‘Fascinating…’
‘It is like nothing the Machine God’s servants have documented before. It is a weapon the mere presence of which is a force of ultimate destruction. A blade that cuts without being drawn from its sheath; a bolt that blasts without leaving the barrel. If we are to achieve similar masteries, we must understand how the alien accomplishes such wonders. Scrutiny of the workings of their technology alone only reveals that it should not work at all. This is an unacceptable conclusion for our data packet.’
‘Indeed,’ Urquidex agreed.
‘The Fabricator General demands better of us,’ the artisan said.
‘Always,’ the magos replied absently.
‘Magos,’ Van Auken insisted, ‘I must have your hypotheses.’
Urquidex looked up from the alien brain, his telescopic eyes retracting and refocusing.
‘Why rush such important research?’ the magos said with a withering gaze.
‘There is a time for everything,’ Van Auken said, ‘and for everything a time.’
‘Has this time been allocated for wastage?’ Urquidex asked. ‘Since it seems to be achieving little else.’
‘The Subservius has been ordered on,’ Van Auken insisted. ‘We are to rendezvous with several signum-stations before moving corewards to establish observations above Macromunda.’
‘To watch another unwarned world offered up before the alien for slaughter?’ Urquidex said.
‘You must learn to govern your sentimentality,’ Van Auken instructed. ‘Macromunda is no less a sacrifice than those genelings you experiment on in your laboratorium. These worlds would die anyway. We watch them die so that Mars might live. Now, enough of this. What observations can you add to the data packet? What is the secret of the xenos technology?’
Urquidex gave his superior the narrowing lenses of his telescopic eyes. Retracting the digit-scalpel into the toolage of his bionic hand, the magos produced a pencil beam from his cranial arrangement, the red dot of which hovered across the artisan trajectorae’s narrow forehead. Urquidex turned back to the xenos brain he had been working on.
‘This structure here,’ Urquidex said, indicating a bulbous feature at the brainstem that appeared like a bloom of fungus erupting from the base of a tree, ‘governs the problem-solving faculties of the species — at least that is my theory.’
‘Like you, I am a priest of Mars,’ Van Auken reassured him. ‘This is a xenos abomination — there are no certainties, only theories to be tested. Proceed, magos.’
‘In many alien space-faring species, as well as our own,’ Urquidex told him, ‘such structures — dealing with inspiration, experimentation and technological development — occur in the frontal lobes.’ Urquidex passed the dot across a comparatively redundant part of the creature’s brain. ‘Or the xenos equivalent thereof. In a race who have taken that crucial and technologically demanding step into a larger universe, you would expect this to be an area of recent evolutionary development.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Not so in Veridi giganticus,’ the magos biologis said. ‘It occurs in one of the most primitive parts of the organ.’
‘But what does that mean?’ Van Auken asked.
‘It means that their technological mastery, being what it is, proceeds not from evolutionary, intellectual development as it has in humans and many other races. It has been a feature of their race from very early in their existence.’
‘An accelerated development?’ Van Auken hoped so. Acceleration could be modelled. Acceleration could be predicted.
‘No,’ Urquidex told him. ‘Something primordial. A capability innate within their species. Their mastery of technology — including the gravitational and vector capabilities that you would wish to reproduce — is a natural ability. Not a product of some form of developed, higher order conception.’
‘These conclusions will not please the Fabricator General,’ Van Auken said.
‘It is only a theory,’ Urquidex said. ‘Other priests at other conquest-sites may reach other conclusions.’
‘Have you learned anything else?’ Van Auken asked.
Urquidex turned and snapped on a hololithic projector that enveloped the monstrous brain in a fluxing field representation.
‘What is that?’ the artisan asked.
‘Honestly?’ the magos said, ‘I don’t know. I happened upon the frequency by accident. This is the barest manifestation of it, I can tell you that. It has been fading since biological cessation.’
‘If you had to make an informed guess, magos?’
‘Some kind of field or emanation,’ Urquidex said. ‘It seems to be coming from deep within the brain structure — again, an evolutionarily ancient feature.’
‘Could it be psionic in nature?’ Van Auken asked cautiously.
‘Unknown,’ Urquidex said with equal reservation, ‘not my area of specialisation. However, watch this.’
Urquidex directed a pair of servitors into the foil tent. Between them they carried an alien weapon: some kind of barbaric chopping implement sporting a chain of revolving teeth like a chainsword. A brute motor was built into its ungainly shaft, the handle of which was scored with primitive glyphs and graffiti. The magos directed the drones to slip the savage weapon into the beast’s death-stiffened grip, and lay the great shaft of the weapon and its murderous headpiece across the greenskin’s open and organ-excavated chest.
‘What are you doing?’ Van Auken asked, as Urquidex directed a servomat to attach power couplings to the weapon’s monstrous motor. ‘Magos?’
‘Clear…’ Urquidex said, before instructing the servomat to supply power to the weapon from its own core.
The serrated chain of the chopper roared to life, the clunky machinery of its motor squealing and crunching, the gore of the Emperor’s Angels spraying Van Auken from the monstrous weapon’s thrashing teeth. The artisan stepped back and wiped the speckles of old blood from his face.
‘Turn it off,’ he commanded.
‘As you wish,’ Urquidex said, selecting an autopsy cleaver with a monomolecular edge from a rack of similarly macabre tools. Swinging the cleaver down with force, the magos chopped at the hulking wrist of the greenskin. It took a number of strikes, with the cleaver-blade biting through flesh and bone. With a final strike the claw-hand was separated from the meat of the arm — and the weapon chugged, bucked and died. Van Auken stepped back towards the creature with fresh interest.
‘It still has power?’
‘The problem isn’t power,’ Urquidex assured the artisan-primus. ‘The weapon has suffered a malfunction, which isn’t surprising given the poor quality of its construction and maintenance. I fear that this field — swiftly depleting and dissipating after death — in some way aids the crude workings of such creations.’
‘But what of technologies not in direct contact with the xenos?’
‘Unknown. The weapon was a simple demonstration with a cadaver-specimen,’ Urquidex said. ‘I have not observed the field’s properties in a living organism. I don’t know for sure that the field is responsible.’
‘If it was, could the field be replicated?’
‘Unknown. Not my specialisation.’
Artisan Van Auken took a moment to process this new data.
‘These are important findings,’ Van Auken said. ‘They must reach Mars without delay.’
Urquidex watched the artisan process more than just the findings. Van Auken, who scorned the display of emotions in his colleagues, had difficulty keeping pride in his expedition’s work from his gaunt face. Greed followed as an afterthought. Greed for power, recognition and influence. It was his name and designation as artisan-primus that would accompany the data packet to Mars. He who would be recalled to serve in the sacred ranks of the Fabricator General’s diagnostiad.
‘There is something else,’ Urquidex said, shaking Van Auken from his machinations.
‘Proceed,’ the artisan trajectorae encouraged, eager for more revelations.
‘I have gene-typed the creature and a sample of its kind,’ the Magos Biologis said, ‘and cross-referenced our findings with the data-vaults aboard the Subservius.’
‘And what did you discover?’ Van Auken urged.
‘They all have the same origin, genetically speaking,’ Urquidex said. ‘With some more work, we should be able to narrow it down to a particular area of the galaxy. Perhaps even a single world.’
A burst of binary cant from Alpha Primus Orozko interrupted the pair of priests. An alpha of the Epsil-XVIII Collatorax had reported to the primus. Urquidex and Van Auken turned, and Orozko prompted the subordinate to report.
‘Artisan-primus,’ the tribunus said. ‘The augurmats have discovered life signs and designation signatures in quadrant four. They’re weak but verified and coming from beneath the ground.’
‘Survivors?’ Eldon Urquidex dared to hope.
‘Witnesses,’ Van Auken corrected him, ‘to the end of a world. Take us to them.’
The alpha led his commander and the two priests through the floating carnage about the magos’ field of electrostatic rods. Beyond the static, the sampling crews and the skitarii standing sentinel, the alpha took them to a small excavation. A cordon of gathered Collatorax, augurmats and a servitor dig-team parted to admit the artisan-primus, and a medicae servitor looked up from its work at the tech-priests’ arrival.
A pair of stretcher-bearing servitors carried the remains of an ashen priest from the excavation site. He was clad in the robes of the Mechanicus, besmirched with Ardamantuan earth, but had suffered the horrific injuries of battle. His legs were missing, hacked away by some brute weapon of war. Lengths of intestine and the tech-priest’s inner workings spilled from the mess of his abdomen-stump.
‘Halt,’ the magos said, bringing the servitors to a stop. ‘Status?’
‘Compromised,’ the medicae servitor told him in monotone. ‘Critical. Demonstrated no life signs or data-feeds. Invasive interventions stabilised core and cogitae. Organic systems either dead or dying. Survival unlikely.’
What blood and oil remained in the priest’s body was leaking out onto the stretcher. His augmented biology was still partially functioning, although he was technically not alive and in machine system shock. His hands reached out for things that were not there and nonsense fell from his lips like a stream of dribble.
‘You know this priest?’ Van Auken asked.
‘Yes,’ Urquidex informed him. ‘The Omnissiah favoured him with my specialism: his name is Laurentis, Phaeton Laurentis. He was assigned to the original expedition.’
‘Laurentis…’
‘He did some good work in isolation, while attached to the Imperial Fists. He gathered some valuable data, made some useful observations.’
‘His observations were not so useful to the Fabricator General,’ Van Auken said, ‘when he transmitted them to Terra.’
‘Like many of our calling,’ Urquidex said, ‘Phaeton Laurentis was not taken into the Fabricator General’s confidence regarding the alien invader. He knew no more than the Guard officers and Adeptus Astartes besieged with him. We can hardly blame him for serving the cohort to which he had been assigned. And like I said, some of his work was very good, bearing in mind what little he had to work with.’
Van Auken was unconvinced. ‘Take him to my shuttle,’ the artisan commanded the servitors. ‘He will repair to the ship for censure and redesignation of service.’
‘Scrubbing him seems a waste,’ Urquidex offered. ‘He might have more information than was transmitted.’ Van Auken considered the idea. ‘Gathered between transmission and defeat.’
‘It is undeniably true that such information would be useful,’ Van Auken admitted. ‘Inform the magi physic and artisans cybernetica that this priest is to be stabilised and readied for downstreaming and debriefing,’ he told the servitors, before sending them off to his shuttle.
Van Auken turned, but Urquidex had already started the descent down into the excavated pit. There they found an infirmechanic standing among three waxy cocoons, taking readings. Humanoid in shape, the large cocoons appeared like the mummified ancients of some archaeological find. Instead of being wrapped in cloth, the three figures had secreted a kind of mucus-like residue that formed a thin, protective layer about their bodies. Through the membranous surface, the two priests could see the horror of mangled bodies: butchered torsos, missing limbs and scraps of ceramite plate. A yellow pauldron was visible through the stretched surface of one cocoon. The markings were clear even through the membrane: a black gauntlet, clutched into a defiant fist.
‘They must have been buried in the gravitic upheaval,’ the artisan trajectorae said. ‘With the priest… Magos?’
‘Aye,’ Urquidex agreed, his telescopic eyes whirring in for a closer look. ‘These are Adeptus Astartes genetic adaptations. A form of suspended animation, allowing them to survive all but the most mortal of wounds. The coating is an extreme form of protective secretion, airtight and temperature resistant. It is a wonder of genetic engineering.’
The magos biologis examined the infirmechanic’s readings.
‘Will they survive?’ Van Auken asked him.
‘Possibly.’
‘Fascinating.’
‘Their wounds are grievous and their life signs are practically non-existent.’
‘Like the priest, they have first-hand knowledge of the enemy’s tactical capabilities,’ the artisan-primus said. ‘You said it yourself. Better data than could be gathered by a thousand butchered drones.’
‘Agreed,’ Urquidex said. ‘But I want you to know that if we break their suspension and revive them, we might not be able to save them from their injuries.’
‘Their testimony is too important,’ Van Auken said. ‘It is required for the data packet.’
‘The Adeptus Astartes — a successor Chapter — would have the specialist knowledge to…’
‘We don’t answer to the Adeptus Astartes,’ Van Auken said. ‘We answer to the Fabricator General.’
‘These might be all that is left of the Imperial Fists.’
‘Have them transported with the priest to the laboratorium aboard the Subservius,’ Van Auken ordered. ‘Begin suspension-interruption there.’
‘You will take responsibility?’
‘I will.’