Mechanicum

by Graham McNeill

  ‘Steersman, move in! Moderati, arm missiles. Sensori, where’s that Reaver?’

  ‘Moving in, aye!’

  ‘Missiles arming!’

  ‘Reaver still closing, princeps. Six hundred metres, bearing zero-six-three.’

  Cavalerio’s engine closed the gap between it and the Warhound. He had to kill it before the Reaver was in a position to help. Individually, neither of the enemy machines were a match for his Warlord, but working together, they could potentially bring him down if he were not careful.

  The Warhound swayed as it picked itself up, its weapon limbs shaking like a dog climbing from the water. Its shields burbled and sparked, and Cavalerio read a flaring convergence of energy gaps clustered around the engine’s hip.

  Information updates sluiced around him and he updated his situational awareness, feeling the danger of the closing Reaver and knowing he didn’t have much time.

  ‘Moderati! As soon as that Reaver comes into view, hit its upper carapace with a barrage from the carapace launcher. Three missile spread, five second intervals.’

  ‘Yes, princeps.’

  ‘Gun-servitor Hellas-88, slave weapon to my command.’

  The implanted servitor wordlessly acknowledged his order, and Cavalerio felt the reassuring weight and industrial motion of the mega bolter as though it were part of his flesh. It was reckless to take command of the weapon from the servitor, who could fire it far more effectively than he could, but to make this kill, he wanted to feel the thunder.

  Cavalerio surrendered to the engine’s killing lust, guiding it with his own need to defeat their foe. With a thought, the mega bolter engaged and sawed off a furious hurricane of shells at the staggering Warhound’s wounded hip.

  At the same time, he felt the juddering shoom, shoom, shoom of the missiles mounted high on his carapace leap from the launcher. The Reaver had joined the fight and he had to finish the Warhound quickly.

  ‘Multiple impacts on enemy Reaver, princeps!’

  Cavalerio noted the update, but concentrated his attention on the Warhound. Its voids had collapsed under his barrage, detonating with a blinding thunderclap. The explosion atomised one weapon arm and cracked its carapace open. Flames billowed from its rear quarter.

  Still it stood, defiant as a whipped wolf.

  ‘Arming blastgun,’ intoned the Moderati. ‘Plotting solution.’

  ‘Belay that order!’ cried Cavalerio, ‘we’ll need it for the Reaver! We close and kill it with hard rounds!’

  ‘Incoming!’ shouted the Moderati, and Cavalerio felt the blistering pain of impacts on the voids. Missiles streaked from the enemy Reaver, fired from an under-slung rocket pod, and the relentless impacts staggered his engine. Shield energy ripped away from his Warlord, and Cavalerio heard the frantic cants of the Magos as he fought to rebuild them.

  The limping Warhound stood its ground before him, silhouetted in the ruins of the collapsed building, and Cavalerio was forced to admire its pilot’s courage. It was doomed, yet still it fought. Its remaining gun opened fire, punishing his already weakened shields.

  ‘Shield failure on lower quadrant!’ warned the Magos. ‘Critical collapse imminent!’

  ‘Reaver closing, princeps!’

  Cavalerio ignored the warnings, letting rip once more with the mega bolter. A storm of shells and pulverised rock erupted around the Warhound, driving it to its knees with the force of the impacts. Its carapace cracked open and flames sheeted upwards as the remains of the building tumbled down around it. Cavalerio kept hammering the smaller engine until it was a ruin of splintered metal and fire.

  Sudden, agonising pain speared into him, and he screamed as it felt like his leg was bathed in liquid fire. His awareness snapped back into wide-spread, and he saw the looming form of the Reaver closing with him, its immense bulk smashing through the high walls of the refinery in its hunger to reach him. Its warhorn blared in triumph and its plasma blastgun was smoking from a sustained salvo. Cavalerio read the situation in a heartbeat.

  It was on his exposed flank and had him dead to rights.

  His shields were almost gone, the metal beneath buckled and molten.

  A volley of screaming rockets slammed into him and he convulsed with psychostigmatic pain. The Manifold erupted with warnings and damage indicators.

  The chin station exploded, immolating the Moderati and steersman in a hellish firestorm. The cockpit shook as more missile impacts slammed into the Warlord’s mighty torso.

  canted the magos unnecessarily.

  ‘Missiles!’ he yelled, knowing it was too late. ‘Full spread, safeties off!’

  Streaking rockets and laser fire pounded the air between the two engines as they unleashed the last of their arsenal at one another at point-blank range. Cavalerio screamed as his shields failed, feeling awful, intolerable pain as the enemy engine tore the guts from him with an unending series of missile strikes.

  Bright explosions of void failure flared around him, and at last both war machines were stripped of their shields, naked and steel to steel.

  Cavalerio grinned through the pain.

  ‘Now I have you!’ he roared.

  With his last breath, Cavalerio unleashed the full power of the blastgun into his enemy’s face and the world exploded in fire and light.

  AGATHE WATCHED THE last moments of the unfolding battle on the hololithic projection table, admiring the skill of the Stormlord even as his engine was destroyed. Watching the miniature holograms of the engines stomping around the artificial landscape had been thrilling, but the tension in the warriors gathered around the table was contagious.

  ‘He’s doing much better now, isn’t he?’ she asked.

  Princeps Sharaq looked over at her, his kind eyes and cropped, salt and pepper hair at odds with the killer she knew him to be. His eyes darted to the other side of the projection table where two fellow princeps, Vlad Suzak and Jan Mordant, stood watching the simulated battle. Suzak stood ramrod straight, as if on parade, while Mordant eagerly leaned forwards with his elbow resting on the edge of the table.

  ‘Yes, famulous, he is doing better,’ said Sharaq.

  ‘But not well enough,’ put in Suzak, the straight-backed slayer of engines.

  ‘It takes time to adjust,’ said Agathe, looking at the forlorn, naked form suspended in the steel-edged amniotic tank, linked to the projection table via a host of insulated cables. ‘To go from hard-plug connection to full immersion. It’s not an easy transition to make.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Sharaq, ‘but the point remains, the Stormlord cannot command the Legio like this. Not yet.’

  Agathe pointed to the projection table. ‘He took on and defeated three engines single-handedly. Doesn’t that count for anything?’

  ‘It speaks of great courage,’ said Jan Mordant, looking over at Sharaq. ‘Maybe we’re being too cautious?’

  ‘It speaks of recklessness,’ snapped Sharaq.

  ‘It’s just a simulation, Kel,’ pointed out Mordant. ‘It’s a whole different game when you’re linked with the Manifold. We all know the risks you take in a sim aren’t the ones you take when your neck’s on the line.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, Jan, but if this had been real, the Stormlord would have died and taken his engine with him. A Warlord no less.’

  ‘But three engines, Kel…’ said Mordant. ‘Come on!’

  Sharaq sighed. ‘I understand, Jan, I really do, but you’ve only recently been elevated to the princepture of a Reaver from a Warhound.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘It means you haven’t yet shed your own recklessness,’ said Suzak. ‘You have to think in terms other than individual heroics when you command a larger engine. You should know that, and Princeps Cavalerio should damn well know it.’

  Agathe saw the flush of temper colour Jan Mordant’s neck, but he controlled his anger and simply nodded. She saw his knuckles were white where they gripped the projection table.

  Softeni
ng his tone, Sharaq said, ‘Princeps Cavalerio should have waited for the engines of his battlegroup to take the enemy en masse. We are not in the business of futile heroics, Jan, we are in the business of destroying our foes and then bringing our engines and crews back alive.’

  ‘So the decision stands?’ asked Mordant.

  Sharaq nodded. ‘The decision stands. Until such time as I deem Princeps Cavalerio fit to return to active duty, I will assume command of Legio Tempestus forces on Mars.’

  Mordant and Suzak nodded and saluted their new Princeps Senioris.

  Agathe watched the foetal outline of Cavalerio twitch in the blood-flecked jelly of his amniotic tank. Could he hear what his warriors were saying about him?

  She hoped not.

  He had already suffered the pain of losing his engine. How devastating would it be to lose his Legio?

  DALIA FELT AN icy hand clamp down on her heart at the sight of Rho-mu 31.

  Her perceptions seemed to contract to a bubble of warped reality, where the world around her ceased to flow. The motion of people, the sound of the vox-system and the crackle of electricity, and the actinic reek of ozone were all held in stasis, while her personal experience spiked like an arrhythmic heartbeat.

  She could feel the panic in her companions, and fought to control her breathing.

  Rho-mu 31 stood immobile in front of her, his robes bright red and his body carrying the strange aroma of spoiled meat that always seemed to attend the Protectors. Silver gleamed in the shadows of his cloak where augmetic implants emerged from his flesh.

  ‘Oh,’ she managed. ‘Hello.’

  As far as excuses or opening gambits went, it was fairly poor.

  The noise of the transit station swelled in her ears, and suddenly all she could hear was the rustle of a hundred conversations and the shuffle of a thousand feet.

  ‘Rho-mu 31,’ she said, struggling to think of something more meaningful to say and failing miserably. She felt herself looking at her feet like a naughty child.

  Zouche came to her rescue, standing in front of her and craning his neck to look up at the heavily muscled and augmented Mechanicum warrior.

  ‘Rho-mu 31 is it?’ he said. ‘Good to see you. We… ah… we were just taking the transit to the port facilities. Got some supplies coming in from the Jovian shipyards.’

  ‘The port facilities?’ asked Rho-mu 31.

  ‘That’s right,’ added Caxton. ‘We wanted to make sure they were the right ones, you know, save the stevedores the bother of getting them here and finding out they were the wrong ones. It would add days to our work, and frankly we don’t have days to lose.’

  Dalia closed her eyes, unable to meet Rho-mu 31’s gaze as her companions told their terrible, unbelievable lies. She imagined the ground opening up and plunging her deep into the magma, or that an approaching mag-lev might fly from the rails in a cataclysmic crash.

  Anything would be preferable to this excruciating feeling.

  Severine joined with the others in weaving the deception, the lie growing ever more convoluted and drawing in elements and characters – many of whom she was certain didn’t exist – until Dalia could stand it no longer.

  ‘Enough!’ she yelled. ‘Throne, don’t you realise how stupid this all sounds?’

  A few heads turned at her use of the Throne as an oath, but most people kept their heads down, knowing it was not wise to attract the attention of a Mechanicum Protector unless you really had to.

  The others fell silent, studiously examining the floor as though it held the key to their salvation. Dalia drew herself up to her full height, which wasn’t much compared to Rho-mu 31, and looked into the glowing green lights behind his bronze mask.

  ‘We’re not going to the port,’ she said. ‘We’re going to the Noctis Labyrinthus.’

  She heard the collective intake of breath from the others and pressed on, knowing she had no choice but to tell Rho-mu 31 the truth.

  ‘Why would you want to go to such a benighted place?’ asked Rho-mu 31. ‘Nothing good can come of it. Only the Cult of the Dragon is said to dwell within the Labyrinth of Night.’

  ‘The Cult of the Dragon?’ asked Dalia, her excitement piqued. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘Few have,’ said Rho-mu 31. ‘It was an obscure sect of madmen. Regrettably only one of many on Mars.’

  ‘But who are they?’

  ‘When the adepts who attempted to set up forges within the Noctis Labyrinthus abandoned their workings, not everyone left with them. A few deluded souls remained behind.’

  A rush of air filled the transit station. A mag-lev train was approaching.

  ‘I need to go there,’ said Dalia. ‘I need to go there now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t exactly know, but there’s something important there, I can feel it.’

  ‘There is nothing there but darkness,’ said Rho-mu 31, placing a meaty hand on Dalia’s shoulder. ‘Are you truly sure of the path you are on?’

  Dalia shuddered at Rho-mu 31’s mention of the darkness, but slowly the implications of his words emerged from behind her fear. ‘Wait a minute… you’re not going to stop me?’

  ‘I am not,’ said Rho-mu 31. ‘And if you insist on making this journey, I have no choice but to accompany you.’

  ‘Accompany us?’ asked Zouche. ‘Now why would you do a thing like that and not drag us back to Adept Zeth? You have to know we’re travelling without her sanction.’

  ‘Be quiet, Zouche!’ said Severine.

  Rho-mu 31 nodded. ‘I am aware of that, but Adept Zeth tasked me with keeping Dalia Cythera safe. She said nothing about restricting her movements.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Dalia as the glowing stab-lights of a mag-lev emerged from the arched tunnel and the smell of ozone grew stronger.

  ‘Mars is in crisis, Dalia Cythera,’ said Rho-mu 31. ‘Disaster strikes at every turn, and though Adept Zeth’s forge escaped the worst of it, our beloved planet is on the verge of slipping into chaos.’

  ‘Chaos? What are you talking about?’ asked Caxton. ‘We heard some rumours of accidents, but nothing like as serious as you’re making out.’

  ‘Whatever you have heard, I can assure you the reality is far worse than you can possibly imagine,’ said Rho-mu 31. ‘The terror of Old Night threatens to descend upon us once more, and I believe Dalia may hold the key to our salvation.’

  ‘Me? No… I told you before that I’m nobody,’ said Dalia, unwilling to be saddled with such responsibility.

  ‘You are wrong, Dalia,’ stated Rho-mu 31 as the mag-lev came to a halt behind her. ‘You have an innate understanding of technology, but I believe what makes you special is the ability to intuit things that others would not. If you think there is something within the Noctis Labyrinthus of importance, then I am willing to put my faith in you.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t believe in faith?’

  ‘I don’t. I believe in you.’

  Dalia smiled. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘I do not require your thanks,’ replied Rho-mu 31. ‘I am a Protector. I am your Protector. That is my purpose.’

  ‘I thank you anyway.’

  Caxton patted Dalia on the shoulder. ‘Well, if we’re going to go, we should probably get on this mag-lev?’ Dalia nodded and looked up at her Protector. ‘After you,’ said Rho-mu 31.

  ADEPT ZETH STOOD in the highest tower of her forge, the noospheric halo above her head twitching with information. She sorted through a number of active feeds with her MIU. None of them made for easy reading.

  Most were streaming from the forges of Fabricator Locum Kane and Ipluvien Maximal, but there were others coming in from isolated adepts that had come through the Death of Innocence and were desperately seeking friendly voices.

  Beside her, one of her underlings waited uncomfortably for the adept to speak.

  ‘Be at ease,’ said Zeth. ‘Rho-mu 31 is with them now.’

  ‘They’re safe?’

  Zeth shrugge
d and glanced down at the woman beside her. ‘As much as anyone can be said to be safe on Mars just now.’

  ‘And he’ll keep them from harm?’

  ‘That is his purpose,’ agreed Zeth. ‘Though a journey to the Noctis Labyrinthus is not without peril. They will pass close to Mondus Gamma, the domain of Lukas Chrom, and he is a pawn of the Fabricator General.’

  ‘That’s bad, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I rather suspect it is,’ said Zeth, thinking of what Kane had told her. ‘It is imperative that no one else should learn of Dalia’s whereabouts.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Delete all records of her destination from your memory coils and supply me with a record of deletion. Understood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Zeth waited for a few seconds until the deletion record arrived in her noosphere before speaking again.

  ‘You should return to your duties,’ she said. ‘Ambassador Melgator will be arriving soon from Olympus Mons and I think it would be better if you were elsewhere.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Mellicin.

  2.05

  OF ALL THE visitors ever to climb the steps to her forge, Ambassador Melgator was one of the least welcome. Koriel Zeth watched the man approach, his thin body wrapped in a dark, ermine-trimmed robe, his few overt augmetics concealed beneath a hood of dark velvet. Though Kelbor-Hal’s messenger was still some distance away, Zeth’s enhanced vision saw that the ambassador had changed since last she had seen him.

  His skin was waxen and unhealthy, yet his eyes remained dark pools of sinister purpose like a bearer of bad news eager to spread his misery. However, Melgator’s presence, as unwelcome and unlooked for as it was, did not worry her so much as that of his companion.

  Sheathed in an all-enclosing bodyglove of a gleaming synthetic material that rippled like blood across her skin, a slender female figure followed a discreet distance behind the ambassador.

  Zeth needed no help from the noosphere to recognise what this woman was.