps as skitarii sentinels arrived on the refectorium decks.

<Stand down,> the tech-priest ordered, drawing the cybernetic soldiers to a halt. As Stroika coughed, choked and roared the fury of his decimated flesh, Torquora stood over the broken warrior. Drawing his heavy weaponry back up their carriages and cradling his hydraulic claws and appendages, Torquora looked down at Stroika. He had caused the alpha primus untold agony on top of agony, and would cause him more still to right the construct he had once wronged.

Stroika gagged and spat the filth of corruption up at Torquora’s armoured boots, the maniacal laugh of a soul twisted beyond endurance working its way out of his ruined form. He reached for a line of grenades that were pinned through the mauled flesh of his shoulder, about the shattered frame of his combat chassis. Clasping one in his metal claw, Stroika tore at it, ripping the pin from his pierced skin. His laugh became a dark chuckle of satisfaction as he held the grenade and detonator pin between them. He intended to release the warp-primed grenade and blow the pair of them to oblivion.

‘No, Stroika-unit,’ Torquora told him, bringing up a filth-speckled boot and crushing claw, grenade and pin between his heavy metal sole and the floor. ‘I intend to make you whole again.’ Torquora announced to the chamber, ‘Security authorisation: 1/22/00/4. Accept.’

The floor section beneath them both began to shudder. On its hydraulics, the floor descended into the laboratorium below. Artisans and magi hard at work on the Geller bomb’s final preparations looked up at their master, their attention already long since attracted by the gunfire and explosions coming from the chamber above.

‘Magos aethyricus.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ the tech-priest said, looking at the broken construct at Torquora’s feet.

‘The Geller Device is ready for transportation and deployment?’ Torquora asked.

‘Yes, archmagos,’ the tech-priest replied. ‘With the Omnissiah’s blessing.’

Tearing at his trapped claw and the unprimed grenade held within, Stroika’s gaze lit upon the newly constructed Geller bomb. Stunned for a moment, the corrupted construct suddenly began thrashing and shrieking like a thing possessed.

‘One final test,’ Torquora ordered. ‘Engage the phase-fielding as a stage one build-up to detonation.’

‘But, archmagos,’ the tech-priest said. ‘The device has already passed that test.’

‘Indulge me,’ Torquora ordered.

As servitors cleared the chamber, artisans and magi stepped across the cabling that snaked its way in swarms across the laboratorium floor. Taking position behind console banks and screens, the tech-priests fell to initiating the Geller Device’s detonation sequence.

‘My lord, would you rather not view the test from–’ the magos aethyricus asked, but Torquora cut him off.

‘Proceed.’

As Stroika thrashed in his frame-shattered agonies, Torquora keeping the polluted construct and his warp grenade in place, the baroque bomb at the centre of the laboratorium clunked to life. Within its transportation scaffolding, the device made an ominous hum that unsettled the stomach and rattled the ear. The magos aethyricus narrated his test steps, but Torquora wasn’t listening. He simply watched the Geller bomb come to dreadful life, field capacitors humming to charge within the weapon.

‘Phase-field initiation,’ the magos aethyricus announced. Torquora filtered his overlays as the Geller Device blazed to sudden brightness. The blinding light twinkled with an intensity that drove shadows away and scalded the walls, equipment and laboratorium personnel to whiteness.

At his feet, Stroika had fallen to filth-dribbling silence. He looked fearfully at the Geller Device, as one might stare into the jaws of death.

‘Field has achieved integrity,’ the tech-priest announced over the din of the device. ‘Perimeter expanding.’

As the blazing twinkle became a bubble of searing reality, expanding as a sizzling sphere about the Geller Device, Torquora felt Stroika attempt to tear his trapped claw away. As the archmagos pressed down with his armoured boot, Stroika roared his fear and repugnance for the Geller field. His soul was going to burn, and the corrupt construct knew it.

Torquora let the bubble of reality envelop him, allowing the purging static of the device to hiss off his armour. He heard Stroika scream. His flesh scorched and the exposed metal of his butchered cybernetics burned with an ethereal fire. Corruption gushed from his nose, his wounds and flesh-plugs, steaming away as it came into contact with the Geller field. As the phase-field test allowed the bomb to reach full intensity, Stroika screamed again. This time it wasn’t the cry of a demented puppet – some plaything of ruinous monsters – but the scream of a man. It was agony, honest and true.

As Torquora held him there, bathed in the intense reality of the Geller field, the archmagos watched Stroika undergo a transformation. The cursed metal of his augmentations melted to pools that bubbled and evaporated. Corrupt workings sizzled, sparked and blew like fuses while his goggles melted down his cheeks in rivulets of black, molten glass. With the filth of corruption gone and dirty lines lacing his field-bleached flesh, Stroika was but a surgery-mangled torso and head. Unconscious now, his features had relaxed, enjoying a peace he had not known for a long time.

Torquora nodded at the magos aethyricus, who ordered his priests to shut down the Geller Device’s phase fielding. As the sizzling bubble of reality collapsed and the humming bomb fell quiet, Torquora removed his armoured boot. The warp grenade, like the twisted claw that had held it, had melted away.

‘It’s ready,’ Torquora told the magos aethyricus. He looked down at the unconscious Stroika. ‘But as of now we are not the only ones to know of its existence. It is imperative we deploy the Geller Device immediately. Have the bomb loaded for transportation. Now.’

‘As you wish, archmagos.’

‘And have the magos cybernetica assemble his priests and bless his laboratorium,’ Omnid Torquora said, looking down at what remained of Haldron-44 Stroika. ‘I have a subject for his surgical slab here.’

0101

SELECTED: DENTRICA I OF II
ENGAGE NEURAL CONGRESS – WIRELESS AUTOSHUNT ACQUIRED
UPLOADING… +WARP TRANSLATION+

Omnid Torquora once more surveyed the decimation of war through the optics of the cybernetic soldiers fighting it. The Drastok 4-14 Radiphracts had been pulled from their brutal siege of Forge Temple Pharatoi to defend the ruined trenchworks of the Ortorqus Chasma. Joining the remaining skitarii manning the trenches and a killclade of Sicarian ruststalkers, it became their duty and the duty of their alpha primus, the scorch-faced Algor-14 Gallium, to secure the site against further attack.

Landing excavators and dozers from arkfreighters stationed overhead, Gallium and his vanguard skitarii had worked in record time to repair the defensive network about the deep core mining facility. With bombards, mortars and Earthshaker cannons trained on the approach and the Warhound Titan Canis Corporalis drowning them in its sentinel shadow, the Radiphracts worked hard to establish themselves. It was not to be, however.

At 2700 hours, the arkfreighter Silicos identified the movement of three Dark Mechanicum war machines. Like the great creations of the Centurio Ordinatus the heretek machines were colossal, their towering weaponry obscene in its size and warped design. They crushed everything in their path, mulching fire-gutted buildings to dust beneath their monstrous tracks. Escorted by Dark Mechanicum armour contingents and small armies of rabid tech-thralls that rode on the mighty hulls of the machines, the closing war machines aimed to join forces and take the Ortorqus Chasma.

Torquora only had one order for Primus Gallium: to hold the Dark Mechanicum off for as long as possible. With the Geller Device being loaded on board a transport bound for the planet’s surface and an escort force being assembled, the archmagos only asked for a few hours more – but Omnid Torquora was not granted that wish.

Through Primus Gallium’s optics, Torquora watched the fall of the Ortorqus Chasma. With a range that Torquora had failed to appreciate, the gargantuan war machines of the Dark Mechanicum opened fire on the Canis Corporalis. Smashed from side to side by fat beams of aethyric energy, the Warhound’s void shields shattered and the god-machine’s consecrated plating erupted with the scalding passage of warping energy streams. The Canis Corporalis blasted its mega-bolters at the war machines on the horizon, but even the god-machine’s great weaponry could not achieve the same range. Marching on one war machine, the Titan suffered the plate-carving attentions of the other two in the horror of a coordinated attack. As Gallium watched and Torquora with him, the Titan’s crew abandoned their god-machine, leaping to their deaths as the main body of the Warhound detonated.

Readying his vanguard skitarii as they manned the trenches with their radioactive weaponry, Gallium watched as the escort contingents of the three mega-machines stormed towards them. With gibbering tech-thralls sitting on the armoured shells of the baroque battle tanks, riding in trailers and clinging to track plates, the vehicles blasted electromagnetic streams of lightning at the skitarii in the trenches.

Moving between the Radiphracts, the crackling of their censers a constant reminder of the way in which their weaponry was slowly poisoning them, Torquora watched the Dark Mechanicum troops advance. Those vanguard skitarii who had lost their helms in previous battles wore grim expression on faces raw with radiation burns.

As a seeming afterthought, Gallium reported gunships pacing the battle tanks’ approach. Through the primus’s eyes and a pair of magnoculars, Torquora identified the gunships as belonging to the Iron Warriors, the canopies of the rusted craft glowing with balelight and their engines spewing black smoke. The Chaos Space Marines had not risked an aerial assault on the Ortorqus Chasma before – not with Ordo Reductor artillery stationed amongst the ruins of the deep core installation. Something had emboldened the Iron Warriors – who didn’t require much of an excuse at any time to brazenly storm an enemy stronghold. Omnid Torquora thought he knew what that something was. With the knowledge that the Cult Mechanicus fleet had constructed a Geller Device, Idriss Krendl wasn’t leaving anything to chance. Torquora suspected that Krendl now fully understood the strategic value of the deep core mines and wanted the installation in Traitor hands.

Before long, streams of lightning launched from Dark Mechanicum battle tanks were hammering into trenches and electrifying the shallows in which the vanguard skitarii stood. Gun emplacements blasted vehicle-riding thralls from their purchase, while radium jezzails and transuranic arquebuses punched holes through armour, shredding through the monstrous engines of the tanks. With artillery raining down on the Dark Mechanicum armour, it appeared for precious minutes like the Drastok 4-14 Radiphracts might hold the trenchworks. That was until the gunships broke away.

Splitting the air with the thunder of their engines, Thunderhawks, Stormbirds and Fire Raptor gunships hit the trenchworks hard. Avenger cannons and heavy bolters rained death down on Radiphracts, forcing them to split fire from their radium carbines between the suicidal charge of shrieking tech-thralls and the booming swoop of gunships. Battle-scarred Thunderhawks, rivet-plated with fortified armour, smashed the Ordo Reductor forces with bombs that tore the artillery pieces up and detonated bombard ordnance stocks. Meanwhile, ancient Stormbirds with stuttering engines and patched hulls came in to land behind the trench lines, delivering their cargo of Iron Warriors. As the Obliteratii hit Gallium and his skitarii from behind, the battle tanks rolled in with their manic thralls. Caught between lightning streams, the stabbing beams of lascarbines and the warped weaponry of the diseased Iron Warriors, the vanguard skitarii were blasted to pieces, their cybernetic bodies lying bolt-riddled in the shallows.

As Algor-14 Gallium reported his failure to Omnid Torquora, the alpha primus turned. The monstrous shape of a flesh-mangled Iron Warrior towered over the skitarii officer. Bringing up his radium pistol, Gallium blasted several radioactive rounds into the abomination’s chest before the thing rammed the flesh-metal digits of a malformed claw straight through his body. Lifting him off the ground, the crooked-faced Iron Warrior stared into Gallium’s fading optics, his own eyes burning with jubilant hatred.

‘Tell your priest that this world is ours,’ the Iron Warrior spat through twisted lips. ‘And that his own is next. You hear me, don’t you, priest? Krendl comes for you. Take your tin soldiers and run…’

With that the Iron Warrior unleashed a fleshmetal cannon that was part of his monstrous arm. Blasting the life out of Algor-14 Gallium, the Iron Warrior launched the body of the alpha primus across the corpse-strewn trenchworks. Gallium died in mid-air, allowing Torquora to see the Iron Warrior’s ugly grin and the horror of the skitarii officer’s last moments.

‘My lord,’ a priestly member of Torquora’s diagnostiquorum said, breaking the archmagos’s phylactic communion. ‘Tech-priest Captain Voltram for you.’

Transferring his interface to the consular unit station of the bridge, Torquora addressed the Mechanicus captain.

‘Tech-priest Captain, you have new information for me?’ he said, his words proceeding from the consular unit’s lips.

‘Archmagos,’ Voltram said, ‘our long range augur arrays have detected vessels entering the system.’

‘When?’

‘Warp translation happened within the hour,’ Voltram said.

‘Number?’

‘I’d estimate about thirty vessels of various classes and tonnage,’ the tech-priest captain said.

‘Thirty vessels…’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Designation?’ Torquora asked.

‘They are too far out for a visual, archmagos, although my priests are working on that. My impression from the augur readings and array of vessels is that they are an Adeptus Mechanicus battlefleet.’

‘From Satzica Secundus?’ Torquora asked.

‘A distinct possibility, my lord.’

‘Keep me informed, tech-priest captain,’ the archmagos transmitted. ‘I want designation and visuals as soon as you have them.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

SELECTED: DENTRICA II OF II
ENGAGE NEURAL CONGRESS – WIRELESS AUTOSHUNT ACQUIRED
UPLOADING… +EXECUTE+

The doors to the diagnostiquorum parted. Omnid Torquora turned. It was unusual. The priests of his diagnostiquorum were permanently stationed there, with only the archmagos coming and going. As servitors swept in to remove his communion cables, Torquora angled the bulk of his armoured suit around. From the doors came a convocation of priests – members of the Luminen, following their masters into the diagnostiquorum chamber.

‘This is… irregular,’ Torquora said.

The Giveth and the Taketh stood side by side, with their electromancers spread out behind them to give the impression of numbers.

‘This matter could not wait,’ Candesca Piezon said, his words falling clipped from his crackling lips.

‘What could not wait?’ Torquora demanded of the electro-priests.

‘We convened,’ Attica Diodemus said. This did not surprise the archmagos, since it was all the Luminen seemed to do. ‘Fulgurite and Corpuscarii are in agreement.’

‘Unusual, wouldn’t you say, masters?’ Torquora said.

‘If the history of the Martian empire demonstrates anything,’ Diodemus said, ‘it is that great threats can reveal the truth that there is more that unites different factions than divides them.’

‘Well, Master Diodemus, Master Piezon,’ Torquora said. ‘We already face a great threat on the planet below.’

‘Archmagos,’ Tech-priest Captain Voltram announced across the vox.

‘Yes, captain.’

‘We have identified the largest vessel, my lord,’ Voltram reported. ‘It is the Encoronada – an Ark Mechanicus of ancient lineage, hailing from…’

‘…Satzica Secundus,’ Torquora said.

‘Supported by eight or so cruiser-class vessels, with the rest escorts, troop carriers, forge ships and Collegia Titanica temple barges. A battlefleet, as I suspected. A visual will confirm.’

‘Thank you, tech-priest captain,’ Torquora told him. ‘That visual, as soon as you have it. Torquora out.’

‘So,’ Attica Diodemus said. ‘Reinforcements from Satzica Secundus.’

‘Yes,’ Torquora agreed, ‘but reinforcements for whom?’

‘You believe the Fabricator General would send a fleet of his finest vessels to support our enemies?’ Diodemus asked.

‘I am almost sure of it,’ Torquora said. ‘Now, masters, time is pressing. I expect to be engaging those vessels in battle within the hour. As you said yourself, we face a great threat.’

‘The threat to which we were referring,’ Candesca Piezon told him, ‘is you, archmagos.’

Torquora looked up. For the first time he realised that the electro-priests were not wearing their ship robes. Instead, they were stripped to the waist, their subdermal circuitry glowing beneath their muscular flesh.

‘Masters Diodemus, Piezon,’ Torquora said, ‘what are you really doing here?’

‘We cannot support your prosecution of this war,’ Diodemus said. ‘We are the check.’

‘The balance,’ Piezon said.

‘The Fabricator General trusted that we would watch over the Fabricator Locum,’ Diodemus said. ‘With him gone, we look to guide you – but you will not be guided, by us or the light of the Motive Force. You speak against the holy tenets of the Quest for Knowledge. You threaten Satzica Secundus and its people. You speak against the Fabricator General himself, interpreting what little evidence you have to suit your ambitions.’

‘Ambitions?’ Torquora marvelled.

‘You are an explorator,’ Candesca Piezon accused.

‘An outlander.’

‘A loner.’

‘A radical, who walks his own path rather than the one set out for him,’ Diodemus said. ‘You pervert the divine stratification of our ranks, using the resources of the Adeptus Mechanicus to prosecute your own will.’

‘Some might say you have gone rogue, Omnid Torquora,’ Piezon said. ‘That your battles with the renegade and the xenos have given you a taste for subversion.’

‘For conquest,’ Diodemus added. ‘Even of your own.’

‘You have the gall to lecture me on subversion and conquest,’ Torquora rumbled. ‘Priests of the temple court. Keepers of the Fabricator General’s faith? Those who cog, weave lies and whisper behind his back to advance themselves or those to whom they are allied. You call me a loner. In that much at least you are right, since I would favour the cold emptiness of the void, with only the distant stars for company rather than priests like you. Men who kill by committee. Which is exactly why you are here today – with a war half-fought and an enemy fleet at our backs, you choose today to judge me?’

‘Omnid Torquora,’ Attica Diodemus said. ‘Archmagos explorator. The Luminen judge your actions extreme and your objectives questionable. You are to be taken from this place and placed in chrono-containment until such time as you can be judged by a chamber of your priestly peers. Will you submit?’

‘Or will you force us to destroy you in the attempt?’ Candesca Piezon said, the electrostatic gauntlets about his hands and the cabling leading to his spinal capacitor crackling with power.

Torquora looked from Piezon to Diodemus. He allowed his optics to move across the convocation of priests. The Corpuscarii with their node-sizzling gauntlets. The Fulgurites leaning against their power-leeching staves. In turn, Torquora sensed that all eyes and optics of the diagnostiquorum were on him.

‘I fear, masters,’ Torquora said, ‘brothers of the light, that it is easier to judge a construct in the darkness. You have no eyes to see the innocence in his.’

Torquora fired the hydraulics on his appendage cradles, opening his claws and allowing his suit’s heavy weaponry to lock into place. As he did so the Luminen attacked. Faces of priestly calm twisted in open hostility. The Corpuscarii lit up in a spidery blaze of arcs and snapping energy, the nodes of their halos and electrostatic gauntlets glowing to brilliance. Moving their hands in sacred gestures, their cabling draped like wings, the electromancers blasted columns of raw energy at the archmagos.

With streams of electrical power slamming into his armoured suit, overloading systems and paralysing hydraulics, Torquora was forced back. Grunting his exertions and with smoke drifting up from his chest pulpit, the tech-priest stumbled back into a phylactic interface, demolishing the empty console. Thrusting his open claw forward, Torquora blasted his array of autocannons at the convocation, the hail of rounds taking off heads and shredding through the bare chests of electro-priests.

Suddenly a Fulgurite priest was before the archmagos, turning and spinning the length of his stave. He smacked the weapons appendage with the cog-ends of the leeching weapon, and Torquora’s autocannon stuttered to a stop as the cradle autoloaders lost power. Sparks flew from the plate of Torquora’s chest pulpit as another came in, weaving expertly under his brother’s spinning weapon to smash and stab with his own crippling stave.

Torquora lunged with the outstretched hydraulics of his claw but the Luminen were too fast and coordinated. As the Fulgurites ducked and leant expertly out of the arc-claw’s path, they struck it aside, bringing their staves around to smash the back of the suit’s knee joint. With lightning striking the tech-priest from the advancing Corpuscarii, scorching its exploratory way across his armoured plate and hammering him back, Torquora realised that there were simply too many of the convocation to face alone.

The priests of his diagnostiquorum were unarmed but tore themselves from their communion cables and data-plugs, charging the electro-priests with nothing more than their bare hands and interface bionics. Jumping from runebanks and going to grab the Luminen, they found themselves horribly outclassed. The smell of roasted flesh filled the air as Corpuscarii blazed streams from their electrostatic gauntlets into the bodies of intervening priests. Electrocuted and with their life-sustaining augmentations melting within them, priests were thrown back over consoles by the shocking power of the streams. The Fulgurites, meanwhile, turned and spun their staves elegantly about them, draining constructs with every impact. Stabbing and back-slashing, the electro-priests siphoned power from bionics but much worse was the way their attacks leeched the very electrical impulses that kept hearts beating and brains functioning. They moved with deadly grace through their dropping victims, a slaughterous dance of light and motion.

With armour plating and greater reactors to drain, Omnid Torquora was lasting longer but faring no better. His explorator suit and augmentations had been developed to counter the brutality and physical superiority of the alien: creatures of size, strength and speed. With magna-hydraulics and the broad suit of clinker plating, Torquora was more than a match for attacking xenos breeds. Things that moved with alien swiftness and superhuman reflexes still could not outrun rounds shot from a cannon or avoid the blast of a detonating rocket.

The gifts of the Luminen turned Torquora’s own capabilities against him. While he was engineered to destroy alien monsters, even he could not hope to counter the dizzying speed and grace of the warrior priests who both drained and overloaded his monstrous workings in equal measure.

With overloaded cabling alight and the power of his bionics fading, Torquora attempted to assert his supremacy. His optics and overlays lagged and crackled to static with every strike of a Fulgurite’s leeching stave, while within his lightning-scorched suit he could smell burned wiring and feel his own flesh cooking.

With one arm frozen in the crackling embrace of an electrical stream, his interfaced shoulder joint convulsing with shock, Torquora swung the other around with clumsy effort. Knocking the head clean off a Fulgurite priest with his arc-claw, the archmagos bludgeoned another by bringing the weight of the monstrous hydraulics down. As electro-priests hacked at the pistons and carriages of the appendage with their draining staves, systems went haywire. Rockets fired wildly across the chamber, demolishing sections of interface consoles and blasting craters into the decking.

Two Corpuscarii priests turned charging tech-priests into blackened, augmented skeletons by laying their electrostatic gauntlets on them and pumping energy streams point-blank into their bodies. As the remains fell away, they went to turn their wielded lightning on Torquora. Shaking the crackles and arcs of the last attack from an arm over which he once again had control, the tech-priest aimed his torsion cannon at the pair, blasting them across the room with the gravitic force of the weapon. Bones broke and spines snapped as the cable-tangled Corpuscarii were twisted and fashioned into terrible and bloody new shapes.

Suddenly, Piezon and Diodemus were before him, the pair unified by the great threat presented by the priest-slaughtering Torquora. The archmagos blasted round after stuttering round from his autocannons at Attica Diodemus but the Fulgurite wheeled out of their path, using his stave to balance his centre of gravity.

Piezon brought his hands around in a mystical configuration, charging his capacitor before thrusting his electrostatic gauntlets at Torquora. Twin streams of electrical fury slammed into Torquora’s armoured chest. Plate burned to whiteness while sparks flew, runescreens shattered and supercogitators shorted with the raw power flowing through the pulpit. Piezon’s Corpuscarii priests joined him, aiming their own columns of lightning at Torquora. The archmagos stumbled back so as not to topple, stamping through the precious workings and interface cabling of phylactic communion banks. It was all he could do to hold out his hydraulic claws to shield his suit from the worst of the streaming energy.

Diodemus and his brother Fulgurites leapt consoles and stepped gracefully through the wreckage. While electro-priests pressed their attack with spinning staves, smashing draining impacts into Torquora’s armoured suit, Attica Diodemus thrust the serrated cog-head of his stave straight through the magna-hydraulics of Torquora’s leg. Ordinarily the mighty pistons in the bionic limb would shatter the stave and its capacitor but with the jammed weapon constantly leeching automotive power from the limb, the knee became paralysed. Forced to pivot around the frozen joint, Torquora felt his world become the howling agony of electrical torture and the dread of dying systems. Trapped in his sarcophagal suit, Torquora would die.

Nobody had noticed that the chamber doors had parted. Not the diagnostiquorum priests who were dying in their droves. Not the Corpuscarii who coursed lightning through their enemies with their searing touch. Not the Fulgurites who drained the very life from constructs with their leeching staves.

Haldron-44 Stroika had returned to his master as ordered. Fresh from the magos cybernetica and his small army of adepts, cybersurgeons and artisans, Stroika was a construct anew. His flesh had been purged of corruption and his butchered body stripped of his tainted workings. No longer a skitarii officer outfitted for command, Stroika’s days at the head of a legion were done. What the Iron Warriors and Torquora had left of him – his head and upper torso – was now part of a monstrous machine. A holy annihilator. A kataphron destroyer.

Lobotomised, Stroika knew nothing of his past sufferings or expectations of his future. As a living weapon, there was little beyond the immediacy of battle that he needed to think on at all. With his torso and cabling set in a turret and his body protected by demi-plate, Stroika entered the diagnostiquorum chamber on a monstrous set of tracks. Like a small tank or mobile artillery piece, he had been crafted into a fearful machine of single-minded death and destruction. Heavy-duty weapons cradles mounted a plasma culverin on one shoulder and a flamer on an underslung appendage. His head was a nest of targeters, scopes and augurs, what little face flesh was exposed fixed in a mask of blank obedience.

Casting his optics and overlays across the diagnostiquorum, Stroika processed the scene of the battle. The flashing outlines of electro-priests and zig-zag of targeting reticules led him through the bodies of tech-priests and the devastation of the chamber to Omnid Torquora. Immediately recognising the designations of the archmagos’s armoured suit, Stroika calculated that his master was under attack. Aegis protocols and the battle wetware that had replaced much of his brain led him to conclude that without assistance Omnid Torquora would die.

Authorising intervention, his systems allowed power to run from his hull-mounted reactor to his plasma weaponry. As the cannon glowed a brilliant blue it radiated unbearable heat that scorched the pallid flesh of Stroika’s shaven head and blank face. A pilot flame whooshed to life, dancing from the caged muzzle of the underslung flamer fed from fuel lines runnning down into promethium tanks that were set within the armoured protection of his plated hull. Allowing his imperatives to upload, Stroika blinked.

‘Execute,’ he droned to himself, his voice a doom-laden modulation.

Grinding his tracks down the steps of the chamber and into the diagnostiquorum, Stroika ran straight into the convocation of electro-priests. Barely comprehending his arrival, Fulgurite and Corpuscarii brothers turned in horror to see the monstrous machine coming at them. Dropping their staves and being dragged under the tracks with a scream, electro-priests were left behind the hench-unit in bloody mounds of crackling flesh and cables.

Seeing that a machine had come to Omnid Torquora’s rescue, Fulgurite priests turned their wrath on Stroika. Jabbing at the destroyer and swinging staves across their backs, they aimed to smash the power from the monstrous creation. Turning in his turret as he track-battered electromancers aside, Stroika doused the bare-chested priests with dribbling gouts of promethium flame. Their crisp flesh scorched to torturous blackness, the priests rolled about on the deck. Spasming and thrashing in their agony, they attempted to put out the blazes raging about their robed skirts and melting flesh.

As Fulgurites ran at Stroika with their staves, the destroyer turned in his turret, angling the scorched muzzle of his flamer and burying his attackers in great balls of flame. Everywhere priests were dying. Through the smoke and stench Corpuscarii brothers kept their distance, backing away from the murderous machine as it thrashed its tracks back and forth, whirling an inferno about it. Lightning streams cut through the flames to scorch and crackle off Stroika’s plate. Streams hit the destroyer from the front, back and side, the electromancers compounding their efforts. It was the worst thing that they could have done.

With reticules tagging the Corpuscarii threats on Stroika’s overloading feeds and the outlines of the priests flashing in confirmation, the destroyer locked in his targets.

‘Execute.’

Stroika turned in his turret with the jolting assurance of a machine, his plasma culverin glowing to brilliance. Globes of raging hydrogen gouted from the barrel’s magnetic accelerators. Punching holes through the smoke, the blinding balls of energy blasted the priests one after another, back through the diagnostiquorum.

With the acrid smoke of the smashed chamber thinning, Stroika scanned for targets. He saw his master hobbling in his armoured suit, his systems sparking and his plate scorched. As the destroyer turned in his turret, searching for target acquisitions, Attica Diodemus climbed up onto Stroika’s hull. Having recovered one of his brother’s electroleech staves, the master proceeded to stab it into the demi-plate of the destroyer’s back.

Stroika felt his overlays and optics fade with each impact. Turning around and around, still he could not acquire the tech-priest. As Diodemus worked the cog-head of his stave through the armour of Stroika’s back, the destroyer’s weapon systems cut out. Moments later, power was leeched from his automotive cortex, bringing his tracks to a halt.

With Stroika held there by Diodemus, a half-roasted Master Piezon stumbled out of the smoke and charged his electrostatic weaponry. With the nodes of his halo and gauntlets blazing with crackling fury, the Corpuscarii priest prepared to launch a lightning stream at the immobilised Stroika.

A rocket suddenly screamed across the chamber, hitting Candesca Piezon squarely in the back. The the priest exploded, scraps of flesh and metal crackling to nothing as Omnid Torquora limped up behind. Bringing a hydraulic claw down the side of his leg, he smashed the leeching stave that was jammed in his knee joint in half, shattering the weapon’s capacitor. The magna-hydraulics of the limb shredded the rest.

Looking between the electromagnetic presence of both the paralysed Stroika and the advancing tech-priest, Attica Diodemus stepped down from the destroyer. Leaving the stave in place he backed towards the diagnostiquorum doors. As Torquora stomped towards the electro-priest, Diodemus turned and ran for the parting doors. Bringing up his torsion cannon, Torquora blasted a stream of gravitic particles at the Fulgurite that broke him in half and carried his screams out of the chamber.

As Omnid Torquora wavered slightly in his sarcophagal suit and the smoke began to clear in the diagnostiquorum, several of the archmagos’s priests emerged from hiding and ventured forth. As the din of battle fell to silence, Torquora could hear Tech-priest Captain Voltram over the vox.

‘Archmagos?’

Torquora directed his remaining priests to the smashed vox and the communion cables snaking their way across the destruction of the chamber.

‘Proceed, captain.’

‘Our magnascopes have a long-range capture for you, my lord,’ Voltram told him.

As the priests screwed communion cables into the interface ports of his battle-scarred suit, Torquora phylactically reached out for the bridge consular unit. As the unit opened its eyes, Torquora could see the capture up on the bridge lancet screens. It was blurry and pixelated but unmistakable. The capture showed the Ark Mechanicus Encoronada. The capital ship had been a stately vessel of colossal size and destructive power. An interstellar weapon of pedigree and grace. What Torquora saw now, even at such a distance, was an abomination of modified architecture and grotesquely augmented weaponry. Its command deck and hangars glowed with the dread illumination of warp light while its beautiful, baroque lines were now a mess of spikes and serrations.

Torquora had to be sure, though.

‘Sub-light engine emissions, tech-priest captain?’

‘Engine trails contain chemical signatures unknown to our instruments, archmagos,’ Voltram told him. ‘Plus, they’re communicating – only not with us.’

‘On hailer,’ Torquora said.

The vox suddenly erupted with the cacophonous din of code madness. A shrieking, binaric cant overlaid with infernal blurt-chants of mind-aching corruption.

‘Destination?’

‘Velchanos Magna, my lord.’

Torquora looked across the smoking ruin of the diagnostiquorum as his priests set about righting toppled runebanks and clearing the bodies of their peers. The time had come. There was little wonder the Iron Warriors were pushing their advantage on the planet’s surface. With a fleet of Dark Mechanicum reinforcements from Satzica Secundus arriving in-system, Idriss Krendl would move from a defensive disposition to an offensive one, letting his Iron Warriors off the leash. Torquora could expect movement on all fronts. With the Adeptus Mechanicus fleet caught between the warsmith and the colossal Encoronada, it was to be a slaughter.

‘Tech-priest Captain…’

‘My lord?’

‘The gunfreighter Onus waits on the flight deck with a cargo, associated tech-priests and a heavily armed escort, bound for the planet’s surface.’

‘Yes, archmagos.’

‘I want you to authorise the launch of the Onus,’ Omnid Torquora told him, ‘and then announce a planet-wide recall. I want all skitarii cohorts, heavy materiel and craft off the surface and brought back to the fleet. Use my authorisations. Within two hours I want every one of our forces back on board their cruisers.’

‘The Ordinatus weaponry and the Collegia Titanica god-machines will take longer than that, my lord,’ Voltram told him.

‘They don’t have longer than that,’ Torquora told him. ‘Tell them to expedite their rituals and do whatever it takes to get their orbital barges loaded as soon as possible. Tell them two hours, tech-priest captain. In two hours this fleet breaks orbit and we’re not coming back. Inform the other tech-priest captains.’

‘My lord, is this a withdrawal?’

‘Yes, captain,’ Torquora admitted. ‘But a tactical one. Sometimes you need not win the battle to win the war.’

‘Yes, archmagos.’

‘Torquora out.’

As the channel went dead, Torquora turned to find his priests pulling the Fulgurite stave from where it had been stabbed into the workings of Haldron-44 Stroika’s back.

Within moments, Stroika’s optics and targeter began to glow blue. Tracks began to move and the destroyer’s turret with them as Stroika turned, his returning overlay static-laced and still blazing with targets. The monstrous plasma culverin mounted on his shoulder hummed dangerously to priming and the pilot flame returned to the nozzle of his underslung flamer. Turning three hundred and sixty degrees on his heavy-duty tracks, Stroika came to a stop before his tech-priest master – satisfied that all threats had been neutralised.

Preparing to enter phylactic communion, with the decimated runebanks and interface consoles of the diagnostiquorum all around, Torquora had his remaining priests jury-rig a connection that could reach the planet’s surface. The archmagos looked to the silent destroyer and the corpses of the Luminen scattered about the chamber.

‘Nothing gets through that door,’ Omnid Torquora ordered, his priests moving about his armoured form with lines and cables. Haldron-44 Stroika gave the tech-priest an expression of blank obedience as the kataphron destroyer processed the order.

‘Execute.’

0110

SELECTED: DENTRICA I OF II
ENGAGE NEURAL CONGRESS – WIRELESS AUTOSHUNT ACQUIRED
UPLOADING… +ENGINEER THE COLLISION+

With priests working on the damage to the delicate phylactic instrumentation of the diagnostiquorum, Omnid Torquora tried to acquire Princeps Datric 31-Thermochron of the 4.7 Sigmus-Sicariax. The archmagos had assigned 31-Thermochron’s killclade the responsibility of escorting the magos aethyricus, his priests and the Geller Device down to the forge world’s surface. 31-Thermochron’s orders were clear: protect the device at all costs and deliver it safely to its detonation site.

It was strange viewing the interior of the Mechanicus gunfreighter Onus through the bug-eyed optics of the Sicarian princeps. Like all of his kind, he was a step removed from other skitarii. Boasting the augmentations of a veritable cybernetic assassin, 31-Thermochron and his clade were cold and calculating even by the standards of the skitarii legions. Standing like a spindly statue in the cargo hold, 31-Thermochron scanned his ruststalkers, his systems running endless diagnostics and auditry in preparation for battle. While the magos aethyricus and his staff were strapped into wall-seats, the skitarii surrounded a tracked ark containing the precious Geller Device.

<Princeps, report to the cockpit,> Torquora ordered, as the gunfreighter rumbled through its descent.

Passing wired servitors who were set in the gunfreighter’s weapons alcoves, 31-Thermochron headed for the cargo bay ladder. As the Onus lurched and trembled, the princeps reached out to steady himself on a hulking battle-automaton. For extra insurance, Torquora had assigned the mission a Kastelan robot maniple. With their carapace-mounted weaponry nearly scraping the ceiling of the compartment, the Kastelans were towering relics. As the princeps’s chordclaw tapped against the plate of the automaton’s fist, the robots’ datasmith, Dynostrii, craned his head around suspiciously. With his helm optics extending, Dynostrii watched 31-Thermochron ascend the bay ladder before polishing the robot’s great fist with the skirts of his robe.

The Sicarian ignored the datasmith and made his way up to the cockpit. As a Mechanicus armoured transport, ordinarily outfitted for ordnance drops and the conveyance of materiel too bulky for a lighter, the gunfreighter boasted a crew of two servitor-pilots and four interfaced gun-servitors. The gunners manned multi-lasers and 31-Thermochron could see that they were going to need them. The descent was going to be a rocky one.

Through the princeps’s optics, Torquora could see the twisted industriascape and cratered devastation of the forge world below. Like a swarm of disturbed flies, Dark Mechanicum craft crowded the skies. Freighters. Sky-claws. Barges. Gunships. Fighters. Atmospheric drones. The craft were black and bristling with spikes, like sea urchins. The cockpits of the vehicles glowed with the dread light of daemonic possession. Dark Mechanicum forces were on the move – as Torquora had suspected. The Iron Warriors had given orders to attack in a coordinated and decimating wave that would have smashed the Adeptus Mechanicus forces on the planet’s surface. There were very few cohorts and contingents left there to attack, however.

As Torquora had commanded, skitarii soldiers had fallen back to extraction sites whence gunships, lighters and fat drop-ships were ferrying them back to their troop carriers stationed in low orbit. Despite the havoc of evacuating in a warzone, with beams and bolts blasting about them, the skitarii embarked with order and silent discipline. They demonstrated no desire to fight on or relief at leaving the murderous stalemate of the Traitor forge world. They simply carried out their orders and awaited new ones.

Skitarii sentinels attached to the Collegia Titanica and the Centurio Ordinatus, meanwhile, were holding back hordes of Dark Mechanicum constructs. The code-fevered thralls, bloated gun-servitors and daemon engines had descended upon the retreating skitarii while orbital barges attempted to load great war machines and the god-machines of the Legio Interfectra. With every moment that passed, the cybernetic soldiers bought time for their mighty charges.

While Adeptus Mechanicus transports blazed away from the planet’s surface pursued by the daemon-infused craft of the Dark Mechanicum, every piece of orbital ordnance on Velchanos Magna hurled rancid beams, fat bolts and warp-fuelled missiles up at the sky. The Onus veered this way and that as the pilot-servitor and his co-pilot banked and spiralled through the havoc wearing sickly, rictus grins.

A sudden brilliance shone through the top of the canopy, prompting 31-Thermochron to peer up through his bug-eyed helm. The Adeptus Mechanicus arkcruiser Logarita had detonated over the equatorial ash wastes. Omnid Torquora felt the deck of the diagnostiquorum tremble as the shockwave knocked the Maestrale several degrees off station.

Idriss Krendl had wasted no time in manoeuvring his flotilla of Iron Warriors vessels and Dark Mechanicum cruisers. Torquora tried to view the unfolding events from the warsmith’s dark perspective. For half a year, while battles had raged through the busy industriascape and across the wastelands of past destruction, the Adeptus Mechanicus fleet and the ships of the enemy had held station in low orbit. While supporting their respective armies with monstrous orbital bombardments and watching over key strategic sites, the two fleets had largely monitored one another from a distance, silent weapons batteries trained on one another. Such vessels were precious beyond calculation. Torquora’s fleet boasted no access to shipyards in which to make repairs, while Krendl’s docks and yards were constantly under attack. With the vessels taking many months to build, Krendl was loath to waste their potential. Beyond maintaining a blockade of the Traitor forge world and trying to break it respectively, both sides had largely avoided orbital engagements.

For Idriss Krendl, Torquora calculated, with reinforcements from Satzica Secundus entering the system and skitarii forces evacuating the surface, there had never been a better time to attack the Adeptus Mechanicus fleet.

31-Thermochron watched as the Logarita turned into a raging hulk, trailing flame, disintegrating sections and flailing bodies. As it tumbled he could see an Iron Warriors battle-barge, the vessel Omnid Torquora knew to be Krendl’s flagship – the Forgebreaker. The Logarita had attempted to engage the oncoming barge battery for battery but the Iron Warriors vessel had closed to suicidal range and delivered a devastating, point-blank broadside into the venerable arkcruiser.

In the skies about Velchanos Magna, 31-Thermochron could see similar engagements – the vessels of the Adeptus Mechanicus fleet attempting to simultaneously hold station, receive heavily-laden transports, and engage attacking strike cruisers, system ships and Dark Mechanicum defence monitors.

The Onus banked, forcing 31-Thermochron to steady himself once again. Below them a quad of tower emplacements that was part of a ruinous forge temple had opened to reveal a bank of orbital turbolasers. As the gunfreighter pulled up and lurched savagely to the right, a furious column of tainted light reached up from the surface. Levelling out, the gunfreighter gave its intended descent vector a wide berth as the emplacements seared las-beams into the troop carrier Modulus and the vessel returned fire from its meagre weaponry.

As the gunfreighter turned aside, it attracted the attention of something dark and predatory searing through the crowded skies. Noticing that it was descending while every other craft on the planet seemed to be rocketing for low orbit, a daemon engine smashed into the Onus. Collision alarms sounded in the cockpit, accompanied by flashing runescreens as the infernal fusion of daemon and aircraft tore the engine casing from the roof of the gunfreighter.

With the Onus thrown into a spin, the pilot-servitors hauled at their sticks, attempting to break out of the plunge at the same time as avoiding other craft, both skitarii and Traitor, as they surged for the sky.

With 31-Thermochron in the cockpit, Torquora could see the stuttering flash of multi-lasers as the craft’s gun-servitors attempted to engage the machine predator. Casting its darkness through the skies, the armoured daemon manoeuvred with infernal grace through the rising traffic and ground-launched rockets and tracer fire. Spinning through the helical spray of slashing multi-laser beams, the daemon engine latched on to the gunfreighter with great hydraulic talons. Opening its machine maw, the engine revealed the proboscis-like barrel of a hidden weapon. Blasting warpflame over the roof of the gunfreighter and down across the canopy, the diabolical machine tried to tear the craft open with its talons. As the stream of fiery corruption cleared, 31-Thermochron could see that the Onus was heading straight for a Dark Mechanicum haulage brig. The servitor-pilots went to evade the oncoming craft.

<No,> Omnid Torquora said to the princeps. <Have them engineer the collision.>

‘Hit it,’ 31-Thermochron ordered, pointing his chordclaw at the brig and its spidery derricks. ‘Brace for impact. Secure the cargo,’ the princeps ordered across the gunfreighter’s vox-channel.

Drifting back into the path of the craft, the Onus grazed the brig’s swollen haulage container. The daemon engine was not so fortunate, smashing into the vessel. As the gunfreighter spiralled towards the surface the daemon engine screeched its fury, the thing’s armoured wings tangled in the industrial hooks and chains draped from the brig’s derrick.

<Correct your course,> Torquora ordered.

‘Bring us back to the descent vector,’ 31-Thermochron told the pilot-servitors, watching as the gunfreighter left the airspace of the forge world industriascape, with its temples, forges and twisted architecture. Below, the princeps could see gargantuan black holes in the planet’s surface, the deep core mining site that was their destination. About the gaping pits, 31-Thermochron analysed the abandoned skitarii trenchworks and captured artillery. The sky about the gunfreighter rocked with the blaze of exploding shells. Torquora couldn’t believe it. The Dark Mechanicum thralls were using their own Earthshaker cannons against them.

<Don’t let them fire the airbrakes,> Torquora warned the princeps, who relayed the order. <Maintain speed and descent vector. Aim for the main shaft.>

As the gunfreighter dropped out of the sky towards the deep core mine shafts of the Ortorqus Chasma, shells detonated about them. Rocking with the turbulence and rolling with the quakes, the pilot-servitors guided the Onus into alignment with the gaping blackness of the main shaft. As the forge world’s surface rose up to meet them, the spatter of gunfire sparked off the gunfreighter’s hull. Seconds later the Onus was descending through the starless oblivion of the deep core mine shaft.

‘Lights,’ 31-Thermochron ordered. As hull lamps flickered on, the princeps could see the rocky wall of the shaft stream by, replete with the rusted stairwells, companionways and scaffold elevator cars of the ancient mining works. Exhausted of its mineral bounty and with only satellite excavations still producing ore, it had been hundreds of years since the deep core shaft had known light in its depths.

Looking up through the canopy, 31-Thermochron noticed something in the darkness. The faint glimmer of landing lamps. They were not alone in their descent.

<Archmagos,> the princeps transmitted. <We are being followed.>

SELECTED: DENTRICA II OF II
ENGAGE NEURAL CONGRESS – WIRELESS AUTOSHUNT ACQUIRED
UPLOADING… +DEEP CORE+

The darkness seemed to stretch forever. As the gunfreighter Onus descended down the length of the rocky shaft wall, its lamps illuminated the different strata of exotic minerals that made up the forge world’s mantle and its outer core. All the while, 31-Thermochron was conscious of their pursuers. Relying precious little on its landing thrusters, the Onus was literally plummeting towards the centre of the planet. Increasingly confident that a descending craft would not surpass such a speed in the darkness and danger of the shaft, the princeps’s mind and cogitators fell to preparations for their enemy’s arrival.

Unlike the pursuing craft, which could have little idea how close the bottom of the shaft lay, Omnid Torquora had despatched probes months before to gather the essential data. Torquora had the princeps check in with the magos aethyricus as to the status of the Geller Device and his ruststalkers. Already, the mission had changed. With enemy contingents in the mines, the Geller Device could not be primed and abandoned, as initially planned.

Omnid Torquora had had his priests construct a second aethyric bomb – many times more powerful than the first. In doing so and in adapting the sacrosanct technologies of the Omnissiah, he had already invited accusations of technoheresy. The tech-priest had made his peace with such realities, knowing that he would never again be able to set foot on the hallowed soil of a forge world. Then again, two forge worlds he never intended revisiting were Velchanos Magna and his own, Satzica Secundus. Their scourge had become his dark responsibility. He could not allow Idriss Krendl and his Iron Warriors to plunder their monstrous potential.

Constructing the Geller bomb and selecting the deepest place on the planet as its detonation site, Torquora aimed to do what the Luminen could not conceive of doing. He would destroy both worlds together. The long-corrupted forge world of Velchanos Magna would suffer the explosive force of the Geller bomb first hand, taking as many hereteks and Traitors with it as Torquora could engineer. The destructive energies would travel back along the warp trails the Satzican reinforcement fleet had left in the immaterium, just as they had done with Torquora’s own. This time, however, with the greater destructive capabilities of the second bomb, the archmagos hoped to bring forth from the warp a storm of such catastrophic intensity that his fallen home world would be blasted apart.

The Geller Device could not be abandoned, therefore, to be stopped by the enemy forces following them down into the bowels of the forge world. 31-Thermochron and the ruststalkers of the Sigmus-Sicariax understood this. As did the quiet Dynostrii, who along with the priests who had constructed the bomb, would see the wonder of its detonation first hand. Such considerations were beyond the gunfreighter’s servitors and the Kastelan battle-automata.

31-Thermochron felt the landing thrusters fire and the Onus begin deceleration. As he arrived back in the cockpit, he could see that the gunfreighter was no longer in the shaft. The ship’s lamps illuminated a wall of polyhedral crystals, growing from the rock of a colossal cavern.

Using the original probe’s data, the servitor-pilots gently slowed the Onus, turning the gunfreighter to take in the glorious vision of the crystal pocket. As the beams criss-crossed the cavern bottom, the princeps could see that it was covered in a strange, undulating landscape, created by angular, crystalline shafts like smoky red quartz. Drifting the gunfreighter across the wonder of the deep core cavern, the pilot-servitors searched for a landing site.

‘There.’ 31-Thermochron pointed with his claw, indicating a crystal shelf near the pitch darkness of a drop-off. The shelf jutted out from beneath the peak of a mountainous pyramid of crystal columns, reaching up into the murk of the cavern.

The pilot-servitors brought the Onus around the crystal mountain. Extending the landing gears and firing the descent thrusters, they brought the gun-freighter down gently to the shelf. Climbing down the bay ladder, the princeps watched the cargo compartment door open on its hydraulics and crash down onto the crystal, shattering it.

Using the door as a ramp, 31-Thermochron advanced, flanked by ruststalkers of the Sigmus-Sicariax. The spindly cybernetic assassins carried transonic blades in their appendage cradles.

‘Cut engines and kill lamps,’ 31-Thermochron voxed to the servitor-pilots. Moments later the landing site was plunged into a comforting darkness. The princeps listened to the silence. His equalisers had never recorded such an absence of noise. ‘Filters,’ he ordered his Sicarians, his overlays cycling through his own. In the silky green of his nightvision, the landscape of crystal columns looked like an alien world or something imagined in a fevered dream.

Then he heard it. The distant boom of an engine. Their pursuers had arrived in the cavern. In the blackness, the princeps could make out the suggestion of light coming from a canopy and descent lamps.

With the trundle of tracks, the magos aethyricus and his priests led the itinerant ark out of the cargo bay.

‘We should begin the rituals,’ the magos said grimly. ‘We can set the device up here.’

‘No,’ 31-Thermochron said. The priests glared at him. ‘Beg your pardon, my lords, but as we circled I saw a natural hollow, a minute or two that way. You can begin your rituals there.’

‘Why not here?’ one of the priests demanded.

‘Because here is where we are going to welcome our guests,’ the princeps said. ‘And I want some distance between them and your wondrous creation. The hollow looks sheltered from this side, with no line of sight.’

Listening to the princeps and his reasoning, Omnid Torquora did not object.

‘As you wish,’ the magos aethyricus said finally, not knowing if the suggestion had come from the skitarii princeps or the archmagos himself.

<Ephrok, Zulton, Koda, Altris – go with them,> the princeps ordered, motioning four of his ruststalkers to accompany the priests and the Geller bomb. <Whatever happens, you are to defend the device and see that it fulfils its god-given purpose.>

As Ephrok-7 led the column of priests and the Geller bomb into the forest of crystal columns, the princeps looked up at the approaching glimmer of lamps. Even without lights giving their location away, the ship’s augurs would eventually find them. As the only living things down in the colossal cavern, they could hardly hide their life signs from auspex sweeps. He turned to address his skitarii and the datasmith, Dynostrii.

‘We don’t have much time,’ he said, his words a modulated hiss. ‘And we have to give the priests as much time as they need. Sicarians, I need you here, amongst these columns. Keep out of sight and attack only when I give the order.’

‘What of my maniple?’ the datasmith Dynostrii asked.

‘My lord datasmith, we shall need your robots further up the shelf – out of sight also, and ready for your protocols,’ 31-Thermochron said. ‘I require your assistance, however, aboard the gunfreighter.’

As the servants of the Omnissiah went about their grim preparations, Omnid Torquora moved between the cold consciousnesses of the Sicarian ruststalkers. Each as stoic as their princeps, the spindly skitarii waited with their backs to the crystal columns lining the expanse of the shelf. Through their filtered optics, Omnid Torquora watched the craft of their pursuers close in. Closer now, its engine made a monstrous din, and its tarnished hull was patched and riveted. As it swept in with search lamps, Torquora could see that it was an Iron Warriors Thunderhawk. After they reported the descent of the gunfreighter down the deep core shaft, Idriss Krendl had no doubt ordered the Obliteratii stationed there to pursue.

With the gunship’s augur array leading it and the search lamps confirming sight of the gunfreighter on the shelf, the Thunderhawk idled around, its weapons silent. As the craft put down further up the shelf and opened its bay doors, Torquora realised how much Idriss Krendl had understood of what had been seen through his assassin’s eyes. Krendl knew that Torquora was constructing a new bomb. The warsmith wasn’t stupid. Like the tech-priest, he had seen as much of a vulnerability in the deep core mine as Torquora had seen opportunity. With the possibility of a Geller bomb on board the gunfreighter, the Iron Warriors had been careful not to blast the craft to oblivion.

Watching the Thunderhawk through one set of night-filtered optics and then another, Torquora saw the hulking Obliteratii disembark their gunship. Both revelling in and suffering from their warp-born disease, the Iron Warriors were mutated monsters that had outgrown their plate. Small mountains of unnatural brawn, their faces were twisted masks of hate. Their arms, like the rest of their dread kind, bore the curse of fleshmetal – clubs and malformed claws, from which sprouted warped weaponry.

The Iron Warriors might have been monstrosities but centuries being warped to the will of dark powers had not dulled their skills. They were Space Marines. Sons of the primarch Perturabo, war ran in their blood. It was part of their genetic inheritance. As they trudged heavily across the crystal shelf, their ancient eyes were everywhere. Though corrupted of flesh, the Iron Warriors had not lost their sense of who they had been. Their reflexes were swift for creatures of their size and their flesh-mangled weaponry was everywhere, checking every angle and opening.

From behind a crystal column, 31-Thermochron watched the Chaos Space Marines. Every second that he could buy the magos aethyricus was a precious one. With several of the Obliteratii standing about the Thunderhawk, three of their monstrous brothers approached the gunfreighter. As the princeps had calculated, their Thunderhawk’s augurs had told them that there were life signs on board – and life signs had to be investigated.

As Torquora observed the Iron Warriors, they seemed to be cautious. Even with their unnatural bulk and the curse of their weaponry, they knew they were not immortal and had a keen sense for the tactically unsound. Fortunately for Torquora, in sending them after the Mechanicus vessel, their own warsmith had placed them in an impossible situation. The gunfreighter would have to be searched. Finally ascending the ramp, their warped weapons aimed into the darkness of the vessel, two of the Iron Warriors ventured inside. The third waited on the ramp, casting a permanent squint about the forest of crystal columns.

Listening in on the onboard vox, 31-Thermochron could hear the heavy steps of the Obliteratii and the scrape of their plate against compartment walls. He could hear the fleshy thunk of weapons priming and the preparatory spin of rotor cannon barrels. 31-Thermochron was ready.

<Archmagos?>

<Proceed, princeps,> Torquora told him.

‘Go!’ 31-Thermochron ordered over the vox, his voice echoing about the interior of the gunfreighter. The pilot-servitor pushed the chunky switch that stirred the freighter’s fuel tanks.

As a tech-priest, Dynostrii had knowledge of a wide range of machinery. Although he had specialised as a member of the Legio Cybernetica, he had already spent a lifetime using his skills to maintain, rig and repair the sacred technologies of the Machine-God. Such knowledge, if applied in reverse, could compromise, irreparably damage or even destroy the selfsame technologies. At the princeps’s suggestion, he had spent precious moments aboard to engineer a catastrophic accident. Stirring the fuel tanks was the first stage in a chain reaction that moments later resulted in the gunfreighter’s engines detonating.

The crystal shelf quaked as the destruction of the Onus briefly lit the colossal cavern and sent shrapnel and shattered parts pranging off crystal hundreds of metres away. There was furious shouting from the Iron Warriors standing about the Thunderhawk, the Chaos Space Marines turning and aiming their horrific weapons all around. The unfortunate Obliterator who had been standing on the gunfreighter ramp had lost most of his hideous hunch and had landed near the crystal columns, his diseased flesh on fire. Leaning his head back, he saw 31-Thermochron edge out from behind the column before he died.

‘Now, datasmith…’ the princeps voxed.

Smashing through the columns of crystal, Dynostrii’s maniple of Kastelan robots lumbered with purpose out onto the shelf. Finding a target at last, the four Obliteratii out front were joined by a fifth grotesque Iron Warrior from within the Thunderhawk’s troop bay. Their fleshmetal answered and their spawning weaponry opened fire. Closing on the wall of robotic ceramite charging towards them, the accuracy of the Iron Warriors was astounding, with sparks showering off both the Kastelans’ refractor fields and carapace plating. Obeying the bio-plastek wafers sitting in their cranial wetware, the battle-automata carried out their datasmith’s sequence of instructions.

Unphased by the merciless gunfire of the Iron Warriors, the six Kastelan robots slammed their armoured shoulders into the side of the Thunderhawk. With such coordinated force levelled at the gunship, its landing gears slipped on the smooth surface of the shelf. Placing one crystal-shattering foot behind another, the Kastelan robots did as their doctrinal imperatives demanded. With the determination of Iron Warriors gunfire overwhelming their grid shielding and hammering off their metal hides, the maniple pushed the colossal weight of the Iron Warriors Thunderhawk towards the drop-off.

Inside the gunship, a Chaos Space Marine pilot tried desperately to fire the engines but it was too late. As the landing gears slipped from the crystal, the gunship toppled over, wing first, then the momentum dragging the rest of the Thunderhawk with it. The craft smashed down the side of the drop-off, shattering crystal and barrel-rolling into a tumble that tore off its wings. The derelict Thunderhawk, if it hadn’t been classed as that before, now plummeted through the darkness, a crumpled wreck. Seconds later it was a rancid explosion, tearing back up the drop-off from the cavern floor below.

The Iron Warriors roared their fury and disbelief, spitting the curses of their daemon primarch. With multiple weapons spawned from each disgusting appendage, the Obliteratii became small tanks, firing everything they had at the robots. Turning, with sparks dancing off their chests, the ponderous metal giants engaged their supplementary imperatives. As they did so, fat las-beams and orbs of flesh-spawned plasma slammed into them, burning through ceramite and the solid metal below.

Being closest to the Chaos Space Marines when toppling the gunship, Two Beta-Brontarius soaked up the worst of the Iron Warriors’ punishment. Faltering, the Kastelan went down on its knees, globes of plasma coring out its already demolished chest, before finally toppling forward and cracking the crystal with the impact of its heavy metal form.

Caring little about the plight of their compatriot unit, the robots of the maniple stomped on towards the Iron Warriors, their carapace-mounted incendine combustors blasting forth in unison, creating a wall of furious flame. As the Iron Warriors retreated, they riddled the firestorm with beams, bolts and bullets of their own.

<Sicarians, attack!> 31-Thermochron ordered.

Streaming out from between the crystal columns, the ruststalkers made a spindly sprint for the distracted Iron Warriors. Bringing the blur of their transonic blades to life, the skitarii trailed their weapons after them. Accelerating off powerful hydraulics mounted on the light frames of their unguligrade legs, the cybernetic soldiers slashed the Iron Warriors across their grotesque suit-bursting humps and thrust the shredding nightmare of their shivering blades into the Obliteratii’s sides.

Turning the fury of their warp-spawned weaponry on the charging skitarii, the Iron Warriors managed to blast Ghertz 777-Telecon into shattered pieces. As the ruststalkers stabbed and slashed, knocking the fleshmetal of barrels aside and elegantly dodging the spasmodic blasts of spawned weaponry, the huge power gloves of the Kastelan robots reached through the evaporating curtain of flame.

Twice as tall as even the Obliteratii, the battle-automata reached out for the Iron Warriors. One managed to grab one of the mutant Space Marines, the powerful hydraulics behind its crackling glove pulverised his shoulder. As malformed bone splintered and warped, bloody flesh spilling out between thick metal digits, the Iron Warrior bellowed his rage. Seconds later, his head was spinning off the edge of the crystal shelf as Seven Vardna-Rhondus detached it with the back of its power fist.

Batting the chunky outstretched gauntlets of the battle-automata aside with their own horrific limbs, the Chaos Space Marines instinctively assumed a defensive formation. Closing ranks, the Iron Warriors fought as one. Like a small citadel of ceramite and fortified flesh, they angled the grotesque barrels of their weapons over and between each other. Hammering the Kastelan robots with concentrated and almost continuous fire, the monsters slammed the light combat chassis of the skitarii back with their heft.

Cornered, the Iron Warriors were furious close combat fighters. Unlike the Kastelans, whose size and strength seemed to come at the protocol-processing expense of their reactions, the monstrous Obliteratii fought with frenzied speed and a trained warrior’s precision. Ducking the ponderous path of crackling power fists, the Iron Warriors hit back. With each swing of their misshapen claws they fired sub-atomic blasts of energy from barrels set in the backs of their huge hands. Knocking the skitarii back, an Obliterator blazed a las-beam through the slender, armoured torsos of not just Ultro 14-Phanti but Xann-8 Regulon who was standing behind.

As another Kastelan crashed to the crystal floor, its armoured faceplate and the synthetic cortex behind it a bullet-mauled mess, Dynostrii appeared from behind a jutting crystal pillar. Running and sliding down onto the shelf floor beside his fallen charges, the datasmith fired a particle stream of deadly radiation from his gamma pistol up into the chest of the nearest Iron Warrior. As the Chaos Space Marine fell back dead, the datasmith slammed the pistol down on the smooth floor and fell to attending to his robots.

Carving ragged gashes through an Iron Warrior’s exposed brawn with his transonic blade, 31-Thermochron had the bionic appendage holding the weapon blasted clean off by a hideous Obliterator. Experiencing the battle through the princeps’s eyes, Omnid Torquora realised moments before 31-Thermochron that the Iron Warriors had worked around to put the Kastelan robots between them and the razor-sharp shelf edge. As the archmagos transmitted a warning to the skitarii officer, 31-Thermochron called out to the automata. It was too late however, as an Iron Warrior aimed his barrels at the crystal between them and blasted part of the shelf away. The weight of the three Kastelans did the rest.

‘No!’ Dynostrii yelled, his modulated cry echoing about the cavern with the gunfire.

Suddenly, the robots were gone, tumbling down the drop-off with gigantic shards of crystal cascading about them. 31-Thermochron went to look off the new cliff edge but had to step back out of the path of 6 Autal-Sentinox, who cannoned into the Iron Warrior that had done for its compatriot units, taking both him and itself over the edge.

With his reticule following them down, the princeps – and Omnid Torquora – came to realise that they had more significant problems. When the Thunderhawk had exploded at the bottom of the drop-off, the raging inferno lit up the crystal cavern with its glare. Only now did 31-Thermochron realise that the glare had never faded. Bubbling up from the core below was the molten iron of the Abystra-Dynomicron. The daemonic core had sensed the threat of the Geller Device and was now furiously filling the cavern, its sentient metal splashing up the crystal sides with otherworldly ire.

The princeps turned to find two of the remaining Iron Warriors had broken away, while the last of them had been intercepted by Inval 7-Statica. From the hollow, 31-Thermochron could see the blazing light of the Geller Device through the forest of crystal columns. With a sea of daemonic liquid iron filling the canyon and raging up the drop-off, and the Iron Warriors charging for the baroque bomb, the princeps had no choice but to follow them.

‘My lord datasmith,’ the skitarii officer called, but Dynostrii was done. If he was to die, the tech-priest would die with his machines.

As Inval 7-Statica hacked the ghoulish spawn weaponry from the arms of the Iron Warrior with his blade, 31-Thermochron leapt on the monstrosity’s hunched back. Latching the cracking talons of his chordclaw about the Iron Warrior’s face, the princeps tore it off. As 31-Thermochron slipped off the Obliterator’s back, Inval 7-Statica butted the Iron Warrior square in the skull, knocking the abomination to the ground.

‘Go!’ the princeps ordered, sending the spindly assassin off at speed towards the hollow. Turning, 31-Thermochron saw the molten iron crash over the edge of the crystal shelf like a wave. Claiming the datasmith and his Kastelan charges, the malevolence of the liquid iron washed up the crystal towards the princeps.

<The device, Thermochron,> Omnid Torquora said. <The device must realise its purpose…>

Running through the crowded crystal columns, the princeps heard gunfire and unearthly shrieks. As he reached the hollow he saw the bodies of the magos aethyricus and his priests, gunned down by the monstrous Iron Warriors. Also there were three of his Sicarians, their armoured heads blasted from their cybernetic bodies.

The Obliteratii were dead, however. Forced back by the expanding phase-field of the Geller Device, the warped Chaos Space Marines had felt the excruciation of the Machine-God’s purifying touch. As the expanding field enveloped the corrupted Iron Warriors, Inval 7-Statica had buried his transonic blades in the back of one. The second transfixed monster had obligingly fallen to his knees and had his throat slit by Pax-60 Kriode.

Standing in the expanding field of the Geller bomb, the two Sicarian ruststalkers placed themselves between the device and the molten iron raging from the daemon core. Their weapons were useless against such an enemy but they followed their archmagos’s imperatives regardless.

<Just a few seconds more> Omnid Torquora prayed. <Omnissiah Incarnate – for the love of Your glorious workings, just a few seconds more…>

As the deluge of molten iron crashed up against the forest of crystal columns, it vaulted up into the open darkness like a scorching, infernal tsunami. Through 31-Thermochron’s optics Torquora watched the glowing malevolence of the daemonic iron rain down towards them. Behind the skitarius he heard the Geller Device achieve supercritical actuality. In the princeps’s final moments, the tech-priest felt the explosive force of scathing reality unleashed at the heart of the planet.

0111

SELECTED: DENTRICA I OF I
ENGAGE NEURAL CONGRESS – WIRELESS AUTOSHUNT ACQUIRED
UPLOADING… +THE GELLER EFFECT+

‘Screen aft,’ Omnid Torquora said as he arrived on the command deck.

‘Screen aft, aye,’ Tech-priest Captain Voltram echoed, having the pict feeds from the rear of the arkcruiser brought up on the lancet screens.

The tech-priest stomped across the bridge in his armoured suit, shaking servitor-manned runebanks as he passed. In his wake followed his hench-unit, Haldron-44 Stroika. Eating up the deck with his tracks, the destroyer waited patiently for orders. The deck priests, transmechanics and servitors might have noticed the arrival of their master on the command deck but for the apocalyptic scene that afflicted the bridge lancet screens.

The aft pict feeds showed a world undone. Like the Maestrale, Adeptus Mechanicus cruisers and frigates had broken orbit and were blazing away from Velchanos Magna at full speed. Skitarii troop carriers, forge ships, Mechanicus arkfreighters and Collegia Titanica temple barges followed in their sub-light wake. Some were leaving orbit while others, like the giga-barges and arkfreighters, had barely left the planet’s surface with their Ordinatus war machines and Titans minutes before.

Torquora’s fleet was not the only one to be leaving. With the battle-barge Forgebreaker coming up behind and Iron Warriors strike cruisers and destroyers joining the capital ship, it seemed that Idriss Krendl had given the order to abandon the Traitor forge world. Torquora could only imagine the warsmith’s fury. A powerful and productive forge world taken, contested and lost.

The tech-priest took in the catastrophic spectacle of the dying world. The Geller Device had successfully detonated at the bottom of the Ortorqus Chasma deep core mines, close to the daemonic heart of the planet. At the test detonation of the original device, the Geller effect had spread rapidly through the warp storm of the Great Gyre, imposing the stability of a fortified reality on the area and driving back the rift of immaterial intrusion.

Torquora could only hypothesise that detonating the Geller bomb within the confines of a planet had delayed or contained the effect. Surveying the dreadful demise of Velchanos Magna, the archmagos did not believe that such containment would last long. The planet was turning itself inside out.

Quakes and chasms were visible, even from the void. Huge swaths of the planet’s surface – its twisted industriascape, its forge temples devoted to otherworldly entities and the cratered wastelands across which the servants of the Adeptus Mechanicus and the Dark Mechanicum had fought – were gone. At the core of the planet there was an elemental battle for supremacy, with the irresistible force of the Geller effect asserting its reality over the infernal presence of the mighty daemon. The entity had indeed been powerful but could not hope to survive the explosive intensity of an expanding bubble of reality opening up within its very core.

The seething, thrashing, hissing iron had raged up the walls of the great chasm that ran like a scar across the forge world’s surface. Swallowing the shipyards whole, with vessels under construction and daemonships blessed in its name, the Abystra-Dynomicron broke its banks. Crashing across heretek forge temples, the mighty factory complexes and production centres, the daemon submerged the world that had worshipped it in a hellish flood of molten metal.

Unlike the Iron Warriors, the priests and corrupt constructs of the Dark Mechanicum – who had served the daemon as they served themselves – remained to become one with the apocalyptic deluge of liquid metal. They gathered in the freightways, about the forge temples and on the banks of the furnace channels that criss-crossed the planet. They waited for their literal baptism of fire. Iron returning to cursed iron. Hoping to be reborn in the aspect of some daemon engine – powerful, infernal and forever. They did not know their world was dying and they were to die with it.

As the arkcruiser Maestrale surged away from the fallen forge world, its Adeptus Mechanicus fleet blazing behind it, Velchanos Magna glowed the rancid yellow of molten iron. Its daemonic core had spewed out onto the surface of the planet, covering the forge world in an endless ocean of liquid metal. Then suddenly the raging, spitting fury of the molten iron stopped. Omnid Torquora watched as Velchanos Magna cooled in an instant, the furious radiance dimming to the dull grey of a solid metal surface.

‘By all that is holy and true,’ Tech-priest Captain Voltram said. ‘Archmagos, what is happening?’

‘The daemonic entity that possessed the heart of the forge world is banished,’ Omnid Torquora said. As the tech-priest watched, glowing cracks began to rip through the iron shell of the planet’s surface. Splits and rents worked their way across the planet, joining one another. The iron surface was shattering, like the shell of an egg.

‘We may yet pay for our victory,’ Torquora said, his mind and supercogitators whirling with equations, possibilities and probabilities. ‘We’ll never reach the Mandeville point.’

‘My lord…’ the tech-priest captain said.

Velchanos Magna glowed once more. The tessellated insanity of the crumbling metal surface blazed to intensity.

‘Brace for impact,’ Torquora said. ‘Captain!’

Voltram opened a channel across all decks of the Maestrale, patching through to the trailing vessels of the Adeptus Mechanicus fleet.

‘Brace for impact, I repeat, brace for impact!’

And then, the forge world exploded.

The aft pict feeds died and the bridge lancet screen sizzled with static before failing entirely. The blackness of the void intruded once more on the bridge, blindingly deep and dark after the infernal glare of Velchanos Magna.

Standing next to the pulpit rail, Torquora reached out with one of his suit’s great hydraulic claws. As he locked it to the thick metal balustrade, the impact hit. The detonation of the bomb and the spreading intensity of the Geller effect would be denied no more. Thrown violently forward, Torquora smashed the clinker-plated hood of his suit on a nearby runebank, caving in the side of the instrumentation. A quake ripped through the arkcruiser, throwing every construct on board forward and back. The decks, walls and superstructure of the vessel trembled as the Geller shockwave passed through it.

As it began to die away, the tech-priest was thrown away from the rail and then back at it as something else hit the Maestrale. Not a blast wave, or an expanding bubble of reality finding violent realisation. Something had physically struck the ship.

With his hydraulic claw still anchored to the pulpit rail but the battered rail itself coming away in his grip, Omnid Torquora staggered across the rumbling command deck in his armoured suit.

‘Stroika-unit?’ the archmagos shouted, turning his suit about. He found that the destroyer had used his tracks to brace his armoured form between two consoles. Torquora looked around. ‘Tech-priest Captain?’

Voltram didn’t answer.

The command deck was bathed in the red of emergency lighting. Klaxons on different decks competed for shrieking supremacy. Banks and consoles were fountaining sparks while instrumentation had fallen from the bridge ceiling, hanging by wires and cables. Most of the runescreens were blank. Hololithic displays projected a miasma of static. The chamber was laced with an acrid smoke and small fires had broken out.

Surveying the ravaged command deck, Torquora found that many of the bridge servitors had been torn from their interface podiums. Deck priests stumbled amid the wreckage of their consoles and runebanks.

‘Voltram,’ Torquora called.

‘Here, archmagos,’ the tech-priest captain said, pulling himself up past his demolished throne and hobbling along what was left of the pulpit rail for support. He held the smashed and sparking bionics of a single arm to his chest.

‘Deck priests,’ Torquora said, ‘to your stations. Status reports. We need to know how badly we’re damaged.’

‘Enginseers to the bridge!’ the tech-priest captain called across the vox.

As the archmagos looked up at the bridge lancet windows, he saw colossal chunks of planetary rock drifting past the ship. Since the Maestrale had been maintaining maximum sub-light speed, Torquora reasoned, the giant fragments of rock must have been blasted through space even faster. The entire planet had detonated in one apocalyptic burst, sending pieces of the doomed forge world rocketing in all directions. The tech-priest calculated that it was most likely that the arkcruiser had been struck by such a piece of planetary debris.

That was until he saw what else was surging ahead of them. Tumbling through space along with the colossal fragments of Velchanos Magna were derelict vessels and demolished sections of ships that had been ripped apart. Examining the damage, the glowing hot metal of shattered decks, the trailing debris and bodies, it was difficult to say what had caused the ships’ destruction. It could have been the blast wave of the Geller effect. The ships could have been struck by gigantic chunks of rock or by other vessels caught in the force of the detonating planet. It was entirely possible that the Maestrale had been hit by the mangled section of an Adeptus Mechanicus ship that was drifting past them now.

‘Tech-priest Captain Voltram,’ Torquora said across the smashed bridge. ‘Establish communications with the other vessels of the fleet.’ Looking back at the demolished section tumbling ahead of the Maestrale, it could have belonged to any of them.

The next few minutes were filled with doubt and confusion. Enginseers and maintenance servitors appeared on the bridge, working to get the runebanks and consoles on the command deck operational. Damage reports from the lower decks revealed that augur arrays had been knocked out by the Geller blast wave and the Maestrale’s starboard cannon batteries had been smashed by the colossal impact the arkcruiser had suffered. Sections of the vessel had lost pressure, atmosphere and gravity, forcing the priests present to lock off the evacuating sections – abandoning the crew trapped beyond. As cracked runescreens and hololithic displays returned, as well as the tactical overlays that warped and crackled over the lancet windows, data began to flood in.

‘What about the engines?’ Torquora demanded of Tech-priest Captain Voltram and the chief enginseer, who was on a vox-channel in the engineering section.

‘Minor damage to the sub-light engines, archmagos,’ Chief Enginseer Zertec crackled over the vox, his voice a harsh, metallic reverberation. ‘The warp drive will need tests and diagnostics to ascertain the degree of shockwave trauma.’

‘That’s not acceptable,’ Torquora told him. ‘This fleet needs to translate into the warp. Our very survival might depend upon it.’

‘My lord,’ Zertec said across the vox, ‘forgive me if I have not been clear. I am not stating that the warp engines are damaged. I’m saying we will only know the extent of any damage suffered upon their engagement.’

Stomping about the decimated command deck, with servitors and priests swarming about him and the shattered instrumentation, Torquora shook his head.

‘Have your priests begin their rituals, enginseer,’ the archmagos said. ‘The Navigator is working on the aethyrical solutions as we speak. Upon reaching the edge of the system, we will be engaging the warp drives, Omnissiah help us. We have no choice. Torquora out.’

‘I have collated the data you asked for,’ Tech-priest Captain Voltram said from his pulpit, snatching a length of vellum from a subordinate tech-priest.

‘Which vessels haven’t called in?’ Torquora demanded.

‘The forge tender Dentric,’ the tech-priest captain told him, ‘the temple barge Ultimatum – with the loss of three holy god-machines, the arkfreighter Misericordia, the arkcruiser Omnissian Pride, arkcruiser Irradial, the troop carrier Adamantiq and the Deus Conduis – I don’t know about the forge ship. At the very least, the tech-priest captain reports critical damage to her drives. I think we’re going to have to leave her behind.’

It was a horrific list of losses. Torquora looked up at the warping lancet screen overlays.

‘Aft screens,’ the archmagos ordered. ‘Anything the pict feeds can manage.’

As the screen crackled to a fuzzy vision of the destruction behind the fleeing Maestrale, Torquora saw that the forge world was gone. The Geller bomb had not just blasted some section of the planet into space. Velchanos Magna had been utterly blown apart, its legacy a lethal rock storm of tumbling boulders and ship-smashing fragments.

Behind the Maestrale, Torquora could see what remained of the Adeptus Mechanicus fleet, barely keeping pace with the flagship. Horrifically impact-scarred arkcruisers. Bulk freighters pushing their damaged engines to the limit. Frigates with shattered containment, trailing deadly energies and irradiating their crews. Troop carriers limping on through the void.

And behind the remains of the fleet, Torquora could see the smashed Iron Warriors flotilla. While Space Marine vessels were built to withstand everything the galaxy could throw at them, the strike cruisers were ancient and the Iron Warriors had been closer to the planetary detonation. Torquora noted that the Chaos Space Marines had lost a number of their own vessels and were leaving the daemonships and the damaged craft of many of their twisted Dark Mechanicum allies to the wrath of the forge world’s streaming debris.

Amongst the rusted belligerence of the Iron Warriors flotilla, Torquora watched the battle-barge Forgebreaker smash her way between two heavily armed Dark Mechanicum freighters. The ships were all ornamental spikes and monstrous, ill-fitting weaponry. Peeling away from the battle-barge, one ran afoul of a black Dark Mechanicum cruiser. The Forgebreaker actually struck the second, caving in the freighter’s armoured flank as it barged its way to the front of the flotilla. The mighty hammer-shaped prow and shock-absorbing macro-hydraulics had already claimed their first victim – the Misericordia, whose wreckage still trailed from the battle-barge’s mighty reinforced ram.

‘She’s gaining,’ Tech-priest Captain Voltram told Torquora. ‘She shouldn’t be that fast. Especially considering her age. I don’t know what those Iron Warriors have done with the engine column – perhaps something to give extra thrust to the ram – but she means to have us.’

‘She’ll catch us?’

‘Well before the system’s edge,’ Voltram admitted grimly. He ordered the hololithic overlays changed to forward pict feeds. ‘And then there’s this,’ the tech-priest captain said, increasing the magnification.

Torquora didn’t need the ship’s augurs to tell him what he was looking at. The Dark Mechanicum fleet from Satzica Secundus. Thirty tainted vessels carrying the corrupted constructs of Torquora’s home world between the insanity of their decks. Presenting the cannon batteries of their starboard flanks, the Dark Mechanicum reinforcements were running down on the Maestrale and its rag-tag train of vessels, accelerating to cut the Adeptus Mechanicus ships off before they reached the Mandeville point. Out in front, Torquora could see the heretekal magnificence of the Ark Mechanicus Encoronada, the flagship a grotesquely augmented abomination.

‘Archmagos, what are your orders?’ the tech-priest captain put to him.

Torquora’s withered lip curled into a snarl. As a priest of the Adeptus Mechanicus, he had long attempted to purge himself of superfluous sentiment and emotion. While the logic coils of his supercogitators and runebanks wrangled with the nightmarish predicament, he felt the hot grip of inevitability squeeze the heart that still beat beneath his ancient flesh. A fury ate away at him, burning to be acknowledged. He had destroyed the Abystra-Dynomicron that polluted Velchanos Magna with its presence. He had destroyed the Traitor forge world and its millions of corrupted denizens along with it. Like Idriss Krendl, however, he had paid for such victories. And, blazing up behind the Maestrale, the warsmith intended Torquora to pay the ultimate price.

While Omnid Torquora battled with emotions and drives of the flesh that his priesthood had long abandoned, the archmagos could not help but take some consolation in the fact that his enemy would be doing the same. Torquora imagined Idriss Krendl’s bitter fury. Velchanos Magna, its armies of warped constructs and the incalculable worth of its dark industry, lost to the warsmith forever. Torquora could feel the Iron Warrior’s desire for revenge in the cavalier handling of the ancient battle-barge and the blazing ire of the Forgebreaker’s engines, pushed beyond the sane extent of their capabilities. Torquora knew that Idriss Krendl would stop at nothing to run down and destroy him and his fleet. That the warsmith and his Iron Warriors, who had plagued the galaxy for thousands of years, would hunt him down, destroy him and all true constructs that stood with him.

As Torquora contemplated Krendl, the warsmith out of his mind with rage and the cold desire for swift vengeance, the archmagos began to wonder how such a weakness might be exploited. With the thought helping to calm the thud of his own heart in his wizened chest, Torquora answered the tech-priest captain’s question.

‘We will look to our allies,’ the tech-priest told him.

‘Our allies, my lord?’

‘Those among our enemies that we can count upon,’ Torquora said, ‘to be predictable and consistent. Something that we ourselves shall not be. Contact the ship’s Navigator. Have him transmit his aethyrical solutions and the location of our rendezvous to the rest of the fleet. The tech-priest captains will need that information now, since we won’t be with them to provide it.’

‘We won’t, archmagos?’ Voltram asked carefully.

‘Calm yourself, captain,’ Torquora said. ‘I do not intend to take the Maestrale on a suicide run.’

‘I think I speak for all servants of the Omnissiah on this ship when I tell you that is a relief, sir.’

‘I only want it to appear that way,’ Torquora told him. Before the tech-priest captain had time to process what he was saying, the archmagos asked, ‘Status report: what is our offensive disposition?’

‘Of our principal weaponry, the prow nova cannon awaits your orders,’ Voltram said. ‘The macrocannons of the portside battery are primed and ready to engage. The starboard battery is inoperative, with only the forward sections even able to fire.’

Torquora nodded his cadaverous head inside the folds of his hood, his optics a pair of furious red dots burning within.

‘Shielding?’

‘Void shields currently operating at sixty-three per cent,’ the tech-priest captain informed him, ‘although I cannot guarantee how long that will last. Enginseers report shield generator integrity as fragile.’

Torquora wasn’t surprised. The arkcruiser’s shielding had ultimately saved the lives of those on board, but the planetary detonation and blast wave had taken their toll nonetheless.

‘Force disposition?’

‘That data is still coming from the lower decks,’ Voltram admitted. ‘Medicae and maintenance sections report large numbers of damaged and injured.’

‘Best estimate?’ Torquora pressed.

‘The ship’s complement of skitarii sentinels and boarding servitors, down twenty per cent,’ the tech-priest captain said. ‘Plus the manifest records battle-automata of the Krondyne Zeta Second, Third and Eighth Maniples, and a skitarii cohort evacuated from the forge world surface – the Oriak Scintillians IV Column, under the command of Primus Vintegar-4 Phobal. There are, of course, two to three hundred priests who could abandon their stations and take up arms in the name of the Omnissiah.’

‘Have our forces assembled, ready to repel borders on the starboard gun decks,’ Torquora said.

‘What about the port batteries?’ the tech-priest captain asked.

‘Deck priests and servitor crews only,’ the archmagos said. ‘We shall only be engaging with our port batteries, not fighting there. Any sane captain would try to board from the poorly protected flank without fear of a broadside waiting for them. It’s a veritable invitation.’

‘Invitation, my lord?’ Voltram said.

‘The Iron Warriors will board this vessel, have no doubt of that, captain,’ Torquora said.

‘Not if I can help it, sir.’

‘Where and when that happens,’ Torquora told him, ‘is about the only thing we get to decide. Inform the other captains that we will be breaking off from the fleet.’

‘How do you know the Iron Warriors will follow us?’ Voltram asked.

‘They’ll follow us,’ Torquora assured him, thinking of Idriss Krendl snarling on the bridge of the monstrous battle-barge. ‘We’ll give them no choice. Once we change course, have the tech-priest captains make a run for the Mandeville point. They are not to assist us. They are not to wait for us. The fleet needs to translate into the warp as soon as possible. Make sure they understand.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Now,’ Omnid Torquora said. ‘The Iron Warriors led us into a trap in building and testing the Geller Device. Let’s see if we can’t entice our enemies and spring a trap of our own.’

1000

SELECTED: DENTRICA I OF I
ENGAGE NEURAL CONGRESS – WIRELESS AUTOSHUNT ACQUIRED
UPLOADING… +NECESSITY BEGETS INVENTION+

With Velchanos Magna gone, the system was the haunt of green gas giants and rocky outliers. As the Maestrale banked, taking a new course around the bulging belt of the system’s largest planet, the rest of the ragtag fleet of Adeptus Mechanicus vessels held their trajectory, negotiating the disruption of the gas giant’s minor ring system and body of icy moons. While the giant seemed plain and serene from a distance, storms of hundreds of kilometres an hour raged in the green maelstrom below. Flashes streaked across the surface of the gas giant, as rocketing planetary fragments the size of spacecraft tumbled in the green monster’s gravitational embrace.

As the Forgebreaker maintained the incredible sub-light demands of ramming speed and holding course, tense minutes passed. Torquora held his breath and counted. His optic overlays danced with headings, trajectories, times and distances.

‘And… now, Captain Voltram,’ the archmagos said.

‘Cut power to engines,’ Voltram ordered. ‘Fire braking thrusters, quarter burn.’

Suddenly the blaze of the arkcruiser’s engines died – a sign that was not lost on the Iron Warriors aboard the Forgebreaker. The Maestrale drifted and slowed while the battle-barge thundered on, showing no such signs of decreasing speed.

‘She’s coming around,’ Torquora said, watching the battle-barge pitch into a turn, following the Adeptus Mechanicus vessel around the gas giant. With any good fortune, Torquora hoped, the flotilla of Iron Warriors vessels would follow them.

‘She’s going to try to ram us,’ Voltram said, watching the Iron Warriors battle-barge grow in size on the aft screens.

‘Come on, come on…’ Torquora mumbled to himself, his overlays sizzling with diagrammatical data and spooling equations. For an age it seemed as though the arkcruiser wasn’t going to stop at all. The Forgebreaker surged on like a juggernaut, its hammer prow filling the aft screen.

‘Archmagos…’

‘Not yet,’ Torquora said, his supercogitator scrolling a cascade of numbers down before his eyes. Too soon and Krendl would have time to correct his course. Too late, as the tech-priest captain feared, and it would break the arkcruiser in two. ‘Not yet…’

‘My lord, we must–’

‘Braking thrusters, full burn,’ Torquora ordered.

The Maestrale’s thrusters, usually only employed for braking and docking manoeuvres, flared. The arkcruiser was huge, but at a standstill in the blackness of space, the thrusters began to gain traction.

The bridge collision alarms began to ring once more. Hoping against hope that his calculations were accurate, Torquora could only wait as the colossal battle-barge surged up the side of the arkcruiser. With the thrusters at full burn, the Adeptus Mechanicus ship edged backwards with glacial speed, drifting with inertial silkiness out of the ramming path of the Forgebreaker.

‘Prepare for collision,’ Torquora said.

The tech-priest captain’s voice crackled across the arkcruiser’s decks: ‘All hands, prepare for collision.’

As the Iron Warriors realised that they had missed their slowly reversing target, they fired, braking thrusters of their own. It was too late, however. The Forgebreaker was going too fast. In preparation for the ramming action, the Obliteratii cult serfs, servitors and automata making up the gun crews were unprepared and missed their opportunity to fire on the arkcruiser. Since he had engineered his own opportunity, however, Torquora certainly wasn’t going to miss it.

As the hammerhead ram of the Forgebreaker clipped the prow of the reversing Maestrale, deck priests and servitors were thrown to one side. The glancing strike smashed the baroque ornamentation of the prow, shattering the superstructure and deck braces at the arkcruiser’s bow. Torquora felt the impact buck through the vessel. Like the deck priests and servitors, he was dragged to one side, the great metal boots of his armoured suit sliding across the deck as he steadied himself with a hydraulic claw.

The angles shortened and the digits marking distance on Torquora’s overlays dropped. With the prow batted around by the oncoming force of the battle-barge, the arkcruiser’s portside cannon batteries were thrown towards the side of the Forgebreaker. Torquora’s overlays flashed with urgency.

‘As one,’ Torquora said. The tech-priest captain nodded.

‘Portside gun decks,’ Voltram voxed across the ship. ‘Fire!’

Torquora felt the Maestrale quake with the synchronised blast of macrocannon. Explosive cannon fire ripped through the side of the battle-barge at point-blank range. More collision alarms sounded across the command deck as the Maestrale and the Forgebreaker almost smashed into one another. With the force of the broadside pushing the arkcruiser away and the impact on the prow still turning her away from the battle-barge, the Maestrale fell clear.

The Iron Warriors battle-barge surged on, the momentum of its ramming run carrying it at speed towards the green gas giant. Its starboard gun batteries were a devastated mess of mangled architecture and internal explosions still ripping through the decks. Trailing debris and the obliterated bodies of gun crews, the Forgebreaker initiated a full burn of its own braking thrusters.

Riding out the turn, the Maestrale’s prow came around and the arkcruiser found itself facing the oncoming flotilla of Iron Warriors vessels. While some of the Chaos Space Marine craft had been intent on running down the fleeing Adeptus Mechanicus fleet, now they turned to support their warsmith.

‘Nova cannon,’ Torquora ordered, ‘as you bear.’

‘Prow crews, prime gravimetrics,’ the tech-priest captain voxed. ‘Fire cannon.’

Torquora watched the blazing shell stream away from the Maestrale heading straight for the Iron Warriors’ lead strike cruiser, an ancient vessel of fortified plating and architectural crenellations. Moments after the arkcruiser fired, the strike cruiser did likewise, its colossal bombardment cannon blasting a magma bomb in return.

‘Intensify forward void shields,’ Torquora ordered.

As the nova warhead hit the strike cruiser’s shielding, the vessel was enveloped in a crackling plasma storm. The furious detonation reached about the front of the craft, sending shockwaves through the cruiser’s void shields. As the blazing explosion faded, the ship’s defensive fields collapsed.

‘Brace!’ Torquora said, with Voltram echoing the order across the vox-channels.

As the magma bomb hit the Maestrale, a pulse ran through the void shields. The void was bleached to an infernal brilliance as the explosion ravaged the defensive fields.

‘Void shield integrity at forty-two per cent,’ a deck priest announced. ‘Twenty-seven per cent… Eleven per cent.’

As the void shields failed, the last gasp of the magma bomb’s raging destruction washed over the Maestrale’s prow, scorching hull plating and melting vane-sensors. Torquora was still running numbers and flashing trajectories across his overlays. For the tech-priest the battle would be won and lost with numbers – not fury.

‘Sub-light engines, full power,’ Torquora said. ‘Everything this venerable vessel can give us.’

With her prow still coming around, the Maestrale’s blinding engines fired.

‘Portside cannon batteries, prime your weapons,’ Torquora ordered. As the macrocannon-bristling flank of the arkcruiser drifted to presentation, squat Iron Warriors escorts fired torpedoes at the Adeptus Mechanicus vessel.

With his overlays plotting the course of the torpedoes, Torquora stepped towards the lancet windows.

‘They’re going to miss,’ the tech-priest announced confidently. He turned his great suit around to regard Voltram, who was standing at his half-demolished pulpit rail. ‘As long as we maintain our speed.’ Voltram nodded. ‘Tech-priest Captain,’ Torquora told him. ‘You may order your gun crews to fire as they bear.’

One by one the macrocannons of the portside batteries blasted shots at the oncoming Iron Warriors destroyers. Several flashed off the vessels’ shielding, creating ripples in their defensive fields. One shot smashed into the unshielded side of the leading strike cruiser, mauling the craft’s ancient hull plating. Most of the cannon blasts found nothing but the blackness of the void, but they had at least thrown the flotilla into confusion. Obliteratii captains ordered course changes this way and that – some to follow their flagship, others to run down the fleeing Adeptus Mechanicus fleet, while others still employed evasive manoeuvres to prevent their vessels cruising straight into the Maestrale’s waiting broadside.

‘Archmagos?’ Tech-priest Captain Voltram said.

‘Make for the Mandeville point,’ Torquora replied. ‘Best possible speed.’

As time slipped away, the arkcruiser raced through the black silkiness of space. The Mandeville point on the system edge had never seemed so far. The bridge fell silent, nobody needing or wishing to speak for a while. The distant rumble of the Maestrale’s mighty sub-light engines felt like a comfort, as though the blazing columns spoke the word of the Omnissiah in their raging thunder.

Coming around the gas giant, the Maestrale negotiated the planet’s crowded system of icy moons. The Iron Warriors flotilla had rallied and were now running down on the arkcruiser with some semblance of seething discipline. Their manoeuvres had cost them, however, and beyond the optimistic launch of a torpedo, Torquora was confident that the Maestrale could now outrun them.

What concerned the archmagos more was the Dark Mechanicum fleet from Satzica Secundus. Holding on the edge of the system, undoubtedly as Idriss Krendl had ordered, the Ark Mechanicus Encoronada was on the move, attempting to cut off the escaping Adeptus Mechanicus ships. From Torquora’s calculations, it was going to be close. Once at the Mandeville point, the vessels could engage their warp engines and flee the system. Before that, though, the procession of rancid ships and twisted baroque behemoths presented a wall of cannons that they intended on putting between the Adeptus Mechanicus and the freedom of the warp.

‘She’s back,’ Tech-priest Captain Voltram announced.

The lancet screens showed the blazing trail of a warship surging around the green gas giant. With the intense friction of the manoeuvre wreathing the battle-barge in flames, the Forgebreaker streaked around the colossal planet, using the gravitational pull of the giant to slingshot out towards the system rim with the extra speed required to catch the Maestrale.

Torquora nodded to himself.

‘Necessity begets invention,’ he told Voltram.

‘They have us?’ the tech-priest captain asked.

‘They have us,’ the archmagos confirmed, his overlays extending the Forgebreaker’s course at present speed. ‘But at least they have us on our starboard side. Vox Primus Phobal: tell him that a boarding action is imminent and to ready our resistance.’

‘Yes, my lord. Would you like me to initiate evasive manoeuvres?’

Torquora looked from the searing progress of the Iron Warriors battle-barge, rounding the planet like a fireball, to the distant fleet of Dark Mechanicum cruisers attempting to cut the remains of the Adeptus Mechanicus off. His supercogitator hummed with the possibilities.

‘No,’ Torquora said. ‘Correct course, point zero, zero, two. Maintain orientation.’

‘That takes us towards the enemy battle-barge,’ Voltram warned.

‘But away from the Encoronada,’ the tech-priest said. ‘I don’t much relish the idea of falling under the mighty guns of an Ark Mechanicus. I wager our chances of survival would be better running down on some of the smaller cruisers further down the line.’

‘And the battle-barge, my lord?’

‘We’re going to grapple it,’ Torquora said.

‘We’re going to board the enemy vessel, my lord?’

‘Praise the Omnissiah, no,’ Torquora said. ‘That would be suicide. They’re Iron Warriors. We’re going to grapple with the battle-barge and let the Iron Warriors board – which is what they are going to attempt anyway. Let’s not disillusion them.’

‘My lord?’

Torquora turned his armoured suit around.

‘Captain Voltram,’ the tech-priest said, approaching the pulpit. ‘The only way this ship is going to make it through the Dark Mechanicum blockade is grappled to an enemy ship. Ensnared with the Iron Warriors, the Dark Mechanicum fleet won’t be able to fire on us without hitting their new allies – and I don’t think that they are going to do that.’

The tech-priest captain nodded his hood in silent agreement.

‘Captain Voltram, the bridge is yours,’ Omnid Torquora said. ‘Keep your vox-channels open. If you need me, I’ll be on the starboard gun deck with Primus Phobal and his men.’

‘Wouldn’t you rather remain here on the command deck, archmagos?’ Voltram asked.

Taking thudding steps towards the bridge elevators in his armoured suit, Torquora paused to consider the captain’s question. ‘No. We’ll buy you as much time as we can. As soon as you reach the Mandeville point, have the Navigator input the aethyric solutions and translate into the warp.’

‘Yes, archmagos,’ Tech-priest Captain Voltram said.

Torquora looked at the monstrous machine form of Haldron-44 Stroika waiting nearby, his tracks and heavy weaponry at the ready.

‘Stroika-unit,’ Torquora said. ‘With me.’

1001

SELECTED: DENTRICA I OF III
ENGAGE NEURAL CONGRESS – WIRELESS AUTOSHUNT ACQUIRED
UPLOADING… +HONOUR YOUR IRON+

As Omnid Torquora and Haldron-44 Stroika made their way down the passageways of the arkcruiser, the destroyer’s heavy tracks chewing up the decking and the tech-priest’s steps a punctuating boom, the boarding klaxons went off. With the shrieking alarms and the sodium lamps flashing the vessel’s state of emergency, Torquora’s vox-channel crackled to life.

‘The battle-barge is drawing level, my lord,’ Tech-priest Captain Voltram told him. The tech-priest found it within himself to feel sympathy for the captain. Up on the command deck, with pict-streamed views of the closing Forgebreaker, the atmosphere would be tense. The hammerhead prow drawing closer, metre by agonising metre. The tarnished expanse of rivets and plating. The gaping batteries of cannons.

‘She’s engaged her tractor fields and magnetic locks,’ Voltram informed him.

‘Engage ours,’ Torquora said. ‘Any power signatures from their cannonry?’

‘None, my lord.’

‘Then they certainly mean to board us,’ the archmagos said. ‘They are the Iron Warriors. They were famed siegemasters, even before their fall to darkness.’

‘Well, from here, it appears they certainly aim to lay siege to this ship,’ Voltram said.

‘What about the fleet?’ Torquora asked.

‘All of our vessels are clear of the system,’ the tech-priest captain informed him. ‘The last of them is translating to the warp as we speak.’

‘Praise the Omnissiah,’ Torquora said.

‘Aye,’ Voltram replied. ‘Thricefold. We can only hope He shines a little of His light on the darkness facing us. We’re running up on the Dark Mechanicum fleet’s line of battle… With no void shields.’

‘No shields?’

‘The chief enginseer and his diagnostic conclave are still working on it, archmagos.’

‘It won’t matter,’ the tech-priest told Voltram. ‘The Satzican priests will not open fire on the Iron Warriors – not in the heat of battle where intentions and allegiances can be misunderstood. That’s why we have to keep them close.’

‘They’re certainly close,’ Voltram assured him. ‘It looks like they’re preparing boarding torpedoes – and just about everything else they can throw at us.’

‘We’ll be ready for them.’

‘Engaging tractor fields and magnetic locks now,’ Voltram said.

‘Torquora out.’

Stomping out on the cavernous length of the starboard gun deck, Omnid Torquora took in the scene. The hull and port enclosures were a mangled mess of twisted plating and collision damage from where the Maestrale had been struck. The phase fields, at least, seemed to be holding, maintaining pressure, temperature, atmosphere and gravity on the gun decks. Without the crackling energy screens, the great macrocannons sat in their recoil railings could not run out and fire without compromising the integrity of the ship. The cannons sat amongst mangled rails and shattered decking where the collision had torn along the starboard side of the arkcruiser, decimating the cannon batteries.

The expanse of the long gun deck was still covered with fat power cables, powerlifters and ordnance-hauling tractors. The deck priests and servitor gun crews were amongst the sea of constructs assembled there. Standing on the giant ruin of a mangled macrocannon was Alpha Primus Vintegar-4 Phobal. The skitarii officer stood in his battered war-plate and cog-plumed helm, the air about him almost shimmering and sizzling with radiation from Phobal’s long service with cohorts of skitarii vanguard. His rad-censer crackled furiously as he spoke, overlaying his modulated voice with a background static.

Sub-alphas stood about him, their gauntlets resting on the radium pistols in their belt holsters. At the foot of the smashed cannon, officers of the ship-bound skitarii sentinels took their place also. Sacrificing overall command to the alpha primus, who would lead the defence against the boarding action, their sentinels mixed with cybernetic soldiers of Phobal’s own Oriak Scintillians – a veteran construct-cohort that had seen a half a year’s worth of action against the enemy on the surface of Velchanos Magna. Their numbers were made up of battle-scarred vanguard veterans, rifle-toting rangers and spindly Sicarians.

Magi reductor and senior deck priests hovered nearby in their robes and optic-lit hoods, lending the primus unspoken authority among their own combat-servitors and drafted deck crews. Towering above the small army were ballistarii gunners, mounted on servitor-interfaced Ironstrider engines, and Kastelan battle-automata of the Krondyne Zeta standing silently with their datasmiths.

As the skitarii parted to admit the deck-thumping arrival of Omnid Torquora, with Stroika his track-trundling shadow, the tech-priest saw the monstrous Forgebreaker. Through the sizzling phase-field screens of the gun deck, the Chaos Space Marine battle-barge loomed. Drawing closer. Gun deck to gun deck.

Enhancing focus with his optics and his overlays pict-magnifying the terrible vision, Torquora could just make out the monstrous assembly taking place opposite. Legionary thrall-serfs. Grotesquely corrupted servitors. Daemon engines. Monstrously-augmented cybernetic shock troops and possessed battle-automata. All of the dread constructs and twisted bionic blessings the Dark Mechanicum hereteks of Velchanos Magna could provide. Moving through the machine madness and code-shrieking corruption were the hulking forms of the Iron Warriors. Their embedded plate, the curse of their fleshmetal and their obscene weaponry made them appear like warp-crafted Dreadnoughts or tanks.

<Archmagos,> Primus Phobal said, breaking off from his instructions. <You honour us with your presence but surely your place is on the bridge with the captain. There is no construct here who would not rather lay down his life and sacrifice the sanctity of his augmentation than see an archmagos of the Adeptus Mechanicus come to harm at the hands of an enemy of Mars.>

Torquora bowed his head within his hood, dimming his optics in respect. He turned the towering breadth of his armoured suit around to address the small army of skitarii, servitors and priests gathered on the gun deck.

‘It is you that honour me,’ the tech-priest told them. ‘With your words, your thoughts and deeds. With every cog, servo and piston. With every beat of your indomitable hearts and every drop of precious blood.’

He knew that the servants of the Omnissiah did not require speeches. They had imperatives, protocols and canticles. They were part of the great Martian machine, extending through the galaxy. An automated empire. A civilisation cybernetic. And yet, as well as living technological wonders driven on by the spark of the Motive Force, they were also men. Somewhere beneath their augmentation and bionic gifts, they were all beings of flesh: mortal, fallible and flawed. While the iron of their workings might endure without reason, without question – it was the flesh that responded to inspiration. As a priest of the Adeptus Mechanicus, he spoke the word of the Machine-God. Power ran through their automotive systems and data through their processors. The least Torquora thought he could do was put fire in their bellies and hope in the hearts of men who had sacrificed so much of their flesh already for the Great Maker.

‘I have experienced the wars of the Omnissiah through your discipline, your endurance and the final moments of your lives,’ Torquora said. ‘It has been a privilege to have been the Machine-God’s emissary – to have been the conduit through which construct and Maker could meet. To have been the answer to your questions and the question to your answers.

‘I have done this from this very vessel, while the Machine-God’s servants found service in sacrifice and battles won and lost. Now war has come to this hallowed ship. The consecrated iron of one of the Omnissiah’s technological wonders. I will not – I cannot – fight this battle through the perils, the deeds and the workings of another. I make this stand with you – side by side with you – with my own flesh and blessings of the Great Maker to lose.

‘Traitors come to claim our iron. The iron that flows red through our veins. That lends our limbs and weapons strength. That forms the plate that protects us from bolt, beam and the hostile void. Blessed iron that sits pure in the rock and dirt of forge worlds we call our own. They call themselves the Warriors of Iron but they know nothing of its true value. We celebrate iron as a medium through which man and god might become one. It is holy. It is the Omnissiah’s strength, taken into our bodies. Where we break, iron makes us whole. Iron makes us more. We fuse iron to our flesh in the sacred act of interface, so that we might someday transcend the frailties of mortality and serve the Machine-God beyond our years. Through iron we become part of forever.

‘The abominate wretches that come for us serve no one but themselves. They are hereteks and monsters. Engineered angels who have sold their souls to bidders from the beyond. To the untrue and aberrant entities of the warp, whose prophets twisted them with lies longed for by the heart and for which their ears were ready. Brutes who live to indulge their appetites, who war without reason and live for death alone. They honour only what iron can do for them. They enslave it to their purpose and consider themselves its master. In their state of degenerate corruption they have turned their grotesque bodies into forges no less heretekal than those we have destroyed in the Machine-God’s name. Temples warped of purpose. Flesh from which proceeds an iron unholy and untrue. Weapons without spirit. An affliction from which we shall release them, granting death to those who come here in search of it.

‘So this is what your Maker asks of you. To endure. To honour your iron. To punish those who pervert the purity of its purpose. To end all that is not part of the Machine-God’s great design. I will stand with you. Fight with you. Die with you, if necessary, to see the blessed Omnissiah’s will be done. I ask you to do the same.’

Omnid Torquora looked to Vintegar-4 Phobal. The skitarii primus nodded his helm in a slow and meaningful acknowledgement. There would be no cheers. There would be no clapping or shooting in jubilation. It was not the way of the Machine-God’s servants. The Motive Force flowed through their workings. Now it flowed through their flesh, their hearts and their minds.

‘Positions, my comrades.’

The crowd of skitarii, servitors and priests dispersed in silence. There was an electricity in the air. Something that could not have proceeded from the issuing of imperatives or the passing of protocols. The forge-pledged, the cybernetic and those of flesh and iron needed to feel the presence of the divine. They needed to know that the Machine-God was with them. Not as some abstract concept or avatar but there, on the deck, fighting side by side with His chosen constructs – for if that were true, how could they possibly lose?

SELECTED: DENTRICA II OF III
ENGAGE NEURAL CONGRESS – WIRELESS AUTOSHUNT ACQUIRED
UPLOADING… +REPEL BOARDERS+

The Forgebreaker closed with the arkcruiser Maestrale. Tractor fields and powerful magnetic locks fired by both vessels drew the two colossal ships together in a deathly embrace. The silence and stillness of the Maestrale’s gun deck was unsettling, even for a construct like Omnid Torquora.

With every second the entangled vessels ploughed on towards the system’s edge. The boundary that would mean annihilation or survival for the tech-priest and the Adeptus Mechanicus arkcruiser, for there waited the warships of their home world – tainted constructs they had once called forge-kin. Beyond the Dark Mechanicum line of battle, a cordon through which Idriss Krendl had commanded no escape, lay the freedom of the warp.

The Iron Warriors warsmith had wanted to be the one to run the Maestrale down. To bring down the Adeptus Mechanicus arkcruiser, not with fire and the fury of cannons, but face to face. The Iron Warriors were bitter, twisted monsters for whom grudges were the unbreakable oaths of their black souls. Haldron-44 Stroika had stood between Idriss Krendl and the forge world he desired to make his own. For that he had suffered unimaginable torments as the Iron Warriors’ prisoner, their victim and then their puppet. Omnid Torquora was sure that Krendl planned the same or worse for him – the construct who had stripped the warsmith of his forge world and the future victories that it would have guaranteed.

<Incoming,> Vintegar-4 Phobal informed his troops. <Assume cover. Isolate and destroy.>

The Forgebreaker had blasted a broadside of boarding torpedoes at the arkcruiser’s starboard side. The line of tarnished torpedoes broke away from the battle-barge – brute, snub-nosed capsules that appeared like stub-gun slugs. They made short work of the frozen void in between the two vessels. Within the space of a blink the torpedoes had breached the silky static of the phase-field screens and smashed into the already mangled architecture of the arkcruiser’s starboard flank.

Unlike the ship-to-ship torpedoes fired by destroyers and escort vessels, there were no detonations – only destruction. One moment the gun deck was an area of discipline and calm with skitarii soldiers taking cover behind shattered wall sections, crates and machinery. The next it was havoc. The boarding torpedoes hit the gun deck with the blunt force of a metal tsunami. Powerlifters and automaton-loaders were smashed to raining frag. Crates and unprimed ordnance went flying before clattering down onto the deck. Macrocannons were demolished on their rails, with some being torn from their mountings and sent crashing back across the deck. Heavy duty cabling was torn up out of the deck and pulpits smashed aside. The flesh and bionic body parts of cybernetic soldiers rained about the deck while hastily established gun emplacements were crushed into mangled ruin.

Alarms shrieked across the section, indicating a phase-field breach, while the length of the gun-deck rear wall became as buckled and smashed as the damaged hull of the arkcruiser’s exterior. As the smoke cleared and skitarii soldiers reassumed cover and angles on boarding torpedoes, a ringing silence descended once more.

Torpedoes were everywhere. Some sat embedded in the thick metal of walls and in demolished expanses of dark metal stairs. Others had ripped up decking, shearing their way through plate and mesh before coming to rest half buried in wreckage. Boarding torpedoes sat battered and buckled on the deck where they had bounced off the arkcruiser’s superstructure. The reinforced noses of some were splattered with blood and oil. Others were caved in entirely like a bullet recovered from a wall.

Omnid Torquora reared to full height in his armoured suit, a small mound of wreckage falling away from his imposing form. A torpedo had sailed over his clinker-plate hood and smashed through one of the many giant deck claws set in hydraulics that hung from the ceiling. The demolished workings of the claw had rained down on Torquora, while the torpedo smashed through the wall of the starboard gun deck and into the magazine chambers beyond.

The tech-priest cast his optics across the destruction and the armoured tubes that steamed where they had come to a stop in the walls, the floor and rolling across the decking. Looking across at the Forgebreaker, he could see that the brutal wave that had crashed into the arkcruiser’s side was the first of several. Armoured lighters, assault boats, boarding skiffs and orbital barges – all twisted craft produced in the Dark Mechanicum shipyards – were blasting across the open space under their own propulsion. Torquora had no doubt that each craft would be packed to the hatches with corrupt constructs and gene-bulked serfs ready to charge, maim and kill. Beyond the slowly advancing line of vessels, Torquora could see hordes of augmented assault troops embarking yet another wave of ramshackle craft in the battle-barge’s great hangars. There were even constructs assuming bulky environment suits with the intention of jumping between the two mighty vessels. The Iron Warriors intended to overwhelm the Maestrale with wave after assault wave of boarders.

While the rust-pitted boarding torpedoes sat on the gun deck, the squeal of turning pressure wheels could be heard inside them. Pressure vented from hatches in the rear of the battered tubes, while hydraulics began to judder the crushed nose cones of the torpedoes upwards to allow disembarkation.

Primus Phobal had no intention of waiting to see what, in turn, was waiting for them inside. He gave the order to open fire on the boarding torpedoes. The disposable craft began to shower with sparks and the pranging of servitor shells and radioactive bullets. Lightning streams crackled across the surface of the tubes while energy beams seared into the plating. Orbs of plasma melted their way into cratered hatches and rockets fired from emplacement arrays blasted torpedoes into buckled derelicts that spun on the deck. Priests directed hordes of servitors and gun crews to descend upon opening torpedoes near the mangled edge of the deck and put their backs into rolling the boarding craft back out into the zero gravity beyond.

Before Omnid Torquora saw a single boarder emerge from a torpedo, his augurs detected exotic energy signatures in the vicinity. He stomped around trying to get a fix on the signals until his runebanks isolated the nature and position of the energy patterns.

<Teleporters!> Torquora warned Phobal and his skitarii soldiers. <The signals are coming from the magazines and ammunition depots.>

Within moments everything changed. The Iron Warriors’ timing was perfect. Stomping out from depot entrances and the chambers that stored macrocannon ordnance adjacent to the gun deck, the Obliteratii had arrived. With the static of teleporter transference still crackling off their grotesque forms, the hulking Iron Warriors came forth from the shadows of the archways. Standing atop the flights of stairs that ran the length of the deck, the small mountains of malformed fleshmetal and corrosion-pitted armour extended their weaponised limbs. From the nests of barrels and tendon-tangled nozzles spawned from their clubbed limbs and claws, the Iron Warriors opened fire on the Adeptus Mechanicus forces below.

With Torquora’s forces surrounding the boarding torpedoes and throwing their firepower at the twisted things about to emerge from them, the Chaos Space Marines found themselves aiming down at skitarii, gun-servitors and priests in exposed positions: cybernetic soldiers with their backs turned and ignorant of the fact that they were about to die.

Fat, sickly las-beams seared through entire columns of skitarii, three in a row. Autocannon fire shredded priests within their robes and splattered combat-servitors all over their masters. Iron Warriors blasted black balls of tainted plasma into gun emplacements that had been created from empty barrels and ordnance crates. Heavy weaponry, skitarii gunners and servitor ammunition feeders sizzled into glowing craters.

Skitarii sentinels stationed near the rear of the gun deck were hammered into their cover, their war-plate and trenchcloaks exploding in fountains of gore, oil and workings. Those who managed to turn and fire their shotguns, pumping and blasting suppression fire up the stairs, did not fare much better. The Iron Warriors stormed down the steps to meet them, their hideously deformed faces displaying their furious glee. Clenching their fists, they blasted the skitarii with dribbling nozzles that tore forth from the backs of their hands. Stinking flame streamed into cybernetic soldiers, turning them into thrashing infernos. While the fire from boarding shotguns punched into the diseased brawn of the Obliteratii, sub-atomic blasts of energy vaporised skitarii unfortunates, transforming them into shimmering streams of ash.

‘Bridge, be aware,’ Omnid Torquora voxed to Tech-priest Captain Voltram. ‘Enemy boarders have breached our lines with teleporters. Secure the command deck and engineering.’

‘Affirmative, archmagos,’ the tech-priest captain said. While scores of Iron Warriors lumbered from the magazines and depots to decimate the Adeptus Mechanicus forces on the gun deck, countless more could be working their way into the ship to sabotage the arkcruiser and frustrate its escape.

‘Stroika-unit,’ Torquora said, bringing his weapons cradles up into attack position. ‘Destroy the Iron Warriors.’

Haldron-44 Stroika processed his master’s command. The hench-unit did not require telling twice. Before Torquora had even completed the order, protocols allowing the priming of weaponry had been enacted. His tracked form rumbled up the decking, taking the steps with ease.

‘Execute,’ Stroika droned. He might have been lobotomised, but Torquora could see that some deep-seated hatred of the Iron Warriors still resided in a dark corner of his mind. A part of him that replayed the horrors of torture, experimentation and indoctrination in an endless, terrible loop.

As Torquora stomped after him in his armoured suit, Stroika reached the top of the stairs. His plasma culverin shimmered with the extreme heat of its operation, the weapon glowing blue with potency. Blasting orb after orb of crackling plasma into advancing Iron Warriors, the kataphron destroyer demolished the hulking monstrosities. Balls of energy burning like miniature novas through ancient ceramite, warped flesh and fused carapace, the Iron Warriors crashed to their armoured knees. With the ricochets of assault cannon rounds slashing across his demi-plate, Stroika streamed gouts of fire from his cognis flamer, setting fire to Obliteratii monsters whose afflicted flesh melted about their fighting forms.

Erupting from a depot archway, an Iron Warrior slashed Stroika across the side of the head with a crackling claw. Rocked back on his tracks from the impact of the attack, Stroika turned in his turret and hammered the Chaos Space Marine back with an explosive blast of flame. As the Obliterator was knocked off his feet, his face flayed from the bone of his skull by the intense heat, Stroika slammed two blazing orbs of plasma into the prone abomination and rolled across his quivering corpse with his heavy duty tracks.

Swivelling in his turret, Stroika cast his targeters and augurs across the ceiling-stacked crates of macro-ordnance stored in the connected depots and magazines that ran parallel to the gun deck that they supplied. His reticules came to rest on an info-plaque set in the metal of the wall – a stencilled warning regarding safety procedures within the highly volatile environment of the ammunition dump.

‘Execute,’ the destroyer said, his protocols aligning fully with the archmagos’s orders.

Powering the plasma culverin mounted on his shoulder, Stroika reversed his tracks, taking him back out of the access archway. As he did so, the hench-unit blasted a stream of plasma orbs back into the magazine chamber.

The ordnance depot detonated.

The explosive macro-shells stored within went up with extraordinary force. The gun deck quaked beneath the armoured boots of Omnid Torquora’s suit, causing the tech-priest to stagger. A chain reaction of explosions rippled down the length of the starboard gun deck, tearing through the ship’s superstructure. Decimating blasts roared from archways and breaches in the wall, enveloping the Iron Warriors who had just emerged from them. As the explosions worked their way, one by one, down the gun deck, some of the Obliterators were blasted apart by the power of the detonations. Some found a storm of shrapnel thudding into their armoured backs and hunches while yet others were lost in roaring columns of flame.

Omnid Torquora thudded across the deck. About him furious fighting had broken out as corrupt constructs finally spewed from boarding torpedo rear hatches and rising nose cones.

Monstrously deformed gun-servitors wearing yokes of twin-linked heavy bolters came blasting out of the capsules. Iron Warriors thrall-serfs, brutally augmented, emerged with boarding shotguns pumping on bionic carriage-appendages. Genetically altered slaves, their brawn enhanced further by the warping powers of ruin, swung crackling siege hammers. Cybernetic shock troops ventured from the torpedoes with their chunky chain bayonets thrusting ahead of them, blasting rancid energies into skitarii defenders who got too close.

Omnid Torquora stamped across the deck towards the recovering Iron Warriors, who were getting back to their feet and shaking the apocalyptic boom of the detonating ordnance magazines from their skulls. With the Obliteratii having teleported behind the Adeptus Mechanicus troops and throngs of warped boarders pouring from battered capsules all across the gun deck, the skitarii were caught in between. Torquora knew that he had to build on Stroika’s explosive intervention. If Primus Phobal’s soldiers were to stand any chance against the monstrous Iron Warriors or their army of augmented boarders, then the skitarii had to be given a chance to regroup.

Torquora stomped through the criss-crossing net of beams and tracer fire, locking his heavy weaponry into position. A Chaos Space Marine, the flesh on his arm and across his hunched back still alight, blazed a sizzling las-beam of flesh-spawned energy at the tech-priest, but cut a chainblade-wielding combat-servitor in half instead. Aiming his torsion cannon at the Obliterator, Torquora used the twisting gravitation forces streaming from the cannon to tear up decking around the flaming monster. As the rising deck threw the Iron Warrior back into the wall and then down on his knees, two of Phobal’s skitarii rangers swept in. The first launched a blistering arcstream into the Chaos Space Marine, pinning the warped thing to the deck. With spidery arcs of electricity cracking and sizzling across the disgusting fusion of flesh and warp-spawned weaponry, the ranger’s compatriot came in with a transuranic arquebus. Pointing the length of the weapon at the Iron Warrior, the skitarii soldier yanked on the trigger and blew the Chaos Space Marine’s skull apart.

With his feet buckling the deck with hydraulic insistence, the tech-priest turned to engage the Iron Warriors hulks coming at him. One by one they were blasted back, lost in blazing balls of superheated plasma that scorched through their chests. Keeping pace with Torquora was Haldron-44 Stroika, the destroyer’s aegis protocols pushing his targeters into overdrive in an effort to keep enemy threats from his master.

The starboard gun deck sang with shrieking beams and bullets pranging off walls and wreckage. Sicarian ruststalkers slashed their transonic blades and chordclaws through the ripe flesh of gun-servitors, while possessed battle-automata – all bladed limbs and predatory pouncing – cut through skitarii soldiers. Conclaves of deck priests closed on hordes of corrupt constructs, streaming eradication beamers through them, reducing their number with every shot. A ballistarius blasted back an Obliterator with his mounted lascannon, only to have another charge at his walker from the side. Slamming into its legs, the Iron Warrior brought the engine down.

Rolling from the saddle, the rider drew his arc pistol and crackled a stream of energy at the Iron Warrior. His flesh still steaming from the gaping hole in his plate and shoulder, the Obliterator engulfed the skitarius in flame from a nozzle set in his other arm.

As cybernetic shock troops carved their way into swarms of drafted gun-crew servitors, their chainblades chewing up flesh and thrashing through heads, Torquora entered the fray, aiming his Icarus array down at the black-armoured nightmares. Unleashing a stuttering stream of fire from his autocannon, the tech-priest blasted back the warp-crazed cyborgs. While weapon appendages and spine-interfaced helms did fly off in the furious attack, the shock troops took the punishment well. With their black plate sparking and sizzling with impacts, the indomitable constructs marched on, swinging and thrusting their chainblade bayonets at the backs of nearby skitarii.

Stamping up behind the battered tube of a boarding torpedo, Torquora lifted the hydraulics of a single leg and rested his boot against the hull. Heaving, the tech-priest used the strength of his armoured suit to kick the torpedo away, rolling the empty craft across the gun deck and into the protocol-polluted shock troops. As the capsule hit the constructs, it knocked them down. The momentum of the rolling boarding torpedo carried the craft over the cyborgs while its weight crushed their bionics and combat chassis. Skitarii sentinels swept in with their boarding shotguns to finish the abominations off, blasting at their shattered remains on the deck.

The din of battle rose to a crescendo. All about Torquora beams cooked the air and shells ricocheted with shrill insistence off plate and decking. There was the thudding boom of lighters and skiffs coming in to land on the gun deck. The continuous chunter of gun emplacements. The detonation of constructs riddled with overloading servitor shells. The sparking screech of chainblade teeth off bionics. Death everywhere.

Little could drown out the sound of the monstrous Obliteratii. Like walking tanks or artillery pieces they stamped through the dead and the dying, their spawned nests of rancid weaponry raised. Gunning down swathes of skitarii soldiers. Searing las-beams through Kastelan robots. Burying entire squads in roaring clouds of infernal flame. As priests and gun-servitors came at them, they were reduced to ash and screams by sub-atomic blasts. Black orbs of raging plasma turned Sicarian assassins into pools of flesh and metal bubbling at the bottom of deck craters. The Iron Warriors seemed unstoppable. For hulking monsters in heavy plate, they moved with purpose and precision, making the most of cover and hitting what they aimed at with a brutal accuracy.

Torquora lifted the boot of his armoured leg as a vat-grown slave soldier swung a sizzling siege hammer at it, and stamped down on the engineered monstrosity. Splattering warp-irradiated muscle into the deck, Torquora heard an otherworldly roar. Turning his suit, the hiss and sigh of hydraulics all about him, the archmagos saw a pair of daemonic eyes flash at him from the depths of a boarding torpedo. Vintegar-4 Phobal and his vanguard skitarii had a daemon engine trapped in the capsule, his skitarii soldiers firing radioactive shells down into the shadowy depths of the torpedo from their radium rifles.

The diabolical machine roared again as the sustained fire plucked at its plating and sparked off its infernal workings. Suddenly the thing charged, leaping with unexpected grace for a machine. As it exploded from the open pressure hatch it landed before the skitarii, who were backing from the torpedo. It appeared to Torquora like some mechanised predator – a quadruped engine with a thick cable-lined neck, a fanged jaw and a tail. Opening its hellish maw, it roared like a daemonic furnace, the blistering fury of the aberration’s internal fires setting the trenchcloaks of rad-troopers alight. Lashing tendrils snaked and flicked about its mechanical brawn, burnished armour plating sliding with crafted ease to accommodate the beast-machine’s hydraulic poise and grace.

Snapping a skitarii soldier up in its jaws, it crunched down with its adamantium teeth, cutting him in half. Slamming its crackling fists into the deck, it slashed out with its tendrils. As the stabbing points of the weapons thudded through the chests of vanguard skitarii, the soldiers began to rattle and convulse with otherworldly energies that felt their way through their workings and ended them.

Whipping the tendrils back, the mauling machine-fiend rounded on Primus Phobal. The skitarii officer buried two radioactive rounds in the daemon engine’s plating before jabbing at it with his taser goad. As the twin prongs of the weapon hit the thing’s armoured snout, there was a flash of sparks. The daemon engine snorted furnace heat from its nostril vents and shook its head at the powerful electrical discharge.

As it recovered – infernal fury burning in its dead-metal eyes – the daemon engine charged at the alpha primus. Torquora brought up his autocannon, blasting a snaking stream of fire at the armoured fiend. The daemon engine was wreathed in a shower of sparks. Stomping towards it with hydraulic hostility, Torquora cycled his gatling launcher. Now he had its attention, the tech-priest sent a rocket shrieking at the metal beast. The explosion knocked the monster back into the boarding torpedo – back into the shadows. As the gatling launcher clunked around Torquora fired again, hammering the daemon engine with a blast that lit up the capsule and ravaged its interior. Firing a third time, the tech-priest’s rocket blew the maulerfiend out of the torpedo nose cone.

With the daemon engine scrabbling its blasted metal body off the deck, Omnid Torquora surged on. Using a great hydraulic claw to grab the shattered torpedo and roll it aside, the tech-priest marched for the daemon. Smoking, sparking and bleeding some kind of molten metal blood on the deck, the infuriated beast charged. Before the tech-priest could cycle another rocket, the creature’s deck-piercing claws had carried it straight at him. Slamming its armoured hunch into Torquora’s suit, the daemon engine knocked the archmagos back. Torquora stumbled, his back hitting the wrecked boarding torpedo. The maulerfiend leapt, hooking its claws into the capsule and pinning the tech-priest to the tube.

Slasher tendrils came at Torquora like harpoons, forcing the aged priest to squirm this way and that inside his sarcophagal suit. Craning his neck left and right, he barely avoided the stab and crackling slash of the prehensile weapons. Looking up, Torquora was treated to a view down the maulerfiend’s gullet. Within the metal deathtrap of its daggered jaws, instead of a tongue, was a magma cutter. The tip of the weapon was blinding. A searing beam blazed from it and began cutting through the armoured hood of Torquora’s suit. Holding the daemon engine with his hydraulic claws, Torquora hauled the metal beast to one side, keeping the magma cutter beam from carving through the parchment flesh of his neck.

The maulerfiend howled in otherworldly agony as a pair of plasma blasts cratered the armour of its hunched back. Stroika was with him, but Torquora felt the need to end the metal beast himself. Bellowing a rasping roar of his own from ancient lungs, he lifted the daemon engine from his chest pulpit. Standing upright and lifting the fiend higher with his hydraulic claws, Torquora smashed the beast down into the deck. As the daemon engine shook its head, the tech-priest took several steps back and launched a rocket into the diabolical creature’s armoured form. Blasting it across the deck, Torquora hit it again and again until the rocket-mauled shell of the daemon slid off the ragged edge of the gun deck and out into the frozen void.

Torquora felt the cold fury of the Omnissiah through both his feeble body and the magna-hydraulics and pistons of his interfaced suit. As a patched and dented assault boat landed on the deck nearby and its boarding hatch opened, the tech-priest fired a rocket straight into the crowded compartment beyond, sending detonations through the battered craft. Thrusting his hydraulic claws forward, he stabbed crackling talons into the shattered machinery of a deck macrocannon. Heaving with all his augmented might, he pulled the wreckage down on a repulsive Iron Warrior who was aiming his spawn-weaponry up at him.

Sweeping his torsion cannon across the deck, Torquora seized a descending skiff that creaked and buckled with the intense gravitic force of the weapon and hauled it down at the deck. Turning the boarding craft and the corrupt constructs on board into a flaming derelict, the tech-priest sent the wreckage tumbling through a horde of warped gun-servitors.

‘Omnid Torquora,’ a voice hissed, burning over the vox-channels. It was the sound of steel thrust into ice water. The torment of iron. Ancient hate.

‘Who is this?’ the tech-priest demanded. It certainly wasn’t Tech-priest Captain Voltram or Chief Enginseer Zertec.

‘Archmagos,’ the voice said, seemingly playing with the word – each sound a searing syllable spat from the lips. ‘I know all about you.’

Torquora stomped about the deck with sickly beams of energy scorching before him and stub-rounds rattling off his plate and magna-hydraulics.

‘Krendl…’ Torquora said.

‘Yes,’ the Iron Warriors warsmith crackled across the vox-channel.

Torquora turned to face the Forgebreaker. Idriss Krendl had teleported across personally with his Obliteratii, but he was not on the gun deck. Torquora’s supercogitator started compiling a list of the most sensitive and tactically advantageous locations on board the Maestrale. One flashed at the top of the list with the highest probability.

‘You’re on the command deck,’ Torquora said.

‘I am indeed,’ Idriss Krendl seethed. ‘Where I expected to find you – cowering and hiding. It seems we have both surprised and disappointed each other.’

Torquora took a step closer to the ragged edge of the deck. The Forgebreaker and the Maestrale were still grappled, the tractor fields and magnetic locks of both vessels still holding them together in a running battle and boarding action. Peering forward through the phase-field static, Torquora’s optics didn’t require magnification to see the Dark Mechanicum line of battle ahead. Tech-priest Captain Voltram had put the arkcruiser on a course between two Satzican grand cruisers, the vessels all warped architecture and ornamental spikes. The Maestrale and the battle-barge in their locked embrace were ploughing through the void at the twisted ships, running in under their presented guns.

‘I have your bridge,’ Idriss Krendl hissed. ‘Your vessel belongs to me. You belong to me.’

‘It seems a poor exchange, warsmith,’ Omnid Torquora said. ‘I took your forge world from you. Billions of constructs, yours to command – and you get… me.’

Idriss Krendl did not reply at first. Torquora could hear a furious intake of breath across the vox-channel.

‘And yet, priest, I wait for you still,’ Krendl told him. ‘Some men simply have a greater capacity for suffering than others. I, for example, have endured death a thousand times over, only to claw my agonising way back to existence. Perhaps you will exceed even my example, and suffer for each of the billions of dark souls you stole from me. I am looking forward to finding out.

‘I wait for you on the bridge. You have three minutes. If you are not standing before me in that time, my Obliteratii will start killing your officers and destroying the instrumentation – perhaps they will hit something critical and save us both the trouble. Three minutes, priest.’

As the vox crackled to silence, Omnid Torquora turned in his armoured suit. All about him constructs were dying. Shells cut through the air and streams of energy criss-crossed the deck. Explosions rocked the gun deck and boarder-crammed lighters landed. All nothing more than an ongoing diversion.

Before he knew it, the tech-priest was stomping across the deck. He wrenched aside wreckage with his hydraulic claws and crushed corrupted constructs beneath his armoured boots. He didn’t have to look behind to see his hench-unit, Haldron-44 Stroika, trundling behind him on his heavy metal tracks, the kataphron destroyer blasting furious orbs of plasma into anything unwise enough to attack the archmagos.

‘Chief Enginseer Zertec,’ Omnid Torquora voxed across an encoded channel. The tech-priest’s supercogitators seared with possibilities.

‘Archmagos?’ Zertec replied.

‘Is the engineering section secure?’ Torquora put to him.

‘Affirmative, my lord. All bulkheads sealed. Skitarii sentinels hold the approaches.’

Torquora nodded to himself within his armoured hood.

‘I’m sending more skitarii to fortify the section,’ the tech-priest said. ‘The ship is under attack and the command deck has been taken.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ the chief enginseer said.

‘I fear the enemy commander has underestimated the significance of your section,’ Torquora said. ‘From engineering, you can override the engines, both sub-light columns and the warp drive.’

‘Yes, archmagos,’ Zertec said, ‘but without the helm we have no steerage way or immaterial course heading.’

‘With a little good fortune, we shall not need steerage way,’ Omnid Torquora said. ‘I had the Navigator already input the aethyrical solutions. With the warp engines, we can at least make translation. The Navigator can take it from there.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Hold the engineering section, no matter what,’ Torquora said. ‘Maintain full power on the sub-light engine columns until we have reached the system’s edge, then I want you to engage the warp drive. Do you understand what I am asking you, enginseer?’

‘How will I know we have reached the Mandeville point, my lord?’ Zertec asked.

‘You’ll know,’ the tech-priest promised him. ‘We’ll all know. Expect the reinforcements. Torquora out.’

Torquora crossed the battle-ravaged gun deck, Stroika accelerating ahead of him, mercilessly blasting enemy constructs out of his path, and approached Vintegar-4 Phobal. A possessed combat-servitor was wildly swinging a chainblade at the officer, which Phobal was turning aside with his taser goad. Blasting the servitor aside with a short, stuttering stream of fire from his autocannon, Torquora towered over the skitarii primus.

<Yes, archmagos?> Phobal said, jabbing constructs away with the sparking flash of his goad and putting crackling rounds in their heads with his radium pistol.

<Primus, I want you to send your best sub-alpha with twenty of your men to fortify the engineering section immediately,> Torquora said.

<Yes, my lord,> Phobal said, stabbing the prongs of his goad into a thrall-serf and electrocuting the battle-fevered thing. As the tech-priest strode away, the skitarii primus said: <Where are you going, sir?>

<To retake the bridge,> Torquora told him.

SELECTED: DENTRICA III OF III
ENGAGE NEURAL CONGRESS – WIRELESS AUTOSHUNT ACQUIRED
UPLOADING… +AS THE MACHINE-GOD MADE ME+

The route up to the command deck was littered with bodies. As Torquora stomped up the pipe-lined passageways, with Stroika trundling ahead on his tracks, the pair weaved around the cybernetic corpses of constructs that had been brutally put down by the Iron Warriors. Moving up through the arkcruiser, Krendl and his Obliteratii warband had killed every skitarii sentinel, priest and servitor they had come across. About the entrance to the section elevator, they found scores of skitarii bodies still smoking on the deck. They had been riddled with assault cannon fire and had holes blasted through their chests by searing lascannon beams. Some had been torn flesh from bionics by huge claw marks that ran from neck to navel but most had been torched with flamer fire, the mound of their corpses making a charred pyre on the deck.

As the elevator rose through the decks, Torquora said nothing. The car was filled with the sigh of his resting hydraulics and the crackling hum of Stroika’s reactors. The kataphron destroyer cycled his tracks, his aegis protocols prompting Stroika to manoeuvre himself in front of his archmagos.

As the elevator doors opened, smoke drifted in from the command deck. Stroika moved forward on his tracks, targeters searching the bridge for enemy signals. As he left the elevator, the barrels of flesh-spawned weaponry drifted in from either side of the doors to rest before the hench-unit’s head.

‘Power down your weaponry, cyborg,’ one of the Obliterators said.

‘Do as he says,’ Omnid Torquora ordered.

The hiss of Stroika’s pilot flame died and the roasting pulse of his plasma weaponry faded as the barrels of both the kataphron destroyer’s appendage weapons drifted to the floor with a dying whine.

Motioning Stroika on with a grotesque nest of weaponry, the Iron Warrior followed the hench-unit onto the murky command deck.

‘You too, priest,’ the second Obliterator said, pointing the fleshmetal of his warped weapons into the elevator car. Activating the magna-hydraulics on his weapons cradles, Omnid Torquora retracted his torsion cannon and Icarus array, collapsing the arrangements back into a dormant configuration. Indicating with the barrels of his spawn-weapons, the Obliterator motioned the tech-priest after his hench-unit.

As Torquora lumbered through the smoke-choked bridge chamber, he saw that runebanks had been smashed and consoles were sparking. Huge gashes ran through sizzling wall instrumentation where Obliteratii claws had savaged the terminals. Several console units danced with flame, while others crackled with spidery arcs of electricity. The command deck was littered with corpses. Servitors. Skitarii sentinels. Deck priests. All had been gutted, decapitated or had their heads blown clean off. It was a massacre.

‘You’re late,’ Idriss Krendl said through the smoke. ‘We started without you.’

Cycling through filters, Torquora saw the Iron Warriors warsmith standing at the far end of the command deck. He was a hulking monstrosity, even when compared to the rest of his cursed kind. The Iron Warrior’s genetic perfection had been perverted and warped by the otherworldly disease that had ravaged and hideously enhanced the rest of the Obliteratii. Ancient and terrible, the warsmith was like a smashed mirror that had been put back together, leaving the reflection a twisted mess. His body was a scarred and stapled patchwork of muscle and bulging tendon. The tarnished mail of an officer’s cloak was draped across his hunched back. While his monstrous, and once shattered, skull was held together by the frame of a wire cage, the smeared flesh of his face had half dribbled through the bars of the cage and down the brawn of his neck. One of his arms was a colossal fleshmetal claw. The other was a tendon-tangled mass of spawned weaponry, the barrels of which he held against the only member of the bridge crew alive: Tech-priest Captain Cyntreq Voltram.

Krendl’s Iron Warriors stood like monstrous phantoms amongst the smoke-writhing slaughter and sparking runebanks of the command deck, their spawn-weapons aimed at Torquora and Haldron-44 Stroika. Krendl, however, had pinned the tech-priest captain’s hooded head against the thick armourglass of one of the bridge lancet screens. As extra assurance that Torquora and his hench-unit wouldn’t try anything, Krendl threatened to simultaneously blow Voltram’s priestly head from his shoulders and shatter the window port. If the lancet screen were to be breached and the arkcruiser hulled, every breath of air in the bridge would scream out of the shattered window – taking Torquora, Stroika and the Iron Warriors with it.

‘We understand one another?’ Idriss Krendl seethed.

The tech-priest slowed to a halt before the Iron Warriors warsmith. Stroika’s tracks stopped likewise, with Obliteratii weapons aimed at them both.

Torquora looked about the smashed command deck. The hulking Iron Warriors. The hammerhead prow of the Forgebreaker extending beyond the arkcruiser’s own, and the wall of Dark Mechanicum cannons under which both vessels were approaching.

‘I understand you,’ Omnid Torquora told him. ‘All too well, Warsmith Krendl. You are a weapon that has fallen into the wrong hands. The product of 31st millennium genetic experimentation. A thing engineered. Mass produced. As expendable to your father as any skitarii soldier or servitor to my Machine-God. As your father’s son you are cursed with hubris, you are bitter and you are predictable. Do you understand, I wonder, the danger you have put yourself and your vessel in with your audacious boarding action?’

‘Do you think you can enrage me any more than you already have, priest?’ Idriss Krendl asked.

‘Yes,’ Omnid Torquora answered honestly. ‘I think I can. I may have cost you Velchanos Magna but I can still cost you a great deal more. Your precious battle-barge, for example. You think you have taken this vessel with your boarding tactics but did you realise that you placed your own ship under my control when you did that?’

‘You speak in riddles, priest,’ Idriss Krendl hissed, the talons of his fleshmetal claw twitching. ‘When I get you back to my ship your tongue will be the first prize I take. There you will see how little control you possess: over your miserable existence, your own flesh – even your death, for which you will daily beg. I shall twist you and your servants to my bidding like I twisted your skitarii commander.’

Torquora heard a pulse of power throb through Haldron-44 Stroika’s plasma culverin. The destroyer’s pilot flame re-ignited, his tracks edged forward and his weaponry began to rise. In some dark and shadowy corner of Stroika’s mind, he remembered Krendl and the horrors the warsmith had put him through.

‘Stroika-unit,’ Torquora warned. The Obliteratii leant in, their barrels placed against the hench-unit’s head. Slowly Stroika’s weaponry descended.

‘Stroika?’ Idriss Krendl marvelled, his half-face forming a cruel smile of satisfaction.

‘What you broke,’ Torquora told the Iron Warrior, ‘the Machine-God restored and made strong.’

‘Then I must be strongest of all,’ Krendl hissed, but Torquora shook his head.

‘You were made of the weakest of flesh to begin with,’ the tech-priest told him. ‘That is why you fell from the galaxy’s light and embraced the darkness beyond. The Omnissiah blesses His constructs with the fusion of flesh and iron. They become more than the sum of their parts – for iron is the strength He lends them. Your flesh is feeble, weak and polluted. It honours not the union and harmony of iron. It is a portal for the intrusion of iron untrue. You are but an emplacement of flesh: a chassis or vehicle of warped flesh and bone upon which this weaponry chooses to mount itself. You think you invited this curse, that its hideous boon serves you? These weapons are not yours. They chose you as their slave, so that they might claim souls here for their masters beyond.’

Idriss Krendl’s half-mouth had formed an ugly snarl. His eyes burned into Torquora with an infernal hatred. He looked to the monstrous spawn-weaponry that had found a home in his flesh – then back at the tech-priest.

‘Captain,’ Torquora said, addressing Cyntreq Voltram. ‘Did you set our course?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ the tech-priest captain said. ‘The Maestrale shall pass between the Dark Mechanicum cruisers.’

Krendl pressed Voltram’s head against the armourglass with the barrels of his spawn-weaponry. Then looked at Torquora.

‘The battle-barge won’t,’ the tech-priest told him.

‘Warsmith,’ one of the grotesquely deformed Iron Warriors said. ‘Vox-contact from our bridge. The cruiser ahead has warned the Forgebreaker to reduce speed.’

Krendl’s face screwed up with anger and frustration, Torquora’s words still scalding his mind. He looked up at the lancet port windows, at the cannon-bristling Dark Mechanicum cruiser that almost filled the screen.

‘Krendl,’ the Obliterator insisted.

‘Order the bridge to fire braking thrusters,’ Krendl said.

‘It won’t work,’ Torquora told him, as the Iron Warrior relayed the order. ‘Your braking thrusters, against the sub-light engines of this vessel at maximum power?’

Precious seconds passed. The Forgebreaker and the Maestrale surged on towards the Dark Mechanicum cruiser.

‘He’s right,’ the Iron Warrior told his warsmith. ‘The Forgebreaker is not slowing. The bridge reports collision alarms.’

‘We must uncouple,’ another Obliterator insisted. ‘Now, warsmith.’

‘Disengage tractor fields and magnetic locks,’ Krendl ordered.

‘You can disengage your own,’ Torquora told him. ‘But what about ours?’

About them the superstructure of the arkcruiser groaned. With the Forgebreaker attempting to break away but still grappled by the Adeptus Mechanicus vessel, the Maestrale suffered for its insistence.

Krendl’s eyes flashed about the ruin of the bridge and the dead priests on the deck.

‘You cannot override the tractor fields from here,’ Torquora told the warsmith, ‘not after destroying the bridge. You’re running out of time, Krendl.’

The Obliterator turned to face the lancet screens.

‘Impact in three…’ the Iron Warrior reported, relaying the countdown from the bridge of the Forgebreaker.

‘Slow this vessel down,’ Krendl ordered, holding his spawn-
weaponry at Tech-priest Captain Voltram’s head.

‘Two…’ the Iron Warrior said.

‘No,’ Torquora returned.

‘One…’

A shockwave shivered down the length of the arkcruiser. The hulking Iron Warriors were thrown forward with the force. Torquora stumbled and crashed down onto his armoured knees. Idriss Krendl fell back against the lancet window. Alarms droned from several of the damaged runebanks. Through the bridge screens the Forgebreaker, held to the Maestrale’s side by the arkcruiser’s tractor field and magnetic locks, was run into the spiked prow of the cruiser. The prow of the great vessel shattered as the hammerhead ram of the battle-barge smashed it explosively from the ship.

The Maestrale groaned once more as the battle-barge was torn away from the arkcruiser’s tractor fields and magnetic embrace. As the Dark Mechanicum ship tumbled from the impact, explosions ruptured their way through the twisted vessel. The Forgebreaker fell away, free at last, its reverse thrusters dragging it agonisingly away from the Dark Mechanicum’s shattered line of battle. The Maestrale surged on between the cruisers, its sub-light engines blazing a trail out of the system.

‘Now, Stroika-unit,’ Torquora ordered. Bringing his weaponry up and charging his plasma culverin, Haldron-44 Stroika blasted orb after searing blue orb into Iron Warriors Obliterators who had turned and been thrown down on the command deck. As the superheated hydrogen scorched its way through their armoured chests, one after another of the monstrosities fell.

As the Iron Warrior behind unleashed his autocannon on the demi-plate of Stroika’s back, the kataphron destroyer whipped around in his turret, smashing the Chaos Space Marine aside with the length of his plasma culverin. The Iron Warrior stumbled back, and Stroika reversed his heavy-duty tracks and advanced. Blasting gouts of raging fire at the Iron Warrior from his flamer, Stroika hit him again and again, the furious whoosh of each blast sending the grotesque Obliteratii staggering back through the open doors of the elevator car. As the doors closed, the malformed Iron Warrior thrashed and kicked his agonies.

Dragging Cyntreq Voltram forward from where he had fallen on the deck, Idriss Krendl put the barrels of his fleshmetal arm to the tech-priest captain’s hooded head and blasted it off. Lurching at Torquora, who was on his armoured knees, the warsmith grasped his shoulder with a spawn-claw. Krendl tucked the myriad barrels of his spawned weaponry under the tech-priest’s chin.

Haldron-44 Stroika thrashed his tracks and closed on the Iron Warriors warsmith, his plasma culverin humming and shimmering its intention to blast Idriss Krendl into the void.

‘Execute,’ Stroika droned.

‘No,’ Torquora ordered.

‘Execute,’ the destroyer droned again.

‘No,’ the tech-priest told him. ‘The lancet windows. You will hull the ship.’

Idriss Krendl looked from Stroika and the gaping barrel of his plasma culverin, to the cold machine calm of the archmagos and then to the void-filled window ports. Stepping back slowly under Stroika’s guns but backing towards the thick armourglass windows, Krendl’s half-face was contorted with rage.

‘Damn you,’ Idriss Krendl spat, ‘you cursed machine.’

‘I am as my Omnissiah made me,’ Omnid Torquora told the Iron Warrior, before voxing, ‘Enginseer Zertec: you may engage the warp engines.’

The warsmith risked a glance through the lancet windows. With every moment the arkcruiser was taking him further away from the Forgebreaker.

‘All Obliteratii are ordered back to the ship,’ Idriss Krendl voxed to his Iron Warriors. ‘Immediately.’ With a half-snarl, the warsmith was obscured by a lead-coloured maelstrom. About him a hole was being torn in reality. The ferocity of the warp intruded momentarily as Idriss Krendl teleported off the bridge.

Getting to his feet, Omnid Torquora stomped forward towards the lancet screens. Haldron-44 Stroika remained still, his weaponry still pointing at the spot from which his Iron Warriors tormentor had vanished. Torquora looked out of the lancet ports, his optics zeroing in on the Forgebreaker sitting under the guns of the Dark Mechanicum grand cruisers after its betrayal and seeming attack upon one of their number.

<Archmagos.>

<Yes, Primus Phobal,> Torquora said. <Report.>

<The Iron Warriors are gone, my lord,> the skitarii commander said. <The rest of the boarders are fleeing in their craft.>

<Let them go,> Torquora said. The tech-priest saw the shimmer of the arkcruiser’s Geller field envelop the ship in a bubble of reality as an amaranthine vortex opened in the void before the Maestrale. <Prepare for warp translation.>

Moments later, the Adeptus Mechanicus arkcruiser was gone.

1010

SELECTED: DENTRICA I OF I
ENGAGE NEURAL CONGRESS – WIRELESS AUTOSHUNT ACQUIRED
UPLOADING… +THE VIRTUES OF IGNORANCE+

The orbital barge descended.

Below it, a colossal fragment of planetary debris tumbled through the blackness of space. Having punched through the immaterial static of a newly erupted warp storm, the gigantic shard of rock continued its journey through the dark and frozen void.

As the barge came in to land, it became apparent that the planetary fragment still possessed life. While the underside was rocky and frozen, the strip of surface still retained buildings, towers, vanes and even a reactor that sizzled and spat with unnatural energy. The shattered remains of forge temples crowned the accretion of crooked ventscrapers, dark installations and workshops that glowed with infernal industry. The Thunderfane was a derelict shadow of what it once had been, with half the temple palace missing and much of the rest a tottering wreck. Still, bleak lamps indicated that someone or something resided in its unhallowed halls.

The orbital barge’s landing gears extended and with a roaring whoosh the baroque vessel put down on a shattered industrial mosaic – the kind that had adorned the quads and freightways of Satzica Secundus when the forge world had been whole. Steam hissed about the landed craft.

As the barge doors descended on their hydraulic struts to form a ramp, vanguard skitarii of the Oriak Scintillians, IV Column, streamed from the compartments with their radium carbines. As the skitarii exited the barge in two lines, fanning around left and right to surround and protect the craft, their rad-censers crackled with the lethal aura of radiation they carried with them.

With the barge secure, rangers of the Xerrawatt 6-17 Panoptrica moved out at a synchronised lope, their galvanic rifles up to their optics and their dispersal clean. Thunking down the ramp, Omnid Torquora followed them in his armoured suit. He was flanked by Haldron-44 Stroika trundling on his tracks on one side and Primus Vintegar-4 Phobal on the other.

With half of the crackling Scintillians remaining behind to hold a perimeter around the barge, the other half escorted the archmagos and their alpha primus. With the rangers criss-crossing shattered freightways and moving through dark, derelict and twisted buildings, the Adeptus Mechanicus made their way through what was left of Satzica Secundus.

As Omnid Torquora had told the misguided electromancers of the Luminen, the forge world of Satzica Secundus had been lost. As soon as the first Geller Device had been detonated, their home world had been doomed. With immaterial energies travelling back down the warp trails of the Adeptus Mechanicus fleet, a warp storm had erupted around Satzica as the Great Gyre had done about Velchanos Magna. The appearance and allegiance of the Satzican fleet had confirmed that the forge world had fallen to hereteks and the influence of fell entities of the warp. The priests of Satzica Secundus had become what they had always detested – members of the Dark Mechanicum.

By the appearance of the twisted architecture that surrounded them and the ruinous glyphs and sigils that adorned the metal and stone, Torquora knew that he had done the right thing in detonating the second Geller Device. Calibrating the aethyric bomb to detonate with ten times the potency of the first, the archmagos had known it would intensify the warp storm around Satzica Secundus and destroy the planet at its epicentre. Torquora still had business however with what remained of Satzica Secundus, and had searched for shattered remnants of the planet being carried out of the warp storm by the force of its explosive destruction.

As the rangers moved through the twisted ruins, Torquora noted how fat cables running from the warp-fuelled reactor powered towering, heretek technologies that created an artificial gravity, regulated temperature and established an atmosphere. Torquora knew there must be priests on the tumbling shard but all his rangers seemed to find were hideously deformed feral servitors and plagues of gremlids.

Marching up the main freightway, Torquora had Phobal send the Xerrawatt 6-17 Panoptrica on ahead. As they explored the desolate shard they found servitors feasting on downed power cables and warped automata that stood frozen and lifeless.

<My rangers have found something, my lord,> Vintegar-4 Phobal informed Torquora.

<Lead on,> the archmagos said.

With the Oriak Scintillians crackling by their side and Stroika turning in his turret, watching for activity in the ruins, the Adeptus Mechanicus commanders came to the mighty doors of the half-demolished Thunderfane. One of the great doors was twisted half off its huge hinges and allowed access into the forge temple.

The Thunderfane’s mighty industry was long gone. It was no more than a shattered ceremonial shell now. As the skitarii rangers had discovered, however, the forge temple’s shell harboured life. The demolished halls and tottering staircases were haunted by shrieking priests. Things that hid the rewards of their daemonic pacts beneath their black robes and screeched corrupted code throughout the echoing ruins. Spider-legged daemon engines sat dormant in corners. Possessed cherubim flew through the demolished halls in small flocks, disturbed by the arrival of Torquora’s skitarii.

Moving through leaning arches and under ceilings held up with warped braces, the Adeptus Mechanicus explored the temple of damned constructs. Following Primus Phobal, his hydraulic steps pounding the shattered marble to dust, Torquora arrived in a chamber he recognised. With wraith-like priests appearing briefly at balconies, crooked archways and derelict openings before code-shrieking away, the hall had the appearance of a throne room. While larger than the other semi-collapsed chambers, it was a mere vestibule compared to the throne room the Thunderfane once boasted.

In the centre of the chamber was a foil curtain, splattered with filth and oil, that ran on a scaffold around a central feature. Warp-encrusted cables ran through the smashed flooring and under the curtain. Through the foil, Torquora could see the slightest crackle and glow of power. As two rangers pulled the curtains apart they revealed the twisted horror of a throne. Four fusion towers made up the corners of the throne and it was from these that Torquora had detected the faint traces of energy.

Suddenly the cables and lines through which one of the rangers stepped whipped around the skitarii soldier’s boots. Like prehensile tendrils, the dark throne entangled the ranger’s limbs and dragged him through the foil curtain.

As the second ranger lifted his galvanic rifle, Primus Phobal ordered him back. Inside the foil curtain there was screaming. A bloody steam rose from the enclosure and the fusion columns crackled to life.

Aiming his torsion cannon at the scaffold and foil curtain, Omnid Torquora tore the structure away. Within, the ranger had been pulled into the throne. The mechanism seemed to be feeding off the Motive Force that passed through the skitarii soldier’s workings and base organics. Feasting on the energy stored in his chassis reactor and the very life force of the ranger, the damned technology of the throne drained the unfortunate construct and allowed the shell of his war-plate and helm to topple and crash in a steaming heap before it. The throne’s fusion columns lit up, crackling with the scavenged energies. Lamps about the chamber came to life and grew in fell intensity.

‘Omnid Torquora, is that you…’

The steel hiss of the voice was everywhere, crackling from dusty vox-hailers set in the vestibule walls.

‘It is I, Fabricator General.’

Once Voricar Trega had ruled from the Thunderfane’s temple throne. It had been his literal seat of power on Satzica Secundus – the rumour being that all of the forge world’s power ran through the Fabricator General at one time or another. Torquora realised that the throne was all that was left of the ancient tech-priest now. A ruinous trap waiting to bleed unsuspecting constructs or scavengers dry of energy.

‘It is good to see you, Omnid,’ the mad machine hissed.

‘I cannot say the same, Fabricator General,’ Torquora told it before turning to Primus Phobal. <If Voricar Trega is here then so is what we seek. Have your skitarii search what’s left of this palace. Go.>

As Vintegar-4 Phobal and his rangers ventured into side chambers and derelict halls, the throne spoke again.

‘Come closer, my friend…’

‘I think not, my lord,’ the tech-priest said. ‘In my absence it seems that you have been keeping company with others. Hereteks, otherworldly entities and Traitor Angels of the Iron Warriors.’

The throne did nothing at first but hiss through the vox-hailers and crackle unnatural energies from its columns.

‘Omnid,’ the Fabricator General said. ‘My priests always warned me about you. They said explorators were wayward souls who bring doom on their home forges.’

‘They were not wrong, my lord,’ Torquora said.

‘Omnid,’ Trega hissed. ‘What have you done?’

‘I have destroyed two forge worlds of the Adeptus Mechanicus, Fabricator General,’ Torquora admitted. ‘Yours included – all in the name of the Omnissiah.’

<My lord,> Primus Phobal said, appearing at an archway. <We’ve found it.>

Torquora turned to Haldron-44 Stroika.

‘If that thing moves,’ the tech-priest said, ‘destroy it.’

Following the skitarii officer through partially demolished chambers, Torquora was led into a vaulted half-hall, the shattered doorway flanked by two of his rangers. Inside Torquora found a reliquary of ruinous technologies and ancient data. At the heart of the hoard, dormant and disassembled, was the forge temple’s towering High Altar of Knowledge. Warped and twisted now, it sat amongst other damned treasures that had been saved from the destruction of Satzica Secundus.

Toppled over and spilling its contents was a containment ark that Torquora knew. Directing Phobal, the tech-priest had the skitarii commander pass him the shattered STC template contained inside. The template used to create the Geller Device. The template the tech-priest had found on Perborea. The template Idriss Krendl had left aboard the Stella-Xenithica for Torquora to find.

<Have your men set their charges,> Torquora said to Phobal. <We’re going to destroy all of this and blow the temple off this piece of rock.>

<Understood, sir,> the alpha primus said. <Permission to clarify.>

<Granted, primus.>

<Forgive my ignorance,> Phobal asked, <but does not that constitute an act of heresy, my lord? We are taught that the Machine-God requires us to better ourselves for His coming. That the holy Quest for Knowledge is part of that and the data and technology retrieved is the supreme manifestation of His divinity. You hold there an STC template, one of the most valuable discoveries in the galaxy.>

Torquora looked down at the broken template. It contained the schematics of a technological boon that in the wrong hands could be – and had been – turned into a terrible weapon. Torquora could not allow such insanity to go on. Both the Adeptus Mechanicus and the Dark Mechanicum sought ancient technologies, forbidden knowledge and gifts long forgotten. The bottomless hunger for knowledge and power that afflicted both groups meant that their desire to unearth and experiment would one day destroy the galaxy.

Like the radicals he had encountered in the Emperor’s Holy Inquisition who followed their organisations in spirit but whose extreme approaches led to them being branded heretics by members of their own kind, Torquora would have to endure such accusations.

<I believe in the Quest for Knowledge,> Torquora told the skitarii commander. <That is the Great Maker’s path. But if it is heresy to save the galaxy from knowledge that would destroy it, then yes, I am a heretic. Think on this. The Omnissiah asks of us the virtues of both creation and destruction. There is virtue in knowledge but there is also virtue in ignorance.

<We must find these treasures before they are discovered by priests from our own ranks or those of the Dark Mechanicum. No priest or Fabricator is trustworthy enough; no vault is safe enough for some of these apocalyptic technologies. Only in destroying them can we ensure that the galaxy is truly safe for the servants of the Omnissiah. The data on this template has been destroyed on Velchanos Magna, it has been destroyed on the meme-banks of my own artisans and magi and now, Machine-God willing, you will destroy it here.> The skitarii commander nodded as Torquora handed the template back to him. <Lay your charges, alpha primus.>

‘Omnid, Omnid, Omnid, Omnid,’ the vox-hailers hissed as the tech-priest made his way back through the throne room. ‘You cannot leave me here…’

‘My lord,’ Torquora told the monstrous throne, ‘you sent a fleet from my own forge world to aid your Iron Warrior allies and destroy me. I have returned the sentiment. On the edge of the warp storm above, my ships have detected Idriss Krendl’s fleet. I knew he would come. He is searching for Satzica Secundus – which he will not find. He will soon learn that I have deprived him of a forge world not once, but twice. He will also learn that as soon as I escaped him at Velchanos Magna, I sent astrotelepathic word of the Iron Warriors’ presence here to the Imperial Fists Space Marines, stationed aboard the Phalanx near Ancient Terra and Mars. Their battlefleet should arrive on the outskirts of the warp storm shortly.’

Omnid Torquora looked to Haldron-44 Stroika’s blank features. The destroyer returned the gaze. ‘I estimate a seventy-two point four-seven-six per cent probability that Idriss Krendl and his Iron Warriors will be destroyed, which is better odds than you and that Traitor Angel gave me.’

<Charges planted, my lord,> Primus Phobal said, leading out his rangers. As Stroika and the tech-priest went to leave, flanked by vanguard skitarii soldiers, Omnid Torquora turned one last time to the thing that had been his Fabricator General.

‘Despair not, my lord,’ Torquora said. ‘When contacting the Imperial Fists, I look the liberty of naming the storm that took our home world. It is called Trega’s Folly. Your legacy lives on – even if you will not. As you correctly observe, I cannot just leave you here. Better that you are not here to leave at all.’

As the archmagos, his hench-unit and his skitarii escort made their way back to the orbital barge, what was left of the Thunderfane exploded. Bringing a little light to the blackness of the void, the derelict forge temple rained grit down across the shard. Fires swept through the ruins and the shrieks of burning priests could be heard some distance away.

Before filing back aboard the barge, Primus Phobal and his skitarii soldiers escorted the tech-priest back to the ramp. As Haldron-44 Stroika stopped his tracks on the incline, Omnid Torquora waited. It was the last time any of them would stand on the surface of Satzica Secundus. He looked at the decimated forge temple and thought of the dangerous knowledge burning there. Knowledge that could threaten the galaxy no longer.

‘That’s one,’ the tech-priest told Stroika, as the pair of them ascended the ramp.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rob Sanders is the author of ‘The Serpent Beneath’, a novella that appeared in the New York Times bestselling Horus Heresy anthology The Primarchs. His other Black Library credits include the Warhammer 40,000 titles Adeptus Mechanicus: Skitarius and Tech-Priest, Legion of the Damned, Atlas Infernal and Redemption Corps and the audio drama The Path Forsaken, along with the Warhammer Archaon duology, Everchosen and Lord of Chaos along with many Quick Reads for the Horus Heresy and Warhammer 40,000. He lives in the city of Lincoln, UK.

An extract from Skitarius.

The snow and ice were red. Not with blood, though the constant exchange of noospheric chatter between Haldron-44 Stroika’s receivers and the explorator arkcruiser Maestrale told him that there was a 94.767 per cent chance that they eventually would be. Now, they were red with algae. The deep freeze of Perborea allowed little light down to the surface, but what gloom made it through the maelstrom fuelled the blooms that streaked the ice world’s face.

Stroika was skitarii – from the hydraulics of his legs and the revolving joints of his arm-appendages to the acknowledged frailty of his flesh. He was as the Machine-God continued to make him. Forge-raised on Satzica Secundus, Stroika had followed the patient path of protocol and worked his way up through the hierarchy of cogs.

<Secondary target identified,> Stroika reported.

Stroika’s cranial engineering sizzled with the static of an uplinked intrusion. Sound that bypassed the ears. Visions that were experienced by the mind and not the eye. Binaric cant, novabyte and noospheric blurts overlaid one upon the other, neuro-synced straight into the brain. Orbital magna-picts, sensory feeds and holo-diagrammaticals dropped from the explorator arkcruiser above, like a thunderbolt, straight into the skitarius’s mind.

The streamed doctrina imperatives all carried the authorisations of Magos Omnid Torquora, but Stroika experienced the intrusion as the pure will of the Machine-God. All forge-worlders, from the Fabricator General to the lowliest servitor, made up the Corpus Mechanicus – glorifying the Machine-God Incarnate with their artifice, both in their workings and their base organics. The Omnissiah found expression in and acted through them all. This was the Motive Force; the holy transference of data and instruction down through the stratified ranks of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

Stroika – like all the skitarii of his legion – was possessed of a fraction of the Machine-God. He was one of a billion, billion parts working in magnificent union and harmony. It was through the priesthood and techno-magi of the Cult Mechanicus that the Omnissiah made His needs and wishes known. As hosts of the Machine-God’s unquestioned divinity, the magi spoke the word of the god, in His many favoured cants and streams. Stroika felt his doctrinal wetware respond.

<This mission has been blessed, Stroika-unit,> Magos Torquora told the skitarii officer. <By the cog that turns. By the oil that eases. By the spark that leaps. We do the Great Maker’s work here. This most holy of missions does not allow for complications. You understand me, Stroika-unit? Identify the secondary target. To break with me and the mission is to break with Him. Receive of His blessing and remember all that you have achieved in His name. Know that you will achieve so much more.>

In the great gears of the Mechanicus machine – the machine that made war in the name of indomitable progress and majesty reclaimed – the fighting constructs of the Omnissiah became greater than their parts. Haldron-44 Stroika had striven to become greater still.

Stroika remembered. He reviewed a lifetime in service to the Machine-God. How he had been a star-gazing menial, whose weak flesh was a blueprint of tattoos depicting the holy bionics and augmentations he had dreamed of one day possessing. He remembered a miserable eternity as a citizen-factotum and his subcutaneous electronic bar codes that burned with accumulated tallies and commendations. As an auxilia forge-sentinel, blessed with his first augmetics, he had been given the honour of guarding isotope scrap depot 3-64-63.

His record of off-world service in the numberless ranks of the Legiones Skitarii would have been a credit to any cybernetic soldier of the Cult Mechanicus. As sub-alpha, princeps and alpha he had led clade units of his own. He had earned the Crux Mechanicus and had risen through the ranks. Now, with a small legion his to command, he was Alpha Primus Haldron-44 Stroika of the Deuteron-IV Praetori, seconded to the infamous explorator Omnid Torquora.

Stroika’s attachment of Sicarian infiltrators, selected from his expeditionary legion for the mission, were spindly silhouettes in the snowstorm. The integrated senses of his helm immersed Stroika in a blizzard of data. Omnispectral lenses and bleak optics filtered the red static of the storm. His acquisition reticules fixed on the outline of each of the skitarii soldier-operatives in turn, cycling through radiant energy wavelengths. Stroika’s cogitae cores decrypted and processed the different datastreams fed back to him through the arkcruiser’s phylactix.

The Primus experienced the ice world as no one man of mere flesh and blood could. He saw his column of infiltrators from orbit. Through the arkcruiser’s arrays he acquired the meagre heat of the skitarii organics and the power signatures of their bionics on the razored apex of the icy ridge. High-gain antennae from a swarm of disposable probes returned to him the data-betrayal of the killclade’s own voxmissions and uplink designations. He felt the air-to-ground surveyor pulses of the Mechanicus Sky Talon holding position kilometres above them. He became one with the auspectral returns of the Onager Dunecrawlers that had transported them across the desolate ice plains. The simultaneous datastreams met in Stroika and gave the skitarii commander a holo-dimensional fix on their position. All this, Stroika processed through the busy warmth of his cranial cortex.

The Sicarians of the Infiltroriad-Spuria~660 fired the climbing spikes of their cloven metal feet, making progress up the frost-shattered ridge. They were led by the detachment’s commander, Princeps Talus-Spuria I/X, who – like his infiltrators – advanced with his right-hand weapons-cradle collapsed and locked to his back.

The soldiers moved with a hydraulic choreography, bionics trudging in unison and their mantid gait in sympathy with the leading princeps. To Stroika, Talus-Spuria I/X and his nine other infiltrators appeared like long-legged insects, from their gangling advance to the dome of their helmets and bulbous optics.

<Princeps, all stop,> Stroika streamed.

His order received an immediate response. The infiltrators became still, like figures frozen in a pict. Standing like statues on the ridge, dusted with red snow, the skitarii and their princeps awaited further orders.

Bringing the metal digits of a bionic gauntlet to the side of his helm, Haldron-44 Stroika made a series of delicate adjustments to otherwise chunky instrumentation. A crest-holder ran transversally across the top of the helmet: the demicog of a Primus. The vanes and crenellations of the plume crackled with the flow of transmitted data. The silky foil of his officer’s greatcloak, the rust-red of Mars, flapped behind him in the storm, acting as a receptor-threaded receiver.

Haldron-44 Stroika felt the presence of the Omnissiah echo through him. Through his neurocircuitry. Through the synaptic flash of sparks between his brain cells. Through his very soul.

The mind of the Primus flashed with orbital auspectra, static-grained captures and holodiagrammatic representations. Binary streamed through his thoughts, while data-layered codemissions and the cacophonous cant of lingua-technis laced through him. Stroika became momentarily one with the downlink and saw the energy signatures of his targets moving across the blood-streaked ice of the valley. Several kilometres ahead of them, the data-visitation revealed a large life form. No doubt something the targets were stalking whilst Stroika and his infiltrators in turn hunted them.

Silhouettes of codified fauna native to Perborea flashed up beside the energy signature. Another gift from Magos Torquora and the Maestrale. None seemed to match the form, however. This didn’t surprise Stroika, as Perborea Prime, being a backwater ball of ice in a hazardous system, was not a well-documented world.

<Secondary target unknown,> Stroika streamed back to the arkcruiser, his thoughts piggy-backing the phylactic shunt between the skitarii, the Onager Dunecrawler, the Sky Talon and the Maestrale. <Collating…>

Crunching up through the ice, weaving through the column of skitarii, Haldron-44 Stroika assumed position on the razored ridge. Looking down through the bloody, howling maelstrom into the valley below, the Primus could barely make out their targets. Magnocular lenses on his helm whirred to focus and filters cycled but the targets were still just a signatured blur through the blizzard.

Stroika lifted his left arm. It was an augmented appendage terminating in the bionics of an armoured gauntlet, and he held it up like a feudal world lord flying a bird of prey. Instead of a raptor, however, the skitarii officer carried an infoslave servo-skull which bore the designation Phrenos~361. The construct was fashioned after the Cog Mechanicus, being half bone and half cogitator. A cog turned about the skull like the rings of a gas giant, spinning in place on a magnetic field. The barrel of an arc blaster protruded from the servo-skull’s under-jaw, ready to drop and lock in firing position. A bundle of prehensile interface cables drooped down from the stub of Phrenos~361’s spine, anchoring it to Stroika’s arm.

<Get me a visual,> Stroika ordered, launching Phrenos~361 into the crystal-cold air. The servo-skull retracted its serpentine cables, its rotating cog speeding to a magnetically accelerated blur. Angling the blade-cog about it, Phrenos~361 was able to fly down the side of the ridge. Stroika watched the drone surge away. Cycling through the optical arrays of its augmented eye-sockets, Phrenos~361 transmitted a pict feed of its progress across the algae-streaked ice. The servo-skull’s data was uploaded to a visualisation processor in Stroika’s mind.

Buffeted by the streaming blizzard of red, Phrenos~361 cut through the freezing maelstrom, closing on the targets. Shapes smudged into the storm became silhouettes. Phrenos~361 counted twenty-three in total, the outline of each figure searing to brightness before fading away as the servo-skull catalogued them. In the main the column was made up of lumbering brutes, buried in ragged skins and furs. They pushed their exhausted carcasses on, leading with the jutting underbite of their tusk-crowded jaws.

Smaller, sinewy creatures struggled through the red drift about them, large noses protruding from hoods and the shredded cast-offs of their brute compatriots. Phrenos~361 flashed through the outlines of individual limbs and a stream of data analysing bodily proportion and ratio. The dimensions of the figures confirmed what Stroika already knew. Their targets were xenos. They were greenskins.

<Proceed,> the Primus ordered, prompting the servo-skull to move on.

Haldron-44 Stroika had extensive experience of orks. His service record indicated 2,372 confirmed greenskin kills across a range of warzones, but he had never encountered xenos such as these before. The creatures he had expertly despatched on Antioq, Ptolomae Phall and Phaeta Secunda were monsters in love with their godless machines and the devastating capabilities of their primitive xenos technologies.

The column of fur-shaggy aliens Phrenos~361 hovered above sported no such developments. The greenskins were barbarians in the truest sense of the word. They dripped with simple jewellery: bones, teeth and scavenged shiny objects, threaded through their ears, lips and green flesh. The only protection they boasted was the resilience of their monstrous frames and the furs that hunched their backs, trailing red through the snow. Their only weapons seemed to be simple stabbers and choppers, crafted from crude pieces of recovered scrap – dagger shards, spear-sharpened struts and axes fashioned from twisted metal.

The greenskin savages didn’t seem to notice Phrenos~361, who surged ahead of the loping column through the streaming snow. The pict feed relayed back to Stroika showed little more than the red static of the valley floor. Finally, the servo-skull closed in on a larger creature. The blur of the alien monstrosity seared into focus as Phrenos~361 advanced as close as it dared.

The creature’s outline flashed up against a cycling catalogue of potential matches but in the end the Mechanicus survey files failed to identify the beast. Bigger than a Dunecrawler or tracked conveyer, the beast slid through the snow and ice like a slug, warming the freeze beneath it to create a slippery trail that carried its bulk. Its blubbery body was covered with a carpet of shaggy hair while its head was decorated with a quartet of antlers. A thin membrane extended between the network of prongs, filtering the howling gales of their red bounty. Trapped algae funnelled down through the hollow antlers and feeding tubes into the alien herbivore.

<Data collated. Threat assessed,> Stroika told Magos Torquora. <Conclusion: non-threatening. Mission proceeding.>

<Diagnostiquorum consulted,> Torquora told him. <Assessment confirmed… wait… parsing…>

<Magos?>

Stroika’s mind became a kaleidoscope of alerts and warnings. Data-feeds and hologrammaticals told him that an inbound meteorite was due to impact in the vicinity. Perborea was a crowded system, awash with debris and the planetary wreckage of ongoing calamities. Several such impacts had struck the mountains and the Maestrale had suffered collision damage from a number of close encounters.

<Incoming,> Stroika transmitted to his infiltrator clade. The gangly skitarii went down on one knee in unquestioning choreography. The Primus joined them as a meteorite – bright and white – blazed through the sky overhead. It narrowly missed the ridge upon which they were positioned. Following the path of the meteorite, Stroika’s cogitators and targeters flashed estimated trajectories through his mind. He watched it strike the valley floor. A red cloud rocketed angrily for the sky, with a blast wave radiating out from the crater.

<Brace for impact,> the skitarii officer ordered. His modulations were calm but insistent. As the blizzard died about them and the wall of snow and fury roared up the valley side, the Sicarian infiltrators shot anchors and cables into ice at their feet. <Three… Two… One… Impact.>

Haldron-44 Stroika felt the blast wave hit him. The elemental force almost took him from his feet – as it would have done for the rest of his skitarii, but for the anchors that kept the spindly soldiers from flailing away. With his greatcloak whipping about him, Stroika reviewed his sizzling feeds. The greenskins had marched on with indifference through the screeching turmoil of ice and snow. Several of their diminutive attendants had been blown some distance away, their rags catching the force of the blast like kites. The Primus watched Phrenos~361’s pict feed pitch wildly as the servo-skull fought to ride out the storm.

As the howling impact hissed to a stop, Stroika and the Infiltroriad-Spuria~660 found themselves submerged in a thick, bloody haze of ice and algae. The meteorite crash had kicked up colossal amounts of snow into the atmosphere. Stroika knew that if he didn’t act swiftly, his greenskin targets would become lost to him. He was not the only one to come to such a conclusion, although it was difficult – and pointless – attempting to separate thoughts of his own from those visited upon him by his tech-priest master up in orbit. In the end, they were all gifts of the Machine-God, regardless of the mind from which they originated.

<Reacquire targets,> Omnid Torquora ordered. <Priority one.>

Stroika acknowledged the order with the noospheric blurt of a salute.

<You heard the magos,> Stroika told Talus-Spuria I/X and his infiltrators, <and through him the Great Maker. Reacquire the targets. Triple-time it.>

With the clunk of climbing anchors released from the ice and whipping back on their cables, the princeps and the Infiltroriad-Spuria~660 launched themselves over the frost-shattered ridge. Reaching out with the fingers of a gauntlet to steady himself, Haldron-44 Stroika followed, skidding down the valley side after them with his greatcloak flapping. The blood-red snow of the slope streamed about the skitarii officer and in his descending wake.

SELECTED: DENTRICA II OF III
ENGAGE NEURAL CONGRESS – WIRELESS AUTOSHUNT ACQUIRED
UPLOADING… +BASE FLESH+

Stroika could hear the wails of the beast. As his skitarii had zeroed in on their targets, cloaked by the red mist of the meteorite impact, the greenskins had closed on their own.

Holding some distance away through the bloody haze, Stroika and the infiltrators were rejoined by the servo-skull Phrenos~361. The drone whirred to a stop, landing on the Primus’s gauntlet and securing itself with the prehensile grip of its snaking cables. The skitarii officer’s clicking optics revolved slowly to focus, overlaying filter upon filter. In false-colour horror, Stroika was presented with a vision of slaughter. The greenskin savages were hacking apart the alien herbivore, burying huge, cleaver-like blades in the beast, shearing through fur, blubber and bone. The creature’s blood turned the snow to dark slush about it. It shook its antlers and emitted a mournful roar of defiance as it attempted to slide its way out of the frenetic butchery.

Stroika’s auditory equalisers rang with the valley-bounced echoes of the beast’s suffering. Infrared filters froze the warmth of blood-splatter patterns as they sprayed through the red miasma. The guttural grunts and bellows of the greenskins were cross-referenced for linguistic origin.

Talus-Spuria I/X and his skitarii held position on the ice of the valley, their spindly forms masked by the haze of snow that still hung in the aftermath of the meteorite strike. With their augurs and optics, Stroika and the skitarii could see the xenos, but the savage greenskins could not see them. The Machine-God abhorred waste, however, and Talus-Spuria I/X had his soldier-operatives run firing protocols, preparatory targeting solutions and xenos data-files, ensuring that when the time did come to engage the enemy, they were as ready as they could be. Kill-shots had already been calculated. Trajectories had been calibrated. Probabilities had been processed. These, augmented by the flexibility, invention and natural instincts of their base flesh, made the Omnissiah’s servants deadly opponents in waiting.

Haldron-44 Stroika watched. Recorded. Monitored. The greenskins finished the miserable alien herbivore before hacking the beast to pieces. They took huge slabs of skinned meat and shaggy fur over their shoulders while their servant creatures dragged antler, bone and the harvested delicacy of internal organs. Little was wasted and by the time the feral hunting party was done, all that remained was a mound of steaming entrails.

<Proceed?> Talus-Spuria I/X transmitted.

<As you were, princeps,> the Primus sent back.

The infiltrators tracked their quarry along the valley and up through a labyrinth of steep-sided ice ravines. The greenskins’ progress was slow but indomitable, while the miasma of blizzard-quelling meteorite impacts helped to mask the presence of the Infiltroriad-Spuria~660. Like skeletal spirits, rimed in red and ice, the skitarii haunted the xenos, matching them step for step, calibrating their own advance to maintain a consistent distance between them and their targets.

Breaking out across a new ice field, Stroika and his skitarii trailed the greenskins to a crooked mountain that reared in isolation from the frozen plain. The outline of the mountain flashed in the optic overlays of Haldron-44 Stroika’s helmet. Angles extended beyond the structure and data streamed down beside the imposing form of the red peak.

<Are you receiving this, magos?> Stroika said.

<Processing,> Omnid Torquora transmitted back from the Maestrale. <The diagnostiquorum concur. It looks favourable, Stroika-unit.>

<Sir,> Talus-Spuria I/X said.

<We have lost the xenos?>

<Yes, Primus,> Talus-Spuria I/X returned. <Solonoid-Spuria IV/X confirms that the xenos have entered a tunnel in the mountainside.>

<Magos,> Stroika said, <I am requesting authorisation to proceed.>

<Granted,> Omnid Torquora told him. <Clarification required. The Omnissiah demands it.>

<Secure the tunnel, princeps,> Stroika ordered.

The infiltrators observed their instructions with simultaneous urgency. The light hydraulics of their cloven legs helped them to bound through the red snow at speed. Stroika’s own appendages brought him up behind their fanning number. His cloak streamed behind him.

<Weapons online,> Talus-Spuria I/X blurted in chuntering code. The glow of the infiltrators’ optic-arrays clunked to a brighter shade. The skitarii of the Infiltroriad-Spuria~660 extended their left arms, each holding a flechette blaster. The pistols sizzled to life. The weapons-cradles that replaced their right arms unfolded, extending from where they had been collapsed and locked behind their shoulder joints. Each formed the hydraulic arm and pivot-cradle of a close combat weapon. The infiltrators were armed with taser goads that crackled with voltaic lethality.

As the skitarii infiltrators split into two fast-advancing columns, Haldron-44 Stroika launched Phrenos~361 once more into the air. The servo-skull’s cog-blade whirred silently to a blur, carrying the drone forward to scout the tunnel. With his cloak rippling behind him, Stroika thrust the hydraulics of his bionic arms out, forcing two arc pistols to slide down their length on rails. As the chunky pistols clunked into palm locks, the skitarii commander settled his thumbs back around their grip-interfacia and brought the weapons to crackling life.

<Skitarii,> Stroika transmitted to the infiltrators. <Honour the machine. Be as its parts, working in harmony, in blessed unison, as one.>

The Infiltroriad-Spuria~660 filed into the ragged entrance cut into the ice wall. The algae-threaded freeze gave way to darkness. This mattered little to Stroika and the skitarii. Their augurs and optics fizzled as their visual filters allowed them to probe the depths of the tunnel. Stroika’s feeds recorded the drop in temperature and the changing gradient. They were descending.

The Primus trudged down the centre of the passage, his heavier hydraulics chewing up the ice floor. Infiltrators padded along the walls of the tunnel in two columns, leading the way with the silencers of their pistols. While their combat chassis design offered their base organics ample protection, it was still a lighter designation, suiting their allotted role.

Phrenos~361 had drifted far ahead of the unit, almost catching up to the meat-lugging greenskins. Relaying pict feeds back to its master, each presenting some enhancement or capture of note, the servo-skull showed the xenos disappearing into a ragged metal opening at the end of the tunnel. The rust and twisted serrations made the opening appear like a mouth swallowing the greenskin monsters.

The Mechanicus tech-priests and soldiers formed a shunting chain of hallowed transmissions. Stroika and the infiltrators experienced the mission through the servo-skull’s optics, as Magos Torquora and his diagnostiquorum experienced it through them. The Omnissiah monitored the glorious progress of His servants through every feed, stream and imperative passing between them.

<Vessel located, magos,> Haldron-44 Stroika said. <Praise the Omnissiah.> The skitarii officer regretted the invocation immediately. His rising heart rate and the flush of hormones recorded in his bloodstream smacked of pride and self-congratulatory relief.

<You will be informed when the mission is completed, Stroika-unit,> Omnid Torquora sent back. <When it has met its designated goals to the satisfaction of your priestly betters and to the greater glory of the Machine-God.>

<Understood, magos,> the Primus transmitted. He felt his mind flood with the phylactic intrusion of the priesthood. Like a scope brought to focus or an instrument recalibrated, Stroika felt the trivialities of wayward impulse fade. He felt the procession of sentiments warm from the heart run cold. His mind seared to precision and necessity. The cloud of thoughts and feelings afflicting brain and flesh dissipated, sizzling to the demand of his cerebral systems: targeting data, ballistics and acquisition reticules.

He was no longer Stroika, forge-worlder, proud servant of the Mechanicus and commander with care for both his skitarii and his techno-magi overlords. He was Stroika the living weapon. A cold equation, an eventuality to be delivered, an instrument of divine artifice and design. He was sync-slaved – synapse and engram – to a higher purpose. An instrument of the holy Motive Force.

<Probability that the vessel is the Stella-Xenithica, 17.877 per cent,> Torquora informed him.

Geometrics and augur scans of the isolated mountain flashed through Stroika’s neural engrams and processors. Now the Infiltroriad-Spuria~660 had tracked the xenos back to their ice caves, the Maestrale had been able to narrow its search for a vessel long crashed on Perborea and buried in ice. Only the colossal craft’s mighty prow now protruded above the frozen plateau, in the shape of the crooked mountain. The arkcruiser’s ice-penetrating augurs had given Omnid Torquora and the diagnostiquorum the vessel’s estimated shape and dimensions.

<Probability that the vessel is the Stella-Xenithica, 42.112 per cent,> Torquora said.

The Sicarian infiltrators waited either side of the opening, where the warped metal met the ice. As Phrenos~361 glided through the crumpled superstructure of the ancient vessel, the servo-skull projected a broad shaft of hologrammatic light that felt its way through the ruin. Walls were rust-mulched fragility clinging to the skeletal structure of the vessel’s girders and decking, giving the inside the appearance of a dripping cave or the burnt-out interior of a leviathan’s ribcage. Phrenos~361 moved quietly through the freeze, optics whirring, scan-shaft buzzing. New instruments emerged from its cranium. In the distance, echoing through the tortured architecture of the craft’s vast interior, the drone’s vox-corder isolated the sounds of the greenskins. The monsters were dragging their prize back to the feral tribe that had made the wreckage their home.

Phrenos~361 stopped to repeat a scan, augmenting with filtered optics and captures. The servo-skull had been scanning for positive idents, fixtures and serial numbers. Anything that might help the Mechanicus confirm the vessel as the fabled Stella-Xenithica. A series of digits flashed through Stroika’s mind. It was a serial mark on a trunk distribution pipe, something that had largely escaped the ravages of time and temperature. Something recently uncovered by the soggy collapse of a rust-eaten wall. Stroika’s stubby vanes relayed the find to the Maestrale. Even as he did, he could tell from the archaic numeration that the serial number was old and it was Martian.

<…Positive identification confirmed,> Omnid Torquora told Stroika. The explorator’s voice was cool and steely, betraying nothing of the excitement Stroika knew the magos must be feeling. <Our search is over. The serial confirms the vessel’s origin. The Martian shipyards. The holy Ring of Iron. Cross-referencing the manifests, I am ready to declare this wondrous find as the Stella-Xenithica, Terran colony ship, bound for the Autrega System, lost in the void. Probability 99.678 per cent. Blessed be the number. We give thanks for our certainty. Stroika-unit – secure this hallowed artefact and its secrets.>

<Phrenos~361,> Stroika transmitted, prompting the servo-skull to glide around. <Survey the vessel and report findings.>

The drone turned and, with its revolving cog-blade accelerating about it, drifted off down the passage, scanning and pict-cataloguing the find.

<Skitarii,> the Primus addressed the infiltrators. <We stand before the artifice of our Martian magi and forefathers. Its sacred design, the wonder of its workings and the consecration of ancient iron is ours to claim in the name of the Omnissiah, for it is He who guided Magos Torquora to this place of rediscovery. It is in His name that we shall purge the corruption of the xenos infestation and restore the secrets of this find to the servants of Mars.>

SELECTED: DENTRICA III OF III
ENGAGE NEURAL CONGRESS – WIRELESS AUTOSHUNT ACQUIRED
UPLOADING… +HARD DATA+

Stroika heard little of the battle. His mind was drifting on the serenity of screed and data-hymnals that proceeded from the skitarii infiltrators as they fought their way through the green alien plague. With filters and scrubbers engaged, Stroika heard the canticles of the Omnissiah.

The greenskin monstrosities and their runts, however, gripped their skulls with foetid claws and bled from their eyes and ears. Without filters, the aliens were treated to the white noise of crippling neurostatic that proceeded from the Sicarian infiltrators. Despite the veritable assault on the senses that being in the neurostatic aura entailed, the greenskins fought like mindless barbarians. Roaring through their pain and confusion, their brute faces trickle-streaked with blood, the xenos savages fought on – swinging, stabbing and bludgeoning with their primitive weapons.

Stroika leaned out of the path of a monstrous weapon. His mind burned with projections, warnings and hologrammatical trajectories. These, combined with augmented reflexes to act on such information, gave the servants of the Adeptus Mechanicus the edge they required to survive the dangers of a hostile galaxy.

While not genetically engineered for transhuman supremacy like the Adeptus Astartes, the skitarii’s blessed bionic enhancements allowed them to punch above their weight when faced with warp-spawned corruption or the savagery of the alien. For the Cult Mechanicus, there was a tool for every job and a job for every tool. The advanced weaponry, cybernetic resilience and sensory superiority of the skitarii meant that they were invariably that tool. Whether it was the garrisoning of forge worlds and fabricator moons, the merciless punishment of techno-heresy or crusading for that most precious of commodities – data – the Legiones Skitarii were both the tool and the weapon of choice.

Beneath the armour plating, the battleware and bionics, however, there were men. Men who had been butchered in the Machine-God’s name, serving the Great Maker through their flesh, blood and augmentation. Cogitae and bioplastic wetware could do little to match the economy of base organics. For a priesthood who needed warriors who could think for themselves while unquestioningly serving the needs of the Mechanicus, however, the creativity of the human brain and fortitude of the human heart were necessary evils. For where the logic of the machine was absent, mistakes were ultimately made.

The weapon was as savage and uncouth as the orks could have made it: the thick length of a bone, inset with a cleaving blade fashioned of sharpened girder-shard. The barbarian greenskin that wielded it was not about to be lectured on the finer points of design, however. The rude blade whooshed in front of Stroika’s throat before smashing straight through Gaskii-Spuria IX/X. The Sicarian infiltrator was swept aside in a cacophonous blur of plating, hydraulics and blood. Stroika watched Gaskii-Spuria IX/X’s biometric feeds die on his optic overlays, along with the infiltrator as the green beast cleaved what was left of him down through the rusted decking.

Stroika brought up his arc pistols. Blasting streams of electricity from the weapons, the skitarius forced the brute into a retreat. The creature’s hulking frame was punched back by each arcstream burst, its green flesh smouldering to blackness.

As it lifted its monstrous pike above its head, Stroika shot the weapon from palsied green claws that smoked and crackled with the surging energies blasted through them. Stomping forward on his thick-set hydraulics, Stroika fired upon the alien again and again. Two chest-searing streams stopped the beast’s gargantuan heart, a third scorched into its forehead and broiled its brain. The xenos barbarian reeled back like some felled giant, smashing partly through the corroded decking.

From the layout, the cavernous chamber that the greenskins had chosen as their communal hovel had been some kind of flight deck. Mouldering mounds of scrap that had been long-forgotten designs of atmospheric lander littered the space, while a cargo recess in the floor served as a raging fire-pit upon which blubber-fat was burned and meat roasted. Fungal blooms grew out of the scrap and debris, thriving in the dank interior of the ice-entombed derelict.

Runts had been left in charge of preparing the feast. With their unintelligible shrieks of disorientation and alarm bouncing about the dripping darkness, barbaric green beasts and feral hunters were flooding the chamber from adjoining grottos and partially collapsed passageways. One static-enraged beast shouldered a path of destruction straight through a corroded wall.

The infiltrators met the furious rush of green muscle with suppression fire from their blasters. Flechettes thudded across the open space, shredding furs and mauling alien flesh. As the metal darts sank into the tough hide of the feral creatures, electrical signatures drew more of the darts down on the targets, savaging the orks. The greenskin monsters pushed on furiously through the white noise and flechette storm as further blasts ripped through them. Several crashed to the deck in neurostatic incapacitation. As they fell, the infiltrators finished the beasts with the stabbing blaze of their taser goads.

The flight deck flashed with roasting streams of electrical energy. As the cells of Stroika’s arc pistols drained away, he ejected the battery magazines and slammed the grips of the pistols into the thigh-loaders of his titanium legs. There spare mag-cells waited, pneumatically punched into the handgrips of the pistols upon impact.

Bringing up the pistols, Stroika blast-hammered screeching runts back into the great fire and through the weakened deck plates, down into the darkness below. Several ran for their miserable lives, forcing Stroika to shoot them in the back. He turned one into a convulsing nest of spidery arcs that smouldered on the deck, while the force of another arcstream caused an alien wretch to explode in a fountain of crackling gore.

The Sicarian infiltrators soon became stretched. Like Stroika they moved with the unflinching speed and fluidity of the machine. Acquisition reticules and calibrators danced across the darkness, zeroing in not only on enemies but on pre-calculated vulnerabilities. Information streamed. Links and feeds chuntered with the unspoken exchange of combat data. Hard-linked weaponry answered the call of targeter and xenocidal impulse.

Compatible fusions of combat hormones and serenitives were released slowly into their bloodstream, enabling the skitarii to maintain a state of battle-furious calm. Enemies were despatched with a ruthless, religious fervour. This found expression in the cold, almost automatic efficiency of their slick aim and death-dealing lack of sentiment. To an enemy the cybernetic soldiers might appear as machine-spirit guided robots, but the skitarii were more than just hydraulics, gears and processors. They hated with the hearts of men and dreamt the glories of the Omnissiah ascendant, a day when all true constructs of flesh and iron might be connected as one. A time when the Machine-God might extend His data-ravenous reach and that of His empire throughout the whole galaxy.

The greenskins came at them, the bloody beads of their eyes searing with neurostatic rage and territoriality. The ancient crash site of the Stella-Xenithica was their tribal home, possibly since their original planetary infection. They were not going to give it up or be driven out onto the merciless, algae-streaked plateaus of the ice world. The feral beasts charged, their fur-wrapped feet thundering across the quivering deck, their eyes bleeding and their jaws opened wide in fang-furious display. The beasts were gigantic and wielded bludgeoning blades fashioned from twisted struts and torn decking – huge, rude and serrated.

<Pattern Involutia,> the Primus ordered.

With stabbing, hydraulic steps, the skitarii infiltrators formed a circle, their backs to one another and the roaring fire. Their blasters punched through the darkness beyond, ripping through hearts and throats. The resilience of the alien beasts, however, was something to behold. Stroika’s cogitator grew warm inside his skull, processing the data of death and destruction that was all around him. As feral greenskins crashed into the deck, the brutes behind them stamped through their carcasses in rage-filled desperation.

The skitarii officer saw the wall of jagged weaponry and green muscle close about them like a trap. It was a spiked and shrinking enclosure of alien rage that would skewer and then pulverise the Infiltroriad-Spuria~660.

Haldron-44 Stroika felt the presence of the Machine-God burning through his neurocircuitry and the brain in which it was embedded. Magos Torquora was transmitting the gifts of the Omnissiah from the phylactic diagnostiquorum aboard the Maestrale. Alien dissections. Files of xenos research and experiments that bordered on the heretekal in their detail. Structural schematics of early Terran colony ships from the infotombs of Mars. Through Stroika, the Omnissiah made His merciless need known to the soldiers of His machine empire.

<Be the sacred oil that soothes the impairment of age,> Haldron-44 Stroika transmitted to the skitarii squad, <and the prayer that reclaims spirits thought lost. Cleanse the holy form of His design of pollution – of alien life that is death to the machine and an affront to the purity of the Omnissiah’s purpose. Fourth denticle, concentrate fire.>

The Sicarian infiltrators turned in unison. Three greenskin monsters were tearing their way up through the rusted mesh of a bay floor-cover nearby. Like the digits of an ancient timepiece, Stroika’s warning relayed to the cybernetic soldiers the position of the emerging aliens – four teeth or denticles around the Cog Mechanicus. The space became a storm of shredded darkness.

Stroika aimed his arc pistols at the chamber ceiling. His targeters and uplinked overlays attempted to find a structural weak spot in the blackened girder supports running the corroded length of the hangar. As he fired, the infiltrators zeroed in on the target and added their own blasts to the strategic fire. The chamber grew to brightness before Stroika’s crackling streams faded. The mauled, white-hot section gave. The weight of the girder tore its opposite end from the mouldering supports. Stroika watched as the girder fell, followed by a cascade of detritus from the floor above, burying the three greenskins hauling themselves out of the decking.

<Tenth denticle, concentrate fire,> Stroika transmitted to his skitarii. The schematic Magos Torquora had sent him revealed the weakness of a plasma-welded join in the decking nearby. The joint marked where cargo bays had given way to the flight deck proper. Blasting a pair of arcstreams along the length of the rust-weakened seam, Stroika’s fire encouraged the Infiltroriad-Spuria~660 to follow suit with their rust-shredding blasters.

With the added weight of charging greenskins slamming down on the floor section, the join sheared away with a rippling fountain of rust. Within moments the decking beyond the seam was gone and a number of the stomping greenskins with it. Stroika watched the feral savages fall down through the wreckage, into the blackness beneath.

<Now show the Omnissiah your reverence and bend a knee,> Stroika commanded. As the circle of infiltrators knelt in unison, Stroika turned. With his bionics firmly anchored to the ruined deck, his torso began to revolve. Turning within the abdominal gimbal-mounting of his hydraulic legs, Stroika brought up his arc pistols. Holding the weapons out to either side of him, he let loose streams of electrical energy that twirled about him and over the helmets of the kneeling skitarii. The arcstreams crackled and spat through the darkness, lashing greenskins back with their fury. Green flesh smouldered in the wake of the revolving beams, while bolts of residual electricity rippled about the hulking frames of the oncoming monsters.

Several of the scrawnier, snaggle-toothed specimens went down and struggled to get up under the repeated attentions of the arcstreams. The larger brutes – feral orks jangling with rings and primitive glyph-carved tokens – seemed able to shrug off both the scorching beams and the muscle-spasming effects of the current. With several greenskins dead or dying on the flight deck but many more still raging for the skitarii, Haldron-44 Stroika’s arc pistols stuttered and fizzled dry.

The effect was instantaneous. The xenos brutes came back at the circle of cybernetic soldiers like a green tidal wave. The infiltrators’ white noise seemed to infuriate the beasts as much as disorientate them. The huge monsters heaved their primitive axes down. The skitarii used their optic-arrays, logistic overlays and pneumatically fired reflexes to avoid the worst of the greenskins’ fury. Spindly infiltrators leaned back, stepped sideways and turned aside bludgeoning weapons that demolished the flooring and smash-scattered wreckage. Despite the heart-stopping fury of the attacks, the skitarii’s movements were fluid and assured.

As the alien beasts roared at them, the infiltrators had only a dull awareness of their human fears, their minds sizzling with the rush of data being processed and shared. Their magi overlords had calibrated their experience of the world to suit the needs of the mission. Fear was but an inconvenience. Feelings, emotions, relationships, these all had their allotted place and purpose in Mechanicus society. In battle however, such frailties of the flesh were phylactically dimmed and eclipsed by their function as living weapons of the Omnissiah.

Their brains might have been allowed the creativity and invention to make them a flexible force – capable of evolving strategy, zeal and improvisation. Their hearts, however, were a void. Instead of sentiment and inclination, the skitarii felt targeting data, battle-protocol, imperatives and the processed thought-streams of their officers and lord magi. They felt the presence of the Omnissiah in order and instruction. They felt Him act through their very bodies, their bionics and organics. For the soldiers of the Legiones Skitarii, it was all they needed to know.

The rabid violence of the chamber was intoxicating. With fury and frustration, the greenskins came at the skitarii with growing speed, savagery and force. The Sicarians of the Infiltroriad-Spuria~660 calibrated their movements and predictions to remain a millisecond or two ahead of their monstrous foes, looking for an opening. The greenskin savages were not without a mad unpredictability, however, and for Quasiq-Spuria II/X and Valek-Spuria V/X the opening never presented itself.

Stroika felt the biometrics of both infiltrators spike and fade as the orks they were combating unleashed their feral wrath. One green monster slammed a strut-spear straight through the chest housing of Valek-Spuria V/X, skewering the skitarius. The ork heaved the cybernetic soldier up with ease, allowing him to screech horribly down the length of the serrated shaft.

The greenskin savage shook the thick spear from side to side. Valek-Spuria V/X’s spindly appendages flailed about, before his ruined torso and gimbal waist-socket parted. Stamping down on his helm with a fur-wrapped foot, the greenskin put the infiltrator out of his misery. Quasiq-Spuria II/X was felled by another alien beast, the force with which the creature chopped down with its hacker enough to smash the skitarius into bloody scrap.

<Maintain formation,> Stroika heard Talus-Spuria I/X order. The princeps moved in to plug the gap where his pair of infiltrators had died.

As the feral greenskins intensified their territorial assault, the princeps and his infiltrators deployed their close combat weapons. Flechette blasters still shredded orks to distraction, between the brutal sweeps and stabs of primitive weaponry. Adding to their ragged thud, taser goads sparked off crude blades and sent bolts of bone-shattering energy through green flesh from their hyperdynamo capacitors.

Several greenskins backed away like chastised animals, snorting, working their mangle-fanged jaws and shaking the shock from their weapons. A number of beasts dropped their hackers and choppers, glaring at the Sicarian infiltrators with suspicion and rage before drawing their skinning shards from fur belts.

The most hulking and monstrous of the savages – a thing that wore the skull of an even larger chieftain as a tribal helm – lumbered forth. It wielded a spiked metal totem pole as a weapon, which it used to spark-smash the taser goad of Schrada-Spuria VII/X aside. Grabbing the infiltrator’s slender metal arm in one great claw, the greenskin chieftain seemed unfazed by the thudding of crackling flechettes into his barrel chest. The chieftain used the bionic appendage to wield the Sicarian infiltrator as a weapon. Smashing aside Solonoid-Spuria IV/X and Cynkade-Spuria X/X with their comrade’s armoured body, the towering savage beat Schrada-Spuria VII/X from side to side into the demolished decking.

<God of man and machine,> Haldron-44 Stroika thoughtstreamed to himself, <guide me, Your instrument, in destroying this pollution of Your great works.>

Stroika’s revolving shoulders cycled clockwise, sending his appendage-arms down and around. As they did, his wrist joints turned, presenting his arc pistols to the rear. Two auxiliary appendages cycled and unfolded over the tops of his whirring shoulders, from where they had been carriage-locked to the back of his combat chassis and hidden beneath his officer’s cloak. Each weapons-cradle held a crackling arc maul. The weapons sizzled with electrical energies. With his quad weapons appendages charged and presented, Stroika prepared himself to face the monstrous chieftain.

From the arkcruiser, the Machine-God answered his call. The Primus’s cogitator coils and combat overlays were flushed with additional data downlinked from Magos Torquora and the explorator diagnostiquorum. Species-specific vulnerabilities. Logistae projections. Battle-addenda, compensating for the creature’s larger size and resilience.

‘Meet my Maker…’ Stroika voxed at the oncoming ork, his static-laced voice a metallic boom in the cavernous chamber.

The noise just seemed to provoke the hulking thing. The greenskin chieftain swung its totem like a great, spiked metal club. Stroika’s movements were assured and hydraulically slick, his helm and crest-holder ducking down beneath the furious passage of the uncouth weapon.

He side-stepped, allowing the beast to cave the decking in beside him, the totem tearing mangled mesh and cargo pit covers up from the floor. Flinging the scrap aside, the greenskin chieftain came at Stroika again. The red beads of its bleeding eyes burned with territorial hatred, while the beast’s scar-cratered face contorted with its desire to see Stroika and his skitarii join the mouldering wreckage of the chamber.

Augurs and phylactic intrusions crowded Stroika’s optics with trajectories, highlighting and streaming notation. The skitarii commander turned up the length of the deck-buried totem. Stroika’s torso spun in its interface socket, his outstretched arms coming around like a wheeling star. One arc maul, followed by the other, smashed through the globed muscle of one green arm, knocking the chieftain back with the intense electrical shock that the arc mauls delivered. With energy snapping in a spidery web about the wound, Stroika brought around his pistols, streaming fire from one and then another into the beast’s barrel chest.

The greenskin roared its pain and shock. Even the beast, dull as its nervous system was, could feel the intense flow of electricity through its bones. In its retreating frustration, the hulking creature lashed its totem column back, taking the head of Vega-Spuria III/X from his armoured shoulders with a sickening clunk.

Lifting its weapon, the chieftain stomped across the ruined deck at Stroika. Burying the spiked totem in the busy, encrusted architecture of the hangar roof, the green abomination hauled on the superstructure. Stroika’s neurocircuitry sparked with warnings and contingencies. With a groan, the corroded metal gave. Using the totem as a grapnel, the alien pulled part of the chamber roof down on Stroika, forcing the skitarii officer to take several powered steps and dive out from under the descending wreckage.

Bringing his arc mauls up, Stroika created an improvised roll cage from the curvature of his appendage-arms and the length of the weapons. Tumbling back to his metal feet in one fluid movement, the Primus whipped his foil cloak about his cybernetic frame and positioned himself on the greenskin’s flank.

Blasting the monster in the neck and side of the head with twin streams from his pistols, Stroika monitored the beast’s predicted reaction. Bringing its claw to its seared face, the stun-shock of electricity coursing through its thick skull, the monster stumbled to one side. Still carrying the momentum of the roll, Stroika stomped behind the beast. He smashed at the monstrosity through its furs, prompting an agonising roar from the greenskin.

It brought its girder totem around savagely, but Stroika stopped, anchoring his metal feet to the deck and locking his hydraulic frame. Holding the arc mauls out to deflect the weapon, the skitarius felt his absorbers, pistons and fibre-bundles soak up the impact. The anchors on the soles of his feet tore up the rusted deck and he was pushed backwards by the monstrous force of the swing.

With alarms and integrity warnings flashing through the darkness of his helm, Stroika intensified the blaze of electricity between the metal totem and the crackling mauls. Heaving back with his hydraulic might, Stroika shocked the weapon from the spasming claws of the feral chieftain.

Pressing his advantage, the Primus rotated his shoulder demi-joints. Bringing his pistols back overhead and his arc mauls behind, he blasted continuous arcstreams at the beast, forcing it into a retreat. Holding out its massive claws before the onslaught and howling its alien agony, the monster stumbled back through the engagements of several of its tribe. Its kin were faring just as badly against the Sicarian infiltrators.

Falling back over a rust-shattered pipe, the greenskin monster went down. Still it retreated, half crawling and half convulsing back beneath the intense energies that razed its flesh and wracked its body. The creature looked up at the Omnissiah’s cybernetic servant, its blood-bead eyes glassy with alien hatred.

As Stroika brought his crackling arc mauls over and down once more, he beat the alien creature down into the deck. The skitarius turned with the force of a fired piston. The arc mauls came around, trailing a static-bright glare. They struck the hulking greenskin in the side of the head. The first stove in the skull it was wearing as a tribal helm and then the beast’s own. The second took the ugly head from its globed shoulders and sent it bouncing off through the darkness.

‘For the sanctity of the Machine,’ Stroika voxed down at the fountaining carcass of the green monster, ‘and He who works through the miracle of its operation. You are an aberration and not part of the Omnissiah’s grand design. Therefore, you must be destroyed.’

Keying back into his feeds and the web of data streaming from the engagement, the Primus found the chamber to be strewn with alien bodies. Among the rank corpses of the feral monsters was Cadmiad-Spuria VI/X, who had died a few footsteps away. Princeps Talus-Spuria I/X moved about the chamber with his surviving infiltrators, pointing their pistols down at dying greenskins and blasting a point-blank and functional death into the skulls of the beasts. It was not execution. It was eradication.

Stroika felt the return of his humanity – the shred his duties allowed him. He was no longer the living weapon that circumstance demanded. Emotions flooded back. Filtered though they were through his psychosurgical suppressions, they still presented as an intoxicating rush. He felt the conflicted warmth of concern, of relief, of satisfaction. As he cast his busy optics across the bodies of his dead skitarii, he noticed the distant pang of loss and responsibility in deaths that had previously been reported and catalogued.

Riding on the magnetic hush of its revolving cog, Phrenos~361 drifted forth out of the darkness, augurs, scopes and pict lenses retreating into cavities in the servo-skull’s cranium. Revolving his shoulder joints, Stroika cradle-locked his maul-appendages to his back. Ejecting his spent power cells and extending the hydraulics of his arms he sent his arc pistols back along their rails to where they sat in cavity holsters inset within his chest plating. The Primus brought up his arm and allowed Phrenos~361 to land, anchoring itself with prehensile cables and micro-mechadendrites. The drone uploaded the hard data of its survey findings.

<Magos,> Haldron-44 Stroika transmitted back to the explorator arkcruiser. <The Stella-Xenithica has been purified of the alien infestation. No further xenos targets detected.>

The report was a formality but one Stroika took legitimate pride in delivering. Through phylactic communion, Magos Torquora and the diagnostiquorum saw what the skitarii saw and experienced the mission vicariously from the Maestrale. Through the umbilical streams of invisible data-tethers, they were one with the Omnissiah.

<Status report,> Torquora streamed back.

<Princeps Talus-Spuria I/X reports the loss of seven Sicarians. I am recommending the princeps, Solonoid-Spuria IV/X and Cynkade-Spuria X/X for the Exonumia-Maxital in recognition of their part in this historic undertaking. With your permission I would like their designations recorded in the mission log.>

<Granted, Stroika-unit,> Torquora transmitted back.

<The vessel-artefact is secure, magos, and awaits your inspection,> Stroika told him. <A survey reveals an estimated two-thirds of the colony vessel intact. I would, however, recommend that purge teams accompany your survey catalogistae and the magi archeotechnis down to the crash site. The vessel may still be infested with alien growths and spores.>

<They have already been despatched, Stroika-unit,> Magos Torquora told him, visiting upon the skitarius an orbital pict of a great explorator drop-ship, sat on the ice beside the buried wreck of the Stella-Xenithica.

<I don’t understand, magos.>

<They were despatched the moment you confirmed the identification of the vessel,> Magos Torquora told the skitarius. <The Omnissiah allows not for doubt in these matters of high significance and I allowed none for your failure. You have and will always have my complete confidence, Primus.>

<The honour is all yours, magos explorator,> Stroika sent back. <By the Machine-God’s good grace, your researches led His servants to this great find. Who knows what secrets will be unearthed from a relic-vessel of such age?>

<I am coming down to the surface,> Omnid Torquora told him. Stroika could detect, even in the ancient magos’s steely transmissions, the hint of excitement. <Let us find out.>

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A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

First published in Great Britain in 2015.
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