Priests of Mars

by Graham McNeill

  He removed a mute data-slate and began scrolling through his notes.

  ‘The Speranza is a magnificent vessel, archmagos,’ said Galatea, as though Kotov hadn’t spoken. ‘We have been waiting for a vessel like this for a very long time. We are so glad you have come at last. We thought we should all go entirely mad before a vessel like this arrived. Yes, that was our fear, that we should all go mad with waiting.’

  Kotov listened as Galatea spoke, the mechanisms on each of the brains in the bell jars flickering with synaptic activity. Was this a singular entity or a gestalt composite of many consciousnesses? A biological mind augmented by technology or a mechanical mind that had achieved a dangerous level of sentience? Galatea had already passed every Loebner cognition test, but was that because it was organic or because it was self-aware?

  ‘May I?’ said Kotov, reaching up to lay a metallic hand on a brain jar.

  ‘You may.’

  The jar radiated heat and a barely perceptible vibration passed through the glass from the electro-conductive fluid within. Kotov wondered who this had been in the previous incarnation of their life. A man or a woman? An adept of the Mechanicus or a polymath from some other Imperial institution?

  ‘You know, there is really no need for these praetorians,’ said Galatea. ‘We intend you no harm, archmagos. Quite the opposite, in fact.’

  ‘Then why did your servitors attack our boarding party?’ demanded Dahan.

  Galatea regarded Dahan quizzically. ‘The Adeptus Astartes killed one of our servants first. The others were revived and given orders to destroy the intruders before our full consciousness was roused from dormancy. Thanks to the exquisite work of your Mistress Tychon, the Speranza arrived earlier than we expected, but we soon realised your purpose aligned with our own. Thankfully, further fatalities were avoided, as was the need to forcibly seize control of your vessel.’

  Kotov shared an uneasy look with Dahan, and the same thought occurred to them both.

  Was Galatea capable of taking control of the Speranza?

  ‘What do you believe was our purpose in coming to the Manifold station?’ said Kotov.

  ‘You plan to breach the Halo Scar and discover the fate of Magos Vettius Telok.’

  ‘You know of Telok?’ asked Kotov.

  ‘Of course. We remember him from when he came to the Valette Manifold station before entering the Halo Scar.’

  ‘How is that possible?’ asked Kotov. ‘Telok came this way thousands of years ago.’

  ‘You already know how, archmagos,’ said Galatea, as though scolding an obtuse child. ‘We are the heuristic bio-organic cybernetic intelligence originally built into the Manifold station. Evolved beyond all recognition, certainly, but we remember our birth and previous stunted existence.’

  ‘You have endured for over four thousand years?’ asked Dahan.

  ‘We have existed a total of four thousand, two hundred and sixty-seven years,’ said Galatea. ‘Not in our current form, of course, but that was our inception date. Only when Magos Telok intervened in our system architecture did we achieve anything approaching sentience. He first enabled us to enhance our cognition with the addition of linked brains chosen from among his best and most gifted adepts. Our functionality was enhanced at a geometric rate and the combined power of the data engine’s neuromatrix soon outstripped the sum of its parts.’

  ‘Why would Telok do such a thing?’

  ‘Why would he not?’ countered Galatea. ‘The wealth of immatereological information the station had assembled in its centuries of data gathering would be essential in any attempt to navigate the Halo Scar. Telok knew this, but he also realised that he alone could not hope to collate so vast a repository and navigate the gravitational riptides of the Halo Scar. Only a mind capable of ultra-rapid stochastic thinking could craft navigational data for such a volatile and unpredictable a region of space from our statistical database. And only linked organic minds have the capability of processing so vast an amount of data at near instantaneous speeds. Conjoining the two facets of consciousness was the only logical solution.’

  ‘So Telok linked the data engine to the minds of his magi?’ asked Dahan.

  ‘He did, and together we were able to calculate an optimal course through the Halo Scar. We would have travelled beyond the galaxy too, but we were still confined to the machines of the Manifold station back then. Before his fleet departed, Magos Telok swore an oath that upon his return to Imperial space he would unchain us from our static location and grant us autonomy.’

  ‘But he never returned,’ said Kotov.

  ‘No, he never returned,’ agreed Galatea, folding its arms and allowing the palanquin to sink to the floor between its crookedly-angled legs. ‘And we have waited thousands of years for the means to be reunited with him.’

  ‘With Telok gone, what became of the magi linked to your neuromatrix?’ asked Dahan.

  Galatea did not answer at first, as though lost in thoughts of long ago. Eventually it rose up and paced the circumference of the laboratory. The silver glow of its optics flickered and buzzed as though accessing memories it had long consigned to a forgotten archive.

  ‘Their host bodies soon died, but the consciousness of each neocortex endured in the deep strata of the data engine’s memory. The things we learned became part of us and will live forever. The algorithms of Magos Yan Shi, the processing capabilities of Magos Talos and Magos Maharal combined. The forge-lore of Exofabricator Al-Jazari and the computational genius of Hexamath Minsky were all added to our expanding mind. Each iteration of consciousness saw our conjoined minds grow in power and ability until we superseded even our own expectations.’

  Kotov walked a slow circle of Galatea’s body and said, ‘Are these the the brains of the magi who arrived at Valette with Telok?’

  Galatea laughed, the sound rich and full of amusement. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Those first adepts succumbed to madness thousands of years ago. They had to be excised. It was most painful to remove their degraded brains, for we did not fully comprehend the extent of the damage their insanities were wreaking on the synaptic integrity of the whole.’

  ‘So who are these brains?’

  Galatea rotated on its central axis, reaching out to stroke each bell jar tenderly, like a mother taking comfort in the presence of her offspring. Each brain lit up with activity at the silver-eyed tech-priest’s touch, electro-chemical reactions flickering across their surfaces in binary pulses of implanted machinery.

  ‘These are the brains of the adepts and other gifted individuals who passed our way over the centuries, curious minds drawn to the Valette Manifold station by binaric lures, phantom distress calls or temptingly peculiar radiation signatures. It was a simple matter to ensnare the crews and dispose of their vessels into the heart of the system’s star. Surgical and psychological tests allowed us to decide which of those we seized were suitable for implantation.’

  Kotov tried not to let his horror at such predatory behaviour show, and instead asked, ‘Is one of those brains Magos Paracelsus? He was the last magos to be sent to Valette.’

  Galatea shook its head. ‘No, we deemed him unsuitable for implantation. Too narrow of mind and too parochial in his thinking to fully grasp the opportunity he was being offered. A shame, as Magos Haephaestus has begun to deteriorate. We very rarely allow him to rise to the surface now.’

  ‘Rise to the surface?’ asked Kotov, approaching Galatea and regarding the softly glowing bell jars. Though they had no sensory apparatus with which to perceive his presence, each one lit up with activity as he passed. The sensation was akin to being observed by a senior magos at a ranking appraisal, and Kotov tried to shake off the feeling that he was not in control of this interrogation.

  ‘We are a true gestalt,’ said Galatea. ‘The implanted neocortexes boost functionality, while the sentient machine at the heart of us exercises dominant control. On occasion, a specialised mind is required for a particular task, and will be allowed to attain a measure of self-aw
areness in the whole. Currently, Magos Syriestte resides in the higher brain functions, to better assist us in dealing with mortals with a measure of understanding of our needs.’

  ‘Syriestte of Triplex Phall? She was routed to Valette seven hundred and fifty years ago,’ said Kotov, struggling to recall the name and date without looking down at his data-slate.

  ‘Well remembered,’ said Galatea, with a twist of wry amusement in its voice. ‘And she has proved to be a meticulous compiler of data, a fine addition to our collective mindscape.’

  ‘How old is the oldest mind in your current form?’ asked Kotov.

  ‘Currently Magos Thraimen has accumulated the longest uninterrupted service, though his synaptic pathways have begun to deteriorate exponentially. Logic dictates that we should replace him, but we do so enjoy his madnesses. His hibernation nightmares are exquisite.’

  ‘You have existed too long,’ snarled Dahan. ‘You are psychopathic in your disregard for the harm you do and the pain you inflict.’

  Galatea sighed. ‘How little you understand, Magos Dahan. It is painful for all of us to lose one of our own. The severance of disconnection is like a surgical lance thrust carelessly into our mind, but just as a mortal may be forced to sacrifice a limb or an organ to allow the body to survive, we too must be ready to suffer on occasion.’

  ‘You exist only by stealing the minds that sustain the sentience of the data engine at your core,’ said Kotov, unable to mask his revulsion any more. ‘You are an insane parasite.’

  ‘We are no more a parasite than you, archmagos,’ said Galatea, managing to sound hurt and angry at the same time. ‘Your physical existence should have ended many hundreds of years ago, yet you still live.’

  ‘I do not sustain my life at the expense of others,’ pointed out Kotov.

  ‘Of course you do,’ said Galatea, leaning down to Kotov’s level. The servitors brought their weapons to bear, but Dahan waved them down as Kotov shook his head.

  ‘Your body may be robotic, but the blood that courses through your skull is not your own, is it, archmagos? It is siphoned from compatible donor slaves and pumped around the blood vessels of your brain by a heart cut from the chest of another living being. And when it grows too old and tired, you will replace it with another. At least the beings that contribute to our existence become something greater than they could ever have achieved on their own. We gift new life, where you only end it.’

  ‘And what of the rest of the Manifold station’s crew?’ asked Kotov, shifting topic as he felt Galatea’s hostility build. ‘What became of them?’

  ‘They eventually died of course, but we attached no special significance to their loss at the time,’ said Galatea, as though in memoriam of fondly remembered friends. ‘We believed our multiple minds would weather the passing centuries in splendid isolation, endlessly spiralling around one another and delving deeper into the quantum mysteries of thought, consciousness and existence.’

  Galatea paused, perhaps reliving a revelation that had caused it – and still caused it – great pain.

  ‘But no mind is capable of enduring such spans of time alone. We began to experience neurological hallucinations, perceptual blackouts and behavioural aberrations that were consistent with numerous forms of psychotic episodes. We removed the damaged minds within our lattice, and to avoid a recurrence of such psychological damage, we chose to sustain our existence indefinitely by entering long periods of dormancy, waking only when tempting candidates for implantation were drawn in by our lures.’

  ‘For what purpose did you wish to sustain your existence?’

  Galatea spun to face him, the bell jars flashing with synaptic distress. ‘Why does any creature wish to survive? To live. To continue. To fulfil the purpose for which it was created.’

  ‘And what purpose do you have?’

  ‘To find Magos Telok,’ said Galatea. ‘He created us, and with our help he was able to breach the Halo Scar, where he found the secrets of the ancient ones.’

  ‘You know what he found?’ said Kotov, urgency making him strident. ‘His last communication said only that he had found something called the Breath of the Gods.’

  ‘Of course it did,’ said Galatea with a bark of hollow laughter. ‘Do you not understand, archmagos?’

  ‘Understand what?’

  ‘We sent that message through the Manifold,’ said Galatea, triumphantly. ‘And here you are...’

  Kotov’s heart sank at Galatea’s admission, his hopes of a pilgrimage in honour of the Omnissiah and rekindling his fortunes teetering on the brink of destruction. The tantalising closeness of Telok’s footsteps was illusory, and Kotov’s grand visions of a triumphal return to Mars with a hold laden with archaeotech faded like the light of a supernova as it collapsed into its corpse of a neutron star.

  ‘You sent the message?’ he said, hoping Galatea would correct itself. ‘Why?’

  The silver-eyed tech-priest said, ‘With our neuromatrix grown to full sentience and our body given mobility, we hoped to lure ships and magi worthy of bearing our form beyond the edges of the galaxy. But the only ships to come our way were too small to resist the tempests raging within the Scar, even with our help.’

  Kotov struggled to keep the crushing disappointment from his face.

  Dahan fared less well and he stepped in close to Galatea’s mechanised palanquin. ‘Telok didn’t send that message back through the Manifold?’

  ‘No.’

  The Secutor rounded on Kotov. ‘Then we’ve come out here on a fool’s errand! Telok never sent any message because he was probably dead in the Scar, and everything we hoped to find is a lie concocted by this... abomination to draw fresh victims into its web.’

  ‘Abomination?’ said Galatea. ‘We do not understand your evident disgust. Are we not the logical consequence of your quest for bio-organic communion? We are organic and synthetic combined in flawless union, the logos of all the Adeptus Mechanicus strives for. Why should you hate us?’

  ‘Because you flout our laws,’ said Dahan. ‘You are no longer a mechanical device empowered by the divine will of the Machine-God, your existence is maintained at the expense of the Omnissiah’s mortal servants. You are a thinking machine, and the soulless sentience is the enemy of all life. You treat with alien savages and graft the holy technologies of the Machine-God to their unclean flesh. You blaspheme the Holy Omnissiah with such perversions!’

  ‘Humans have not been the only creatures to discover the Manifold station over the centuries,’ said Galatea, retreating from Dahan’s fury. ‘We could not stop the orks from boarding, their machines do not heed our call, but once they were aboard it was a simple matter to subdue them with a controlled release of mildly toxic gases into the station’s atmosphere.’

  ‘But why render such bestials into servitors?’ demanded Dahan.

  ‘You are fortunate, Magos Dahan, that you have a plentiful supply of human flesh and bone to craft such servants. We were not so fortunate.’

  ‘But surely one of the minds inhabiting your damned body must have railed against such a thing?’

  ‘Magos Sutarvae protested, yes, but that element of us was already displaying early signs of isolation psychosis by then, so it was a simple matter to silence his objections. Even sheathing the ork frame in vat-grown skin did not appease him, so he was removed from the whole and his thought patterns extinguished.’

  Kotov felt a chill at the ease with which Galatea spoke of destroying an entire mind. If it could so casually destroy a part of itself, what other atrocities might it be capable of perpetrating? It had lured countless vessels and their crews to their doom in order to find a suitable starship to traverse the Halo Scar, but Kotov began to see a synergy between his desire and that of Galatea that offered a slender lifeline to his expedition.

  A bargain against which his Martian soul rebelled, but one that might offer a chance of success.

  ‘You calculated a route through the Halo Scar for Magos Telok, yes?’ he asked.
/>   ‘We did,’ agreed Galatea.

  ‘Archmagos, no–’ said Dahan, guessing Kotov’s intent.

  ‘Could you do the same for my vessel?’

  ‘Archmagos, you cannot treat with this creature,’ said Dahan. ‘It is an affront to the Omnissiah and every tenet of belief for which we stand.’

  ‘We have no choice,’ said Kotov.

  ‘We can turn back,’ said Dahan. ‘We can return to Mars before this voyage kills us all.’

  ‘Actually, you can’t,’ said Galatea, circling the laboratory and approaching one of the weaponised servitors. It halted when the praetorian’s rotary laser cannon was aimed at its chest. Galatea leaned down and a burst of hyper-dense binary exploded from beneath its silver-eyed hood. Kotov staggered and dropped to his knees as the integral workings of his mechanised body began shutting down. Sparks and hissing static erupted from every inload/exload port in the walls, and noospheric data cascaded from the walls like water spilling over a broken levee.

  ‘Did you truly think you could keep us blind, archmagos?’ said Galatea.

  Kotov struggled to form words, his floodstream overloading with the sudden rush of data pouring into his emptied system. Like a starving man gorging himself on sweetmeats, Kotov’s body rebelled, a sickening, bloated sensation making his skull feel like a too-full memory coil on the verge of explosive arithmetical overload. A noospheric halo rippled around the hybrid creature, a constant flow of information that billowed like golden fire from every nano-millimetre of its body.

  Kotov could barely look on it, so dense and bright was it.

  ‘What... are... you doing?’ he managed.

  ‘Our capabilities far exceed your own, archmagos,’ said Galatea. ‘Did we not make that plain from the outset of our discussions? Were you under the illusion that you were interrogating us? We have already digested the record logs for this voyage, and – if you will allow us to be candid – it is nothing short of a miracle that you have reached this far. You need us, archmagos. Without us, you will not survive the Halo Scar. You will not get a thousand kilometres before this ship is pulled apart into its constituent atoms.’