He negotiated the module in silence, inhaling through the narrow slits of his nostrils before exhaling through the grim line of his mouth. With one hand, the blind savant groped and pulled himself past various datamat, holomat and automat servitors who were wired into their observation cradles. Finding a corner of the compartment not drowning in cables, surveillance equipment or Adeptus Mechanicus priest-personnel and servitors, de Zut settled in an alcove, bobbing about in the zero gravity.
‘Master de Zut,’ Notatio Logi Lutron Vydel addressed the astropath. ‘You are intoxicated, sir — again.’ There was no hint of accusation or displeasure in the adept’s static-laced voice, no wrinkle of vexation in the ebony flesh of his hood-framed face. As ranking priest on the Addendus~727 Broad Spectra Adeptus Mechanicus Signum-Station, the notatio logi was not given to such emotional indulgence. It was simply a statement of recorded fact. Like a humpshuttle pilot on a outpost, only required during the cycle changeover of arrival and exodus, de Zut was bored, underemployed and without distraction.
De Zut said nothing.
‘My brother adept is reminding you of your responsibilities,’ Lexmechanic Autegra Ziegl said, turning away from the rune banks built into almost every surface of the compartment. She reached past the astropath. Nudging him to one side in the zero gravity, the lexmechanic adjected several plungers and dials. The outline of her cranial cogitator was like a research installation built into an asteroid, its unit-accretions dominating her shaven head.
‘This is the Omnissiah’s work,’ she said. ‘His loyal servants work hard to compile statistics and testimonia for the astro-telecommunication data package.’
‘To Mars,’ de Zut said, putting one hand across his chest in a mock salute while raising his suckle-flask.
‘It would be an unacceptable waste of time, resources and data,’ Notatio Logi Vydel added, ‘if the package were not to reach the Fabricator General’s choralis diagnostiad.’
‘It would,’ de Zut agreed, taking another slug of amasec.
‘Which is why I’ve opened a file on your fitness for such an important duty,’ Vydel told the astropath with cold indifference.
‘A file,’ de Zut repeated. ‘Honoured.’ Again, he raised the flask.
‘Auspexmechanic Kelso Tollec has been identified as best qualified to monitor your competence,’ Vydel said. Tollec turned his hooded face from the data-pulsing rune banks and refocused his ocular-quad of bionics on the astropath.
De Zut picked tobacco from his thin lips.
‘I can make Adept Tollec’s service record and signum-specifications available for your perusal, if you wish,’ said Ehrlen Ohmnio.
Ohmnio was an officious transmechanic with an annoyingly cheerful face-mask. De Zut took a long drag on his lho-stick before flooding the crowded surveillancia module with silky smoke and reaching for a plunger set in the compartment ceiling.
‘Please don’t touch that,’ Vydel said. The logi was very particular about the signum-station’s equipment.
De Zut gave him the dark lenses of his goggles and yanked down hard on the handle. The compartment rumbled as a metal blast screen lowered to reveal the thick armourglass of the module’s observation port. The searing ice-white glare of the Incus Maximal and Malleus Mundi forge-worlds dominated the void beyond. The surfaces of the pair were blotched with the black clouds of planetary destruction. Between them sat the rusted, clinker-plate body of an armoured moon: a greenskin abomination that rained swarms of invasion craft down on the frozen planets. Hanging above the decimation of xenos conquest was a flotilla of Adeptus Mechanicus ark ships and supertransports receiving the last of the forge-world survivors.
‘This is what I am referring to, master astropath,’ Vydel told him, without the suggestion of annoyance or inconvenience de Zut’s actions might have provoked. ‘Such wilful behaviour necessitates monitoring. I expected more of your kind. That was my mistake — after all, you are flesh and flesh is weak.’ The logi turned to his auspexmechanic. ‘Tollec, I want scan coverage, augur arrays and vox-monitoring intensified by forty per cent in line of sight quadrants. Particularly those occupied by Mechanicus contingents. Without filters, we might have emitted some optical or energy signature of our position.’
‘Scanning,’ the auspexmechanic said.
‘I understand why our surveillance needs to remain hidden from the enemy,’ de Zut acknowledged. ‘But your own people and priesthood? You’ve let them just die up to now anyway. Soon there won’t be anyone left to detect your presence.’
‘Master de Zut,’ Vydel said. ‘Are you familiar with our Third Law of Universal Variance?’
‘He will not comprehend,’ Autegra Ziegl said with confidence.
‘It is called the Bystander Paradox,’ Vydel continued, ‘and it states that whatever the Machine God’s servant observes, he affects. The magos metallurgicus’ involvement in an experiment might threaten to change its chemical outcome. An alien life form might behave differently under the gaze of a magos biologis than it would in its natural environment. A patient might stifle pain or embarrassing symptoms in the presence of a magos physic. You see, this signum-station is under strict orders — from the Fabricator General himself. Covertly observe. Record. Document. Do not interact. That is our solemn responsibility. And it is your solemn responsibility to send the sum total of our data and observations back to Mars.’
‘Solemn responsibility?’ the astropath repeated back. ‘What about our responsibility to those people?’
‘Their loss has been weighed and measured against future gains,’ Vydel replied.
‘And what of the losses on other worlds?’ de Zut spat back morosely. ‘While you coldly catalogue the slaughter of the Machine God’s servants, what of the mortis-cries of the dozen Imperial worlds I have intercepted? Mortis-cries of dying billions that I am bound by ancient decrees of my own order to report on, but that your surveillance protocols forbid?’
‘I calculate that to be a burden, master astropath,’ Lutron Vydel said. ‘But a necessary one. We cannot allow enemies — xenos or domestic — to learn of our surveillance. I understand that the mortis-cries might have tested you…’
‘These deaths are but data to you,’ de Zut said grimly. ‘You can close your blast screens so that you might avoid looking down on your losses. I have no such screen. I live each and every one: in here,’ the astropath said, slapping his palm against his temple.
‘I repeat,’ Vydel said, ‘we acknowledge the burden of such mortis-cries.’
‘And of the astrotelepathic distress calls to have reached us?’ de Zut interrupted. ‘What of the living, priest? Thirsk’s World? Aguilarn Tertius? Eidolica? The Verge Worlds? Fifty-One Xerxi? Port Sanctus? Undine? What of those we could save by breaking your precious Law of Universal Variance? Those who might be saved by others, if you only allow me to pass on their communications? We might be the only ones to have intercepted such calls for assistance.’
‘Out protocols are clear,’ Vydel said, unaffected by the astropath’s entreaties. ‘We are authorised to send one communication. One communication containing our evidence and findings. Observations of enemy conquest strategies, the workings of xenos technologies and the relative successes or failures of victim-worlds to repel invasions. One communication signalling the signum-station’s readiness for extraction and redeployment. These billions you feel for do not perish in vain. The Fabricator General will learn much from their annihilation.’
De Zut pushed himself back into the corner of the compartment, defeated by the cold logic of the tech-priests. Unclipping herself from her observation cradle, Autegra Ziegl allowed herself to drift upwards. Reaching out, she depressed the ceiling plunger, initiating the hydraulic closure of the port blast screen. She had no words of comfort for the astropath. Such capacity had long been surgically sliced from what was left of her organic brain, but she watched de Zut with brazen curiosity as he shook his head and took a long, hard drink from his suckle-flask.