Chapters 6, 7, 8, 9 and 10 have also been updated. Updates includes minor edits and tweaks, grammar, and punctuation corrections.

Song of the day – Sturmgeist's Armoured Train – Michael Giacchino


Chapter 14 – The Comms Station

Locke stood mouth agape as his gaze periodically roamed between the smouldering remains of the servitor through the bars of the gate and to the onyx cube in his outstretched arm. As his mind re-established itself, he blinked away his confusion and pocketed the glowing Omnicron back into the webbing pouch from whence it came.

The soldier regained his composure just in time as he sensed the alien warrior materialise beside him. She too, mimicked his reaction, scrutinising the artefact's burning handiwork and the guilty-looking guardsman.

"Before ya say anythin', it was an accident." Locke said, holding up his hands in mock surrender, only realising the redundance of his phrasing after it had left his mouth.

Another shower of sparks burst forth from the dead servitor's chest before he could add anything else. The guardsman winced at the interruption while the alien regarded him with an unfaltering gaze. He could well imagine the judgemental expression hidden behind her banshee mask.

Withering somewhat under her stare, Locke crossed his arms defensively; his eyes were downcast as he searched the ground for a worthwhile distraction. "I swear on the Golden Throne, Xeno, it wasn't my fault." He declared to the suspicious banshee as he laid the blame entirely on the artefact itself.

The xeno huffed in irritation at his childishness, a cloud of vapour blossoming from her respirator. She swiftly returned her attention to the obstacle in their path, drawing her sword which flickered into life as the aspect warrior thumbed the trigger.

Locke saw what she was about to do and made to protest, but the words died in his throat as she silenced him with another baleful glare. Two swipes of her power sword and the gate crumbled away with a squeal of tortured metal while the forlorn guardsman looked on helplessly.

Nodding at the positive result the eldar traversed the breach and crossed the snow-covered pavement towards the facility's reception.

At least he was kind enough to leave the door open. The soldier thought with an audible sigh, as he followed on behind his enigmatic companion, suffering a mild sense of embarrassment as he passed the burning cadaver.

The light ebbed away as they neared the entrance's steel archway. The sliding metallic doors, each marked with symbols of the mechanicus and administratum, remained drawn open - awaiting the return of their former biomechanical master. Once inside, Locke's nose wrinkled as he sniffed at the familiar odour of stale air combined with heavy disinfectant.

Yep, smells like an Administratum cubical farm all right. The scout reflected as he interacted with the door panel. With a single press of a button, the thick steel sections slid from their moorings and met in the middle. This reunion produced a loud thump that reverberated around the desolate reception area and down the neighbouring corridor.

With their gateway to the outside world now closed, the foyer became shrouded in darkness, scarcely lit by the red auxiliary lighting. Locke ascertained that the comms station's primary power source was offline which meant that only the core systems were being maintained. He did not move for some time as he acclimatised to their new surroundings, allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to the red shade.

Meanwhile, the aspect warrior waited patiently at his side, no doubt she was unbothered by the darkness; her superior vision and the augments of her helmet making her as eagle-eyed as always. The guardsman found this newly established compassion rather out-of-character for the usually stoic and aloof eldar, especially considering their little tiff outside.

Although, as the guardsman mulled over this sudden change in behaviour, he came to understand that the xeno's actions were purely pragmatic. The aspect warrior likely had little experience or knowledge of human civic dwellings or military installations and was therefore counting on his greater familiarity with them.

This insight did carry some disappointment, but the fact that she trusted him to take the lead for once more than made up for it. Locke felt a small flush of pride at this sign of respect and a hope that their little spat from earlier had now been resolved.

This triggered an angry response from the more uncompromising and zealous parts of his psyche that found his growing interaction with the accursed alien increasingly intolerable. The guardsman brushed the worries of his subconscious aside, reminding himself that their temporary pact would likely come to an end very soon.

His mind relented at this acknowledgement and he turned his focus back to the task at hand. Locke studied the gloom and considered using his own lantern to help illuminate the path ahead, but he was unsure of the light's remaining battery capacity.

To use it in a place when he could still see well enough struck the guardsman as wasteful. In the end, his frugal nature won out, they would go without it and rely on the caged crimson wall lamps that were dotted along the hallways at regular intervals. Moving around the room, he surveyed its layout and contents.

Chairs and recaf tables - reserved for staff and visitors, now lay overturned in an orderly fashion, anticipating the day when their hibernation may end, and normal operations resumed. Likewise, what looked like a secretary's desk was bare, the dust lines of a now-absent cogitator clearly visible even in the artificial red twilight.

Hmmm, the desk jockeys evacuated in good order it seems. Let's just hope they left something useful. He hoped, tapping his fingers on the desk in time to the tempo of his thoughts.

As they both explored their immediate surroundings, it soon came to Locke's attention that the central heating had also remained operational. Over the past few days, his body had been left numb from the cold outside to such a degree that he barely even noticed the rise in temperature.

Nonetheless, the sensation of warmth was a most welcome change. The heat trickled into his frost encrusted extremities which prompted Locke to give a silent prayer of thanks to whichever pampered office drone had made such a wise decision. The xeno also appeared pleased with the rise in temperature as her silhouetted form stretched and massaged her armoured body, rubbing life back into her cold limbs.

A brief search of the room revealed nothing of note. His desperation to find something useful tugged him towards the corridor that was laid out before them. Crossing the space, Locke set off down the industrial hallway with the banshee picking up the rear.

They progressed at a reasonable pace, their clinking footfalls echoing on the steel plated floor. Each disturbance made the scout hesitate for a fraction of a second as he imagined vengeful servitors awakening at the sound.

When he noticed a sudden disparity in the sound of their footsteps, the guardsman looked back over his shoulder to check on the alien. She had paused to investigate one of the metal ribs that lined either side of the hallway. Each of the thick struts was embossed with a human skull at around eye level. Tilting his head, Locke saw that it was the macabre iconography that was the cause of her fascination.

He remembered as a child asking his schola tutor about the emblem. The unyielding teacher, Master Granick, had answered his question in his usual overbearing manner. He had stated that the human skull is a universally understood image, no matter which part of the Imperium a person hails from. It is a symbol that acts as an everlasting reminder of mankind's fragility, to which undying loyalty and unrepentant unity can be the only response.

He distinctly recalled being a bit overwhelmed by what most would consider a fairly complex answer for a bunch of seven-year-olds to understand, not that the balding old coot ever seemed to notice.

Even so, the elderly teacher hadn't been wrong. In his time with the Guard, Locke knew that the symbol of mortality itself was popular across the entire Imperium and he had never found it too discomforting in adulthood. Given the cultural difference, he was curious to know what her thoughts were on the matter.

Not appreciative, that's for sure. He smiled to himself, clearing his throat loudly which brought her attention back to reality. The alien didn't appreciate his immaturity; she stepped in close and prodded him hard in the ribs.

The guardsman took the hint and continued to creep down the passageway whilst soothing his sore torso. From their vigil, the array of polished craniums watched silently with hollow eye sockets as the strange pair delved deeper into their domain.

Nearing an open doorway, the guardsman nearly jumped out of his skin when he spotted a pair of eyes staring back at him from a recess in the hallway. Several seconds of gut-wrenching terror went by but the figure did not move, nor did it blink.

Letting out a long-held breath through pursed lips, Locke swallowed his fear and investigated the two alcoves that flanked the entryway. It was a deactivated combat servitor that had caught his attention. In fact, there were six in total, each encased within angular cocoons of glass and metal.

Not much of the cyborgs were visible except for the head and neck, along with the various assortment of tubes connected to the servitors' crown, mouth, and chest. No doubt feeding the suspended automatons a mixture of nutrients, proteins, and antibodies to maintain their flesh while power cables refreshed the mechanical augments of their mutilated forms.

Locke backstepped several paces away from the stasis tanks and almost bumped into the banshee who observed the scene with calm indifference, her true thoughts hidden behind her grisly bone helm. The guardsman shook his head, calmed his nerves, and carried on moving while he did his best to ignore the lifeless inhuman eyes that stared out aimlessly beyond their amniotic prison.

Stepping through the bulkhead, the scout considered his available options. Cognisant that they had little more than an hour or so before the ork hunting party reached this place; two choices came to the forefront of his mind.

One, search the station for anything useful and leg it before the greenskins arrive. Two, try to send a communiqué to Imperial forces - a request for evacuation.

The guardsman's thoughts were momentarily interrupted as he viewed the layout of the intersection in front of them. The far wall was festooned with large glass panels that stretched in both directions for a considerable distance. Curious to see what was inside, Locke pressed his hands against the glass as he examined the huge circular room.

Beyond the thick crystal panes was a central hub of telecommunications equipment. Rows of cogitators lay silent, their screens black and lifeless. The huge monitors that stretched across the walls which once displayed important information now did little more than reflect the red glow of the auxiliary lighting.

Many great reels of yellowed parchment hung from the ceiling, from the casings of the mathematical transmutation machines, and from the desks and displays. All of the mechanicus seals were pinned in place with dollops of melted wax seals.

Of the few scriptures that he could make out, he could only see one written in low gothic. Most were inscribed in either noble high gothic or even more commonly in the nonsensical language of binary script.

Lining the outskirts of the chamber was an army of candles along with a few incense thuribles and censures that lay strewn across the whole room. It made the office space look more like a cathedral altar than a place of professional work. Locke imagined that any ecclesiarchy priest from a modest sized church would kill to have such a great supply of tapers.

After seeing the scale of the comms control room, Locke quickly deemed the latter option as little more than wishful thinking. The largest radio device he had ever used had been the standard trooper vox-caster, something of this size and complexity was well and truly beyond him. Unless of course the tech priests had obligingly written down instructions, which given their propensity to hide any and all technical knowledge from the uninitiated, was very unlikely.

If by some miracle he figured out how to operate the telecommunications equipment and broadcast a message onto the vox network, there was the grim possibility that there were no remaining imperial forces left to receive it. Even if there were, it would take them time to act on it. In that interval, the greenskins could have reached the comms station and slaughtered them both before the assigned rescue craft had even spooled its engines.

Too many 'ifs' for my liking, I'll take my chances in the snow.

Massaging his chin strap, he decided that stripping the facility of anything useful was a better use of their time. However, there was the issue of power. Standard protocol for electricity outage was for every powered door to lock in place whilst storing enough reserve power to open when presented with either an override code or badge of authority.

Of course, the xeno could probably cut through any obstacle in their way, but it would take time, especially for the thicker bulkheads which would most likely protect the storerooms. Time was not a luxury that was in ample supply, power would have to be restored, that much was certain.

From his initial observations, it was clear that the base had been built from general purpose components which he had seen on several different worlds. Typical of this design, the symbols for specific rooms were depicted above each doorway. All one had to do was follow the symbol until they reached their destination.

Looking to his left, he scanned the myriad of symbols hanging from a notice above another nearby doorway. A yellow lightning bolt enclosed within a black square outline caught his eye.

The power generator.

"Alright Xeno, this way." Locke said, taking several paces down the adjoining passageway. However, he paused when he didn't hear her near-silent footsteps. Looking back, he saw that the banshee was staring fixatedly through the glass into the central hub.

"Xeno?" He called but she did not react. "Hey, Xeno!" The aspect warrior finally turned to address him. "Quit sightseeing, we gotta go this way." The guardsman declared, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. The alien gazed at him for a few seconds until she nodded her understanding and crept after the soldier, sparing one last look behind her at the imposing blast doors which led into the communications chamber.

Navigating their way down several more imposing corridors, they finally found the power generator room; sealed behind a locked door. Locke tried the door panel but all he received for his trouble was the disappointing sound of a shrill buzzer; access was denied.

Fucking typical. Fine, have it your way.

The guardsman motioned the alien to use her sword to cut through the obstacle, instead she stared at him blankly. He didn't dare reach for her blade, he didn't have a death wish. Locke soon became frustrated by her lack of comprehension; a frantic game of charades ensued until the banshee eventually came to understand what the soldier's flailing signals meant.

Once again, her glowing power sword was drawn and plunged into the closed bulkhead. The howling banshee strained as she forced the sword to cleave through the door. After several painful minutes, eventually the blade cut a crude circle in the middle of the bulkhead.

With a single punch of her fist, the circular cut-out, glowing red along the edges, flew from its position and clattered somewhere inside the generator room. The eldar then turned to look at the guardsman as if to say, 'after you.'

"I was always taught ladies first, but I guess it's different from where you come from." Locke whispered under his breath, clambering through the hole. The gap proved to be a tight squeeze which resulted in a tear along his right shirt sleeve where it caught on the jagged edge.

Sodding alien bint, couldn't she have cut this a bit wider. He cursed inwardly, shooting her an irritated look which only grew more exasperated when he thought he heard her snort at his discomfort. When it was the howling banshee's turn, she had no trouble getting through their newly cut entrance, gliding her way through the hole, and standing elegantly once she was through.

"Always the show-off." He said coolly, striding over to inspect the generator before she could give him one of her patented glares in response. Sunken into the floor and surrounded by a steel railing stood a large cylindrical machine of varying diameter, laid out horizontally - taking up most of the room's space.

Close to the primary motor, attached to the railing was an interface terminal mounted on a bulky pedestal. Seeing nothing else of any interest in the dim light, he wandered over to it. A single unlit candle stood on top of the panel while a piece of parchment hung limply from the top right corner; fixed in place with a red seal.

It appeared to be the ignition terminal for powering up the generator. It comprised of a single pump lever: coloured in black and yellow stripes, a large red button and several dormant lamps that indicated the power level.

Okay, seems simple enough. Build up enough charge and smack the button. He surmised, as his gaze drifted over to the piece of paper.

"The litany of Ignition, huh?" Locke read aloud, quickly reading the rest of the short prayer in his head. The soldier's first inclination was to dismiss the mechanicus ritual out-of-hand, but he quickly reconsidered his decision when his own superstition got the better of him. Why take the risk of angering the so-called machine spirits?

"Well, if it works, it works." He shrugged in acceptance at the strange sacrament.

He took out his lighter from its webbing pouch and lit the candle on top of the pedestal. The small flame flickered and danced in the dark room, the dim halo of light slowly growing as the fire gained purchase. The guardsman retrieved his lighter and gripped the lever handle; he started to pull it down to its full extension whilst reciting the words on the parchment.

"The soul of the Machine God surrounds thee." He intoned, grunting at the stiff lever that refused to move.

"Don't have time for this! Come on ya piece of crap!" The device finally relented; the machined spirit supposedly cowed into compliance by his words. "The power of the Machine God invests thee." After three pumps of the lever, enough charge had built up to light one of the lamps.

"The hate of the Machine God drives thee." Five more depressions of the switch and another lamp lit up.

"The Machine God endows thee with life." The guardsman gritted his teeth and pulled the lever four more times. The final lamp lit up and went green.

"Live!" He announced; slamming the red ignition button with his open palm. Instantaneously, a loud whooshing sound filled the room, gradually gaining speed as the machine wakened from its slumber. When the shaft neared its normal operating speed, the noise transitioned into a high-pitched drone while the vibrations of the rotating dynamo shook the floor beneath his feet.

The unexpected surge in electricity deactivated the auxiliary lighting. Several seconds passed in pitch black darkness, enough time to make the guardsman worry that he had done something wrong until the regular lights flickered on, bathing everything in white light.

"+++ By the will of the Omnissiah, system mainframe priming. +++" Said a monotone feminine voice over the intercom.

Locke cheered at the success. "Well, Xeno." He proclaimed with a proud smile, "looks like you'll have to call me magos from now on, eh." Spinning around his smile vanished and was replaced by a confused frown as he found himself alone in the room.

"Xeno?" He called, walking around the generator in a vain search. "Trust her to slink off." Locke groaned in annoyance. The guardsman made to go look for her but stopped when he spotted an interesting schematic pinned to the far wall.

Curiosity overcame his concern for his companion, prompting him to look closer at the old diagram. The guardsman let out a low whistle when he saw that it was an overview map of the entire facility. According to the diagram, the cafeteria, kitchen, armoury, and crew quarters were nearby whereas the large storerooms were on the far side of the station.

Take a left, carry on straight, then a right and another right and I'm there. He thought, memorising the navigation instructions.

"+++ System mainframe online. Reactivating standard operating procedures. Praise be to the Omnissiah. +++" The announcer stated, temporarily disrupting his train of thought.

Time's a wastin', better get a move on. He made a beeline for the exit, blowing the candle out as he left.


Aristriel rushed down the corridors as fast as she could, back towards the central hub. About halfway there, the red lighting deactivated and was replaced by brighter overhead lamps. The sudden change in luminosity briefly disrupting her helmet's lens crystals.

The station has reawakened, good. The banshee thought as she sprinted passed the windows towards the doorway. Interacting with the door panel in the same way that her companion had from before, she soon found herself standing inside the communications hub.

The layout of the decor befitted the cavernous chamber. The assortment of heavy desks and cumbersome computational apparatus was arrayed in a series of ever shrinking concentric circles broken up by intermittent aisles.

The innermost circle contained what looked like a metal throne upon a low dais, surrounded by all sorts of glowing screens. Half a dozen cables were attached to the back of the uncomfortable-looking chair whilst a further collection of unconnected wires sprouted out from the armrests and backrest.

The second the aspect warrior had seen the purpose of the cluttered chamber; an idea had immediately begun to ferment in her mind. However, only now was it possible that she might put it into action. With the generator reactivated, the various machines had flared into life, their manufactured innards rumbling as they ran their start up procedures. Screens, displays, and monitors across the entire room flashed up indiscernible runes at random intervals as they loaded.

Aristriel could not help but be a little overwhelmed by what she intended to do, however the desire to act quickly broke through her lethargy. The last thing she needed now, was the mon'keigh or the ork barbarians barging in before she was finished.

Much to her surprise, a tiny part of her being felt a degree of guilt for going behind the back of her ally. She swallowed the remorse and carried on, reminding herself that it was necessary if her mission were to succeed. Using the array of communications equipment, she would send a long-range broadcast out in the hope that it would be discovered by her kin.

From what little she could gather from the various data readouts on the antiquated screens; only two of the overhead communication satellites were still in operation. No doubt the others had been destroyed by the ork invasion as it had made planetfall. The banshee was nonplussed by this, she only required the one for her needs.

Thus far, everything was lining up to what she had learned during her studies of the Imperium. The human empire relied upon a huge communications network in order to remain functional. This base was just the start of a single strand in the process; an insignificant node in a gargantuan system that stretched across the entire galaxy.

Normally, a message would be beamed from this facility to the satellite stuck in geosynchronous orbit, where it would then be relayed on to the capital of the star system. From there, psykers, known in the human tongue as 'astropaths', would transmit the message beyond the bounds of the star systems to its intended destination.

What was most fascinating about this method of communication, was that these psykers would regularly plunge their minds deep into the aether to psychically commune with their brethren. Who, depending on their age and skill-level, could well be on the other side of the galaxy, separated by tens of thousands of light years.

When Aristriel had first learned of this reality, she could not believe that humanity relied so heavily on such an unreliable system. The danger from doing such a thing on a regular basis would be unthinkable for any eldar to ever contemplate.

Either they are brave beyond compare or so ignorant they might as well be blind.

It was that very network that she intended to use for her own ends. It was no secret that many intelligent species and factions, who were antagonistic towards the Imperium, frequently tried to eavesdrop on these telepathic conversations.

Of course, the imperials were not oblivious to these intrusions and actively took measures to prohibit these prying activities. Unbeknownst to many of the galaxy's denizens, a psychic war, subtle by its very nature, raged between the imperial astropaths with their encryptions and the hostile code breakers.

Chief amongst these cryptographers were the eldar seers of the craftworlds, who used their superior warp craft to listen in on vital imperial transmissions on a semi-regular basis. This is what Aristriel was counting on. If she could send a coded message beyond the confines of whatever star system she was in, there was a very real chance that her message would be intercepted by her fellow eldar.

Although, spies were not interested in the mundane, they craved key intelligence. With that in mind, her outgoing dispatch would require a high level of encryption to bait any would be observers into deciphering it.

The plan was not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, far from it, that much was clear to Aristriel. There was a real danger that another poorly aligned faction or group might observe the telepathic correspondence and use that information to chase after the Omnicron too. Eldar from other craftworlds were also to be mistrusted, too many times had Alaitoc's rivals been privy to information that they had gone on to use for their own ends.

Even so, the old oaths between craftworlds still stood. On matters of great importance, the greatest of the aeldari void-bound city-states were obliged to cooperate with one another. All she could do was hope that any rival craftworld that deciphered her message, would pass it along to her kin. In the end though, the forces of Alaitoc needed to know the location of the Omnicron and this was the only way she saw that that might be achieved.

Her mind continued to weigh up the pros and cons of what she was about to do. I doubt I will be given such an opportunity again. This was the insight that tipped her mind in favour of going through with it.

With her plan laid out in her mind, she was ready to put it into action. This of course was much easier said than done. The technology that surrounded her was utterly foreign while the various semi-religious texts that littered the room were of no help either as they were unreadable.

The aspect warrior could not fathom why humanity adamantly bound their instructions within religious dogma, the only reason that came to mind was that it made it easier for them to learn.

They truly are a strange race.

Nevertheless, the mon'keigh machine priests were right on one thing: human technology was certainly alive, proven by the rudimentary spirits that dwelt within their machines. This was not an odd thing of course, living beings tended to bestow life upon their creations whether they realised it or not. In her travels, Aristriel had only come across one race whose technology was utterly soulless, an experience she would never wish to repeat.

Aristriel stretched out her mind into the aether, sensing the spirits that resided within the machinery encircling her. Drawn to the echoes of their scattered thoughts, she soon located the primary terminal. The banshee placed her hands on the sides of the monitor, closed her eyes and concentrated.

Several minutes passed by without success. Scrunching her face in frustration, she pushed her mind deeper into the pulsing matrix in her search for the elusive machine's soul.

There! It was so quiet that she almost missed it. After a few moments she perceived the deep scratchy and frantic voice of the machine spirit.

"Type_Message! Send_Message! Type_Message! Send_Message!" The impatient machine demanded, directing it as concepts and images directly into her mind. Aristriel frowned at the apparition's self-indulgent insistence, not that she was expecting anything different.

Over the decades, the banshee had heard recurring opinions regarding the inferior mon'keigh technology from her brethren. It had been explained to her that eldar and human technology was like night and day... and she was beginning to understand why.

Eldar contraptions could be likened to faithful and competent servants, who gladly obeyed their masters every whim - provided it was in their ability to do so. Human machine spirits were more like unruly hyperactive children, who demanded constant attention before they would act and even that was not a certainty.

Ignoring the mindless drivel emanating from the machine, Aristriel studied the keyboard in front of her. She grumbled silently at the crude characters of the low gothic alphabet which were incompatible with the aelvish tongue.

Sighing, the banshee decided to formulate a simple enigma. Using the characters, '-', '.' and '/', she typed out her coded message, constantly checking the stream of runes making sure that there were no mistakes.

'.- .-. .. ... - .-. .-.. / ..- .. / ..-. . .-.. .-.. - .- .. .-. / - ..-. / .- .-.. .- .. - - -.-. .-.-.- / - - -. .. -.-. .-. - -. / .-. . - .-. ...- . -.. .-.-.- / .-. . -.- ..- . ... - / ..- .-. -. . -. - / . -..- - .-. .- -.-. - .. - -. .-.-.- / - .-. .- -.-. . / - . ... ... .- -. . / ... - ..- .-. -.-. . .-.-.-'

('Aristriel Úi Fellmair of Alaitoc. Omnicron retrieved. Request urgent extraction. Trace message source.')

The aspect warrior stared at the screen scrawled in the myriad of dots, dashes, and forward slashes. At a first glance, it would appear as complete gibberish to anyone else, provided they didn't pry too closely. Once she had entered the message, the spirit's voice hammered at her mind again.

"Attributed_Security_Level?!" The spirit pleaded, its excited question bouncing around inside her head. The screen flashed and a slider of varying shades appeared. The humans obviously used a colour-coded system to categorise the security clearance.

From what she had observed of her companion, he reacted most strongly to crimson - considering his fascination with her hair, therefore it seemed appropriate that red would be the most severe. Unfortunately, that option required some sort of pass code, so using the navigation keys, Aristriel went with the next one along.

"Magenta! Magenta! Magenta!" The jubilant machine chanted, temporarily drowning out her inner monologue.

"Quiet!" Aristriel's mind bellowed, telepathically slapping the mechanical soul back into compliance. The peace that followed was short lived however, as the apparition soon spoke up once more.

"Message_Destination!?" The spirit asked, its fear forgotten as its excitement pounded in the air. The screen blinked and a colossal list of words and phrases appeared on the display. It took her a few moments to realise that these were the names of planets and star systems in the human language.

None the wiser, she selected one at random. Another monitor displayed a top-down view of the galaxy - as the humans understood it. Two flashing lights representing the star system she had selected and the one in which she currently dwelt.

"Planet/System_Selected – Avarris! Distance_to_Destination_23,000_Light_Years!"

Hmmm, that should give them enough time to crack the encryption.

"Addressee!?" It asked as another text box flashed up on the screen.

The banshee thought for a moment, and using her premade code, she typed in: '..-. .- .-. .-. / ..- .-.. .-.. .- .-. -.- -. .' (Farseer Ullaryne)

"Send! Send! Send!" The machine spirit practically cheered in its scratchy voice. Aristriel eyed the character on the keyboard that had lit up and pressed it.

"Message_sent! Message_Sent! Message_Sent!" The mechanical soul screamed with joy as a great whirring filled the central hub. The floor shook; the great telecommunications dish on top of the building was rotating into position as it locked onto the satellite up above.

There was still a great deal of uncertainty, but the banshee allowed herself a small smile in light of her ingenuity, knowing that she had done her part. The triumphant mood was suddenly shattered when a deafening alarm sounded in the confines of the cluttered room.

She had been tricked; the machine spirit had intentionally withheld the fact that there was an alarm system. No doubt the vindictive entity had done so to avenge the perceived slight that she had not performed the proper rituals.

By the blood of Kaela Mensha Khaine! Whirling around, she instinctively made for the exit while the sneering laughter of the machines snapped at her heels.

Aristriel stopped short of the entryway and watched in horror as the large doors slammed shut, further reinforced by a thick security blast shield that dropped from above. That route of escape was denied. Turning away from the sealed bulkhead, she headed for the nearest window only to have her hopes dashed as heavy metal shutters fell across each pane.


"Grox and mushroom? Joecket? Phara? Sweet and sour jorang?" Locke said, reading out the flavour of the soup sachets. "Throne, would it have killed 'em to stock some oxtail." His lip curled in disgust, but necessity pushed him into unhappily stuffing the packets inside the waterproof food compartment of his kitbag.

Beggars can't be choosers. How he had grown to hate that saying; he longed for the day when he wouldn't have to rely on its wisdom. Locke had just finished his sweep of the crew quarters and the armoury. So far, it had been a disappointing foray, the previous tenants had left very little for him to pilfer. The only thing he had managed to find in the billets was an old porno slate with the amusing name, 'Thick Thighs in Thigh Highs'.

The guardsman, ever curious, had a quick flick through and quickly determined that the slate's owner was a man of good taste. Given the quality of its contents, he considered appropriating it until he imagined the xeno's open disgust in his mind's eye.

The simulated shame that her blistering ire produced proved too much for him to contemplate and so with a hint of reluctance, Locke left the smutty publication where he'd found it. There was even less to be found in what was laughingly called the armoury which was little better than a supply closet with a few vacant gun racks.

It was in the kitchen where his fortune began to take a turn for the better. The guardsman perused every cupboard and cabinet he came across, where he discovered a small number of instant soup sachets.

The kitchen itself was adjacent to the cafeteria, connected via a single hinged door and a wide serving hatch. The interior of the scullery was set up in a multi-avenue galley format; long and narrow corridors lined with appliances, work tops and cabinets.

Plates, bowls, dishes, cups, and other kitchen utensils were all stacked neatly in various piles across multiple counter tops. A subtle build-up of dust suggested that no one had used them in some time.

On the central row, heaped high on one of the chrome counter tops were several large sacks of flour. Locke was half-tempted to take one but after attempting to lift one of the sacks up, he quickly went against the idea. Hiking over mountains with one of those weighing him down was less than appealing.

Opening another cabinet, he struck gold. A few vacuum sealed MREs lay on one of the shelves. His satisfaction though was cut painfully short, just as he was stuffing the foodstuffs inside his kitbag, he was interrupted by the sudden sounds of blaring klaxons across the entire facility. The relative quiet was shattered by the loud droning whilst red warning lights flashed periodically.

What the hell?

"+++ Attention! Unauthorised transmission detected. Lockdown measures engaged. Security scan initialising. +++" The monotone announcer's voice rose above the din to answer his question.

"That can't be good." The sound of the canteen door closing with the locking clamps engaged, sparked his flight through the swing door and across the canteen. His ears hadn't heard wrongly, there he was staring forlornly at the sealed bulkhead, his heartbeat beginning to rise. Locke hammered the door access panel which rejected his command with a harsh buzzer.

"+++ Security scan completed. Intruder alert! Intruder alert! Deploying security forces. Please remain calm and at your workstations. +++"

Security forces? Oh crap… the combat servitors! The realisation made his blood run cold. Locke was trapped like a rat in a cage, he needed to get out before they arrived. Looking around in desperation, he remembered the square wall vent above the dormant ovens. Racing back into the kitchen, the guardsman heaved himself up on top of the stove hobs, supporting himself with a wall-mounted cupboard.

From his precarious position, he unsheathed his seax and started trying to pry the grate off the wall. The stamped metal groaned as the straining guardsman put all his strength into the makeshift lever, but the grill didn't budge.

The soldier cursed under his breath as he relented. Not easily deterred, Locke retracted his blade from the vent; he decided on a different approach. Using the edge of his short sword as an improvised screwdriver, he began the arduous task of loosening the holding bolts that were located at all four corners of the grate.

Minutes went by as one bolt dropped to the floor, then another, then the third and finally the last one. The grill came away in a cloud of stale dust, but the guardsman's attention was drawn to the canteen area. The soft hiss of a sliding door opening, and the clanking thump of robotic legs made Locke freeze. He glimpsed a bulky silhouette through the serving hatch before instinctively throwing himself to the tiled floor below just as a barrage of heavy stubber fire tore through the entire kitchen.

Stacked plates and cheap porcelain mugs shattered under the hail of bullets and fell to the floor. Pots, pans, cutlery, and several baking trays exploded from their hanging boards and draws, flying around like shrapnel from an artillery shell.

Damnit!

The guardsman had been so close, his avenue for escape was right there but he didn't dare raise his head. The second he cleared cover; the walking automaton would gun him down. Surprisingly, the sacks of flour had remained remarkably unscathed although the cabinet they sat on was less lucky.

After the initial burst of gunfire, the wooden cabinet groaned loudly as it had been riddled with holes. A few heartbeats later and it collapsed under the weight, spilling the sacks and some of their contents across the floor. Crouched low and pressed up against an industrial oven, Locke slipped his hand out of cover and dragged one of the fallen baking trays to him.

Angling it towards the swing door, the reflection showed the towering automaton which stood in the doorway. A pair of heavy stubbers protruded from its arms where its forearms and hands should have been.

Attached to the grafted-on weapons, were belt feeds that looped in from behind the cyborg's back. The cog boys hadn't stopped there, with their so-called upgrades either. Its left leg, no longer flesh, had been replaced with a mechanical augment that released wisps of steam every time it moved.

It moved methodically down the corridor, steadily getting closer to Locke's hiding spot, its red robotic eye probing every corner for him. Focusing in on his hiding place, its twin machine guns fired again. The spray of bullets ricocheted off the tiles, smashing them to pieces and whizzing round the room. A stray round struck his crude mirror; snatching the baking tray away and sending it cartwheeling into the wall.

If he stayed there any longer, he'd end up with more holes than a sieve, but what could he do? Spotting the piles of flour sacks, an idea came to his mind. In a crouched walk, Locke moved round to his left, down a parallel corridor, keeping the cabinets and appliances between himself and the biomechanical monstrosity. Shuffling along, he reached the collapsed cupboard and grabbed one of the fallen sacks.

The combat servitor circumvented the tall freezer in its way and lined up its stubbers to gun down the intruder. It was not expecting a bag of flour, thrown with a huge amount of force, to strike it in the face. The flimsy parchment disintegrated as it collided with the servitors mutilated flesh and face plate, creating a miniature indoor snowstorm as the white powder spread out in a wide arc.

Blinded, it began firing wildly. In an attempt to clear its organic and mechanical eyes, its cleaning fluid flowed like a river out of its biological tear ducts. Locke easily ducked underneath the haphazard gunfire and charged forward with his seax drawn.

The automaton was heavily armoured leaving very little that he could damage. Nonetheless, his short stabbing sword was perfect for finding vulnerable gaps; Locke aimed for its organic eye and thrust as hard as he could.

The blade burst the servitor's eyeball, causing blood and viscera to vomit from the wound as he pushed further into the biomechanical being's brain. White fluid gushed out of the servitor's voice box while its mechanical parts spasmed, no longer fed instructions from its mind as the organic parts went limp and died.

It fell away as it crashed to the ground, causing a plume of flour dust to spring into the air as several more plates tumbled to the hard-tiled floor. Amidst the sounds of crashing porcelain, the guardsman stepped away and leaned on a nearby fryer, panting hard as the adrenaline rush subsided.

"Can't handle… the heat… stay outta the kitchen…wanker!" He spat on the metal meat puppet, before shambling towards the open vent. The guardsman climbed into the tight steel chute, where he heard the familiar sound of combat echoing down the metal shaft.


Aristriel sensed the screaming, the endless ethereal screaming that emanated from beyond the sealed blast doors. They were the voices of tortured souls, trapped within their own disfigured bodies that were no longer their own - unable to communicate their plight to the outside world.

Their animalistic cries reverberated through the aether; they pleaded for anyone, anything to free them, to make the pain stop. There were five voices in total, five of the mechanical monstrosities that she had seen upon entering the facility.

They stood beyond the penitentiary that the comms control had become, outside in the corridor. No doubt they would open the door and move in to eliminate her. Five against one were not the best odds, and the likelihood was that they would be equipped with ranged weaponry. If only she still had her shuriken pistol, by her reckoning it would have gone some way to levelling the playing field.

"There is no point in lamenting what you do not possess, instead work with what you have." The advice from her sword master sprang forth from the well of her mind to quash Aristriel's covetousness. Recognising the truth embedded within those words, the banshee surveyed her surroundings.

The first thing she did was kill the lights and break the switch. Aristriel would need to remain unseen, if she wanted any chance of closing the distance to her robotic opponents; the gloom would be her ally to this end.

However, the great chamber was not plunged into total darkness, the dull glare radiating from a multitude of monitors and displays created several 'light' hotspots. The aspect warrior made a mental note to avoid these areas at all costs, sticking close to the shadows.

Using what little time remained, the banshee chose her ambush position carefully. Drawing her sword, Aristriel pushed herself up against one of the tall machines that was facing away from the entranceway. She experienced mild discomfort as the dials and switches pressed into the small of her armoured back.

Aristriel held the blade upright in front of her concealed visage, taking solace in the familiarity of its weight and the grip of the handle. Closing her eyes, she brought her breathing under control to slow her racing heartbeat.

Ignoring the droning sirens that refused to go silent, the banshee's ears twitched at the scraping sound of lock mechanisms turning. A sudden whoosh of sliding steel signalled that the blast doors had been reopened. Light flooded into the chamber from the adjacent corridor. Five misshapen shadows fell across the floor, unmoving as they scanned the comms hub interior. They were looking for the intruder, they were looking for her.

The clanking of heavy metallic footfalls finally sounded as they moved into the chamber. For a moment, Aristriel thought about evading them and escaping out of the open doorway, but her hopes were dashed when the light from the corridor was abruptly cut off by the closing blast doors.

Five head lamps activated, the cones of light sweeping over the entirety of the room in an efficient and robotic fashion. The five automatons approached her position, moving in single file down one of the aisles as they pushed towards the central ring.

Three of the flesh puppets filed passed her; they had failed to spot the howling banshee, thus sealing their fate. Aristriel ignited her blade, lighting up the room around as she struck the first of the automatons. The nearest biomechanical monstrosity failed to detect her in time and lost its head as the sword cut through sinew, bone, and steel.

Blood, and some sort of mechanical fluid, fountained up from the stump as the headless puppet fell ungainly to its knees before striking the floor. The second automaton managed to turn halfway round to face her before the silver blade flashed thrice and sliced the puppet into three bloody pieces.

The last of the mutilated trio managed to face her, but before it could open fire, Aristriel slashed across the puppet's firearms, bisecting the twin barrels and the firing mechanisms. The puppet attempted to awkwardly punch her with its augmented arm stump which the banshee easily avoided. Back on the offensive, she impaled the automaton's heart and central processor. The light died in its bionic eye and it collapsed backwards in a loud clamour of dead meat and scrap metal.

There would be no respite for Aristriel though, as the last two meat puppets appeared from the opposite aisle. The banshee dived into a combat roll behind the terminal as kinetic rounds swept around, chipping away the machines outer casing and pulping computation machinery caught in the crossfire.

They maintained the bombardment as they moved closer, the gunfire ripping the workstations to pieces; wood splintered, glass shattered, and metal buckled. Under the intense storm of hot lead, Aristriel did not dare to leave her cover.

The temptation to relocate was strong, but Aristriel resisted the urge; instead, she waited for the two puppets to get closer. When they approached within a few metres, the banshee sprang up from her position, somersaulting over the damaged terminal and landed just behind the two automatons.

Failing to react in time, the flesh puppet to her left had its legs severed as she slashed at its thigh. The last fully functional automaton turned on a dime to face her only to have its trunk bisected by Aristriel's blade. The flesh puppet folded on itself, toppling over as its guts spilled out.

Hearing shuffling behind her, she spun round to see the last of the automatons, lying on the ground bringing its cannon to bear against her. Aristriel froze, there was nowhere to go and she was completely exposed. Only a miracle could save her now. The gunfire though, never came as a metal grate fell from the ceiling and crushed the meat puppet's head.

The banshee took a second to process what had happened, wondering if the pantheon of heaven truly was looking out for her. That was until the mon'keigh landed on top of the grate, further crushing the spasming automaton.

The human hopped off the displaced vent and approached her, shouting something in his guttural tongue with a harsh reproachful tone. Aristriel understood why he felt the way he did, it had been her fault that the mechanical flesh puppets had been awakened in the first place. Still, such a reprimand from a member of the lesser races was unacceptable.

Crossing her arms, she turned away and weathered the storm of his accusations. Safe in the knowledge that all she had to do was wait for the guardsman's own ego to bring him back into line, much in the same way that a male courting a female would mourn over a regretful comment.

When Aristriel felt a tap on her shoulder, she couldn't help but give a small smile at the defeated posture of the mon'keigh. He pointed towards her bloodied sword, then at the sealed bulkhead. The banshee nodded, understanding what he wanted to do. Ten minutes later and she had cut her way through to the well-lit corridor.


Locke still felt a lingering irritation by her refusal to engage. She had done something; the soldier could have bet his life on it. The fact she had been trapped in the central comms chamber was no coincidence.

How did she do it? Who did she send the message to? These two questions circulated in his mind while he endured several of the triumphant calls from a zealous voice now that his suspicions regarding the alien were proven to be well founded.

His investigation regarding the matter would have to wait, they had spent long enough in this place and now it was time to leave. He thought for a second, trying to remember the facility schematic. After some consideration he believed he knew the way to go, his train of thought suddenly broken by the xeno brushing part of his uniform.

Locke resisted the urge to slap her hand away, wondering if this was some alien way of apologising. That was until, she rubbed a pale dust in her fingers and held it up for his inspection. The guardsman looked down at his fatigues, realising that he was coated from head to toe in pale dust.

"What? Ya never seen a man covered in flour before?" He shot back, proceeding to brush off the powder as he jogged in the direction of the storage warehouses with the xeno at his side. They had only made it two dozen paces when the intercom crackled into life.

"+++ Warning! Multiple hostile xenos lifeforms detected in and around Rawling Station. All personnel, please report to the nearest safe shelter and await further instruction. Search and terminate order rescinded. Security forces are to redeploy to designated positions. Auto turret defence grid activated. +++" The feminine announcer called.


Review Responses:

Sapper One - Apologies mate, I missed your review and forgot to add a response to my last chapter. Anyway, I'm glad you enjoyed the story so far. I understand your reticence about this genre as it is a trope that has generated many subpar fanfics. Hopefully, mine will avoid the pitfalls that have plagued other authors. Agreed, Locke was the character that I worked on the most and it certainly shows. If you are interested, I have updated my earliest chapters and have refined the other character perspectives (with any luck it'll be for the better).

.1 – Certainly isn't. Locke should remember what he is carrying.

American Social Democrat – Good stuff, happy that you enjoyed it. Couldn't agree more, the mechanicus are a fascinating group and the interplay between all the different factions within the Imperium is really interesting to write about. This chapter has a bit more mechanicus shenanigans which I think you'll appreciate.

WallyWolf – Much appreciated. Bit more mechanicus action in this chapter as well.

Oc – Very good.

Dethbringer66 – Acknowledged. The justification for Locke to spare Aristriel is probably the most difficult part of the story that I've had to write. If you're interested, I have gone back and updated chapters 6, 7, 8, 9 and 10. Hopefully this has remedied the issue and made things a bit more believable.

Expert93 – Glad you liked it.

Opaque-Cavalier – Thank you, you are too kind. Happy to see that I've captured your immersion, I was actually a bit worried I had gone overboard with some of my descriptions (especially about the temperature).

Negronomicon – Absolutely, I was busy writing behind the scenes. Some of the rewrites that I had to do were… extensive and took a lot longer than I had anticipated. It's good to see that my revisions were worth it. Agreed, after a while I concluded that my story's basis was built from a shaky foundation and I was planning to do a complete rewrite. However, my editor, rightfully so, dismissed this idea and told me I should just fix the issues, lore discrepancies, character inconsistencies and continuity errors rather than start from scratch. After all that I can say that he was right. Thank you very much for your praise, I hope that my upcoming chapters maintain the standard. Stay tuned.

Malgrath – Life getting in the way and writing all the updates for my earliest chapters.

E – Uh?

Okiepatriot – Glad you liked it. No, he is not, and I doubt he will for some time. Indeed, the plot thickens. This chapter should answer that.

Ateht – It has and I'm sorry it took so long to update it. No idea, I'm quite surprised that my story has received so much attention given this is my first attempt at creative writing. I'll take that as a sign that I'm doing something right at least. Thank you, I will and I'm sure Locke will get a break soon.

Surviving7 – I'm happy to oblige. Very high praise indeed, cheers for that. If that is the case, I may have to update the previous chapter and make the combat scenes easier to follow. Interesting, a lot of people, including my editor, have said the same thing which just shows how widely misunderstood the eldar, as a race and faction, are. Exactly, you've hit the nail on the head, the eldar on average have greater combat experience, competency, and superior physiology in comparison to a baseline human. Too many authors as well as GW seem to forget that. I do have a beta reader, but he has been very busy lately so if you really want to do it, send me a PM. Be warned though that there is a big difference between my first and final draft.

Guest – Glad you liked it.

Trumpster15 – Much appreciated, happy to see you're enjoying it. Cool theory, that may well happen.

A Random Friend – Goodness that's quite the recommendation, thank you. I hope that this chapter is up to the right standard and you found it as immersive as the previous ones.

Aaron Black – He is indeed but he isn't special in that regard; the average height of people from Narvos (6'1") is a bit taller than the Terran average (5'10"). You make a good point however I don't want to go too far into spoiler territory. Suffice to say, Aristriel doesn't understand low gothic (yet) and Locke doesn't understand aeldari/aelvish. There will be no boring twist, I assure you. Exactly, the romance stuff will be small and to a minimum for now.

Norton159 – Glad you like it. I will do my best to do just that.

.Weeb – Yeah they're great. First heard their song Sugaan Essena in my playthrough of Jedi Fallen Order and I was hooked immediately.