Though it never rained on Mars, Ravachol knew that this philosophical storm would wash all division from the red planet in a tide of blood.
He could see it clearly; understanding that his whole life was now pointed in one direction, and that there had never been a choice for him.
He was the Emperor’s lonely man, doing what was right for that reason alone.
The Basilica of the Blessed Algorithm never closed its doors and none were forbidden the succour granted by the priests of the machine. The priest that had spoken to Ravachol knelt before his data terminal, letting the blessed music of the planet wash through him. Its subtle rhythms filled him and he basked in the harmonics of devices talking to one another from opposite sides of the planet.
The visit of the young adept had troubled him more than he like to admit and was another example of how far the Mechanicum had fallen since the glory days of the Emperor’s coming. As soon as Ravachol had left, the priest had plugged himself into the temple and had spent these moments of privacy in commune with the machines of Mars.
The first indication that something was amiss was a gradual dampening of the sounds, as though, one by one, the devices of Mars were falling silent. Puzzled, he ran a self-diagnostic test, finding to his alarm that several of his primary interface systems appeared to be offline.
The glow from his sensory dome intensified and he cast a 360 degree sweep of his surroundings.
Behind him was a figure clad in a form-fitting bodyglove of deep red. Though the priest had long since left much of his flesh upon the surgical tables, he recalled enough to know that this was a female of the species. Two pistols hung from her slender hips, but, more horrifyingly, she held a bundle of wires in one hand and a series of delicate tools in the other.
The priest looked down at his robes, finding a wide square cut in the fabric and a host of neatly severed wires protruding from the framework of his body.
‘Who are you?’ he said, relieved to find that his vocabulator still functioned.
‘I am Remiare,’ said the figure. ‘Where is Adept Ravachol?’
‘Who?’ said the priest, though he knew such an act of defiance was futile. Amongst the adepts of Mars, the name Remiare was well known and he understood with terrible clarity that his doom was at hand.
The tech-priest assassin smiled as she saw the effect her name had and cocked her head to one side. She tapped the enlarged portion of her skull where a multitude of sensor equipment was grafted to her death mask face and said, ‘I have followed his information trail here, so do not insult me by denying you know him. Tell me where he is now.’
The priest looked towards the vestry doorway, praying that one of his fellow priests would find reason to come this way or hear the silent call for aid he was even now broadcasting.
The assassin dropped the parts she had taken from his innards and shook her head. She waved a finger at him as though scolding a child and knelt before him.
‘This is a very private vestry,’ she said, lifting the delicate tools she held. ‘And your Confessor Field should ensure we are not interrupted.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ asked the priest. ‘Tell me that at least.’
‘You have become an enemy of my employers.’
‘What? How? I have hurt no-one, I simply pray to the Machine-God!’
‘No,’ said Remiare. ‘The time is coming when there can be no neutrality and whether you know it or not, you have chosen a side.’
The priest tried to move as Remiare reached inside his violated body, but found that his motor functions would not obey his commands.
‘What have you done to me?’ he cried, horrified at the idea of the assassin taking him apart from within and cutting him off from the Machine-God. ‘If you have followed Ravachol here, then surely you can find him without doing this! Please!’
‘You are right,’ agreed the assassin and the corners of her mouth twitched as she smiled.
‘Then why?’
‘Because I enjoy your suffering,’ said Remiare.
The forge temple of Urtzi Malevolus loomed from the darkness ahead like a dark volcano, its sloping sides black and glossy. A web of glowing ore channels converged on the forge temple, carried along massive aqueducts, insulated pipes and deep channels. The branding iron heat rendered the air here hot and stagnant, the bitter taste of metallic oxides catching in Ravachol’s throat.
Deafening thunder surrounded Ravachol, each mighty edifice that reared up through the smoke vented from a thousand coolant towers echoing to the sound of a thousand hammer beats and the relentless tread of millions of workers. Though proud of the vast industry being pursued here, Ravachol felt acutely exposed, the dark skies pressing down on him like a slowly lowering ceiling.
His progress towards the forge temple had slowed markedly as he drove within the high walls of his former master’s fiefdom. Such was the volume of tankers, workers and bulk transporters that, passive electronic bow wave or not, he could only move at a crawl through the masses of traffic. It had taken him two hours to get this far.
Eventually he turned onto the main thoroughfare that led towards the mighty gates of Malevolus’s temple, remembering the way with the ease of someone who had worked there for a great many years. He felt a surge of sudden welcome as he passed through the crowds and smiled at the thought of setting foot in the temple that had once been his home.
With his purpose clarified by the machine priest, he felt as though his ordeal would soon be over.
Even as he drew up to the gates, mighty portals flanked by mighty, pumping pistons the size of a Titan, he saw a red blur speed past him. A hot spray of oil and blood spattered his face and he cried out as a severed head landed in the passenger seat next to him.
Ravachol slammed on the brakes and spun in his seat. Behind him, one of his battle servitors lolled against the sides of the transporter, its knees buckling as its reduced nervous system decided it was dead. The servitor collapsed with a heavy, metallic clang, blood pumping energetically from the neat stump of its neck. The others ignored the death of their compatriot and stared glassily ahead as Ravachol searched frantically for the source of the attack.
He leapt from the driver’s seat and dropped to a crouch as he saw the red blur flicker through the clouds above him. He squinted through the particulate air and saw a lithe figure in red zip towards the transporter, a long energy blade held extended before it. Though he had never seen such a being before, he knew enough to recognise that his attacker was a tech-priest assassin.
‘Servitors!’ shouted Ravachol, pointing to the red-clad figure. ‘Defend me!’
The three remaining servitors jerked into action, their weapons powering up and combat protocols searching for the identified target. Ravachol hunkered down as a stream of heavy calibre gunfire ripped up the sky and a rain of brass shell casings tumbled musically to the ground. The sharp bark of rapid-firing laser bolts mingled with the booming reports of heavy bolter fire.
Thanks to his embedded wetware, both enhanced servitors would be working together to bracket the target and destroy it. The third surviving servitor clambered from the transporter to shelter him as the crowd of adepts scattered from the gunfire. The servitor’s left arm was a powerful gauntlet sheathed in deadly energy, its right ending in a short-range plasma discharger. Its heavy boots and thick jumpsuit were a reassuringly solid presence between Ravachol and the assassin, but he knew from their reputation that mere servitors could not stop such a deadly killer for long.
‘You, with me!’ shouted Ravachol, risking a glance into the sky. The assassin spun from building to building by some unknown means, skimming from the walls and twisting through the air like a red slick, its legs bending in all kinds of impossible ways.
Puffs of shell impacts and the burning afterimages of las-fire followed its inhumanly quick flight, blasting chunks of stone and metal from the b
uildings, but leaving it unscathed.
Darts of fire spat from the assassin’s pistol and bloody craters erupted on one of his servitors. It didn’t go down, but dodged and kept firing until another shot struck its head and its lobotomised brain mushroomed from the back of its skull.
Ravachol set off towards the great gates of Adept Malevolus’s forge, knowing that were he able to claim Sanctuary, then not even a tech-priest assassin would dare violate the sanctity of a Master Adept.
The servitor ran after him, its lumbering gait thumping on the metal roadway as it followed. Behind him, Ravachol could hear hissing barks of laser discharges and knew that one servitor was still fighting. Even with its enhanced combat routines, it wouldn’t last long, but the entrance to the forge complex was just ahead.
Panicked people were running for the gates, desperate to escape the gunfire and the destruction being wrought behind them. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw the assassin skim low across the roadway, using the now-wrecked transporter for cover as the battle servitor leapt from its back to get a clear shot.
Surprised by such an aggressive move, the assassin slid to the side as a flurry of lasblasts sawed towards her and left molten craters in the roadway. She flipped up into the air until she was upside down and passed over the servitor, her sword a blur of blue fire.
Las-blasts followed the assassin through the air, but they were wild and undirected as the servitor fell to the ground in two halves, its body severed at the waist.
He covered the last few yards towards the temple, where the two-headed eagle of the Emperor and Mechanicum were acid-etched onto each leaf of the great steel doors. A stoup of blessed engine oil was formed from the metalwork of the door’s frame and Ravachol hurriedly dipped the fingers of both hands into the viscous substance as he heard a speeding bass hum drawing closer.
Ravachol cast the oil around himself and shouted, ‘In the name of the Adept Malevolus, I claim the ancient right of Sanctuary within this temple! I claim this by right of past sponsorship by the Master of the Forge!’
No sooner had the words left his mouth than a pair of cone-shaped shield projectors mounted on the ceiling swivelled to face him. He looked up and saw a nimbus of green light build within the cones.
A shriek of blazing energy flashed towards him from the ceiling. He turned and cried out in terror as he heard a screeching yell from behind him. The razor edge of the assassin’s energy sword exploded in a flare of brightly discharging energy as it impacted on the newly generated conversion field.
Ravachol fell to his knees, blinded by the dazzling light and blinked away the stuttering afterimages of the incandescent explosion. The assassin, a female he now saw, spiralled upwards into the darkness of the vestibule, tracked by a battery of quad-barrelled gun turrets.
Before they could open fire, she slid out of sight, skimming the walls and vanishing into the Martian night.
‘Thank the Machine-God,’ he whispered, feeling as though his speeding heart-rate was about to choke him. He stayed on his knees as curious onlookers began to gather around him, wondering what fate had brought him to seek Sanctuary in this place and what manner of person would attract the attention of a tech-priest assassin.
He slumped to his haunches and put his head in his hands as a trio of Mechanicum Protectors marched towards him from the temple’s interior. Each was armed with a bolter-topped spear stave and was augmented with a fearsome array of plate armour and enhanced battle gear.
His last servitor turned to engage the Protectors, but he said, ‘No, stand down. These are the Protectors of Malevolus.’
‘It’s quite a mess you have left behind,’ said Master Adept Urtzi Malevolus, his voice muffled behind the dark bronze of his facemask. A trio of green bionic eyes set into the pale remnants of his skull illuminated the interior surfaces of his red hood.
Though Malevolus’s primary mode of locomotion was his human legs, they and his right arm were all that was left of his humanity. His red robes were fashioned from vulcanised rubber, thick and hard-wearing, and a monstrously large power pack was affixed to his back, its bulk held aloft by tiny suspensor fields. Remote probe robots darted back and forth from his body, kept in check by the coiled cables that connected them to the senior adept.
‘Yes,’ replied Ravachol as he and his last remaining battle servitor followed Malevolus through the cavernous chambers of the forge temple. ‘I am sorry to return to you in such circumstances, my lord, but I did not know where else to turn.’
‘No, no,’ replied Malevolus, waving a pale, age-withered hand as they passed into a wing of the temple that was wide and tall, its massive pilasters and curved ceiling making Ravachol feel like he had been swallowed and was in the belly of some enormous beast.
‘You did the right thing by coming to me,’ continued Malevolus. ‘Absolutely the right thing. I always said that you would make a big impact here, did I not?’
‘You did,’ agreed Ravachol. ‘I just had no idea that it would cause so much trouble.’
‘Do not worry about it, Pallas,’ said Malevolus. ‘I have already contacted Adept Chrom and this mess will all be sorted out soon.’
‘Adept Chrom?’ asked Ravachol fearfully. ‘Why?’
‘What you have uncovered has more ramifications than you might imagine, Pallas,’ replied Malevolus as they made their way towards a heavily guarded door of brushed steel and bronze. The mighty door rolled aside on cogged locking teeth and Malevolus indicated that he should pass through.
Ravachol was about to ask about these ramifications as he stepped into a colossal chamber hung with tens of thousands of suits of Legiones Astartes battle plate and all questions died in his throat. The room was brightly lit and the cold illumination reflected dazzlingly from the unpainted suits of armour. Their silver brilliance reminded Ravachol of the crumbling records of Old Earth and the tales of warriors who had ridden into battle on the backs of animals. The idea made Ravachol smile as Malevolus entered the chamber and set off towards its far end.
‘I’ve never seen so many Mark IV suits,’ said Ravachol. ‘It must be an awe inspiring sight to see these worn by the Legiones Astartes.’
‘I imagine so,’ nodded Malevolus. ‘Of course, we are only about halfway through the general issue of the Mark IV. And as you might imagine, there have been difficulties in getting some of the more… traditionally minded Legions to abandon the old “Iron Suits”.’
‘The Armorum Ferrum? But why? I thought the Legions complained that Mark III armour was too clumsy and uncomfortable for everyday battle use.’
‘It is,’ agreed Malevolus, ‘But it is the most visually brutal of all Space Marine armour patterns and some Legions relish that brutality and wish to retain it as a uniform for ceremonial guards or speartip assault units.’
‘But Mark IV is by far the better armour,’ protested Ravachol, unable to follow the logic of the Space Marines. He supposed he would never understand the Legiones Astartes, and had even heard rumours that they were soon to be classified as a different species, so far removed from the original human genome were they.
As he looked up at the hanging suits of armour and returned his gaze to the massively augmented form of Adept Malevolus, he wondered if the legionaries thought the same thing of the Mechanicum.
‘There will be consequences you cannot possibly imagine as a result of what you have set in motion,’ said the Master Adept as Ravachol hurried to return to the adept’s side. The servitor jogged alongside him, its heavy footfalls echoing from the far walls.
‘In retrospect, it was foolish of me to allow you to leave for Chrom’s temple, but hindsight is a wonderful thing, is it not?’ continued Malevolus.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Ravachol.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Malevolus. ‘You don’t need to understand, but while we have some time, allow me to show you what has been the recent f
ocus of my forge’s work.’
‘I would be honoured,’ said Ravachol. ‘To see the handiwork of a Master Adept, well, that’s something I never expected to see for at least another century.’
‘Quite,’ said Malevolus, ‘but these are exceptional times are they not? Some leeway can be allowed for, I think.’
Ravachol followed Malevolus as he led the way through the silent ranks of armoured figures to the furthest end of the chamber where a tall black cylinder stood atop a stepped dais of red marble threaded with veins of gold and silver.
Malevolus climbed the steps and one of his probe robots swooped towards the black cylinder, its glowing eye flipping up and a whirring key emerging from the socket. The key slid into the cylinder, though Ravachol could see no visible keyhole. The floating robot backed away from the cylinder and flew behind Malevolus as it began to hum.
The blackness swirled and began to bleed out of the cylinder, sinking into the dais like a cloud of ink in water. Gradually, the contents of the cylinder became visible as its surface turned from opaque to translucent and finally to transparency. Ravachol gasped in awe as he saw the most wondrously exquisite suit of Tactical Dreadnought Armour he had ever seen.
More massively proportioned than Mark IV armour, its limbs were constructed from heavy gauge plasteel plating and painted midnight-black. Gold and bronze edged the armour and Ravachol could clearly see that the most skilled craftsmen on Mars had worked upon every aspect of this armour.
Gold studs edged the shoulder guards and a belt of agate and bronze drew the eye towards the centre of the breastplate where sat a glaring amber eye flanked by snarling wolves of gold. The high gorget radiated a red light and a thick wolf pelt hung from the shoulders.
Ravachol climbed the steps and stood before the towering suit of armour. Just being close to a work of art like this was intoxicating, and not a little frightening. Ravachol reached a hand out to touch the burnished plates, his hand shaking even though the suit was unoccupied. The plasteel was cold to the touch, but Ravachol felt a faint tremor run through the armour, as though the machine-spirit within lay dreaming of the wars it would fight. He looked up towards where the wearer’s head would be and shivered, suddenly afraid of this terrifyingly brutal suit of armour.
Shadows of Treachery Page 17