Tales of the Amber Vipers Chapter 295
"Castabore better have a damned good excuse," Toran muttered as he stormed through the lower reaches of the Nest.
"You know Tech-Priests," Persion snorted, "Probably got into the guts of a machine and forgot the time."
"Surely not even she would be so obtuse," Smyth argued.
"Whatever the cause, we will be late if we do not hurry her up," Toran growled.
Through the lower decks they passed, making their way past the machine shops and smelteries that passed for Forges. Toran gave them scant regard, pressing deeper at a hasty clip. The hour had come at last to commence the Conclave, yet when Toran summoned the Archmagos she had failed to respond. It was infuriating, Toran would have harsh words for her when he dragged her out of her labours. Were they not sworn to protect her life he would have had far worse in store for her.
Into the deepest bowels of the Serpens Rex they marched and emerged into a vast workshop. Here vehicles were consecrated and anointed, chanting menials tending the spirits with due reverence. The air was swelteringly hot and the smells of engine grease, soldering and fuel mixed with incense and burned herbs. Wizened men stood in pulpits, reciting verses of the Cult Technis, as the din of hammering and clashing gears rang loud. In this at least the Amber Vipers conformed to the traditions of the Imperium, but that was where the comfort of familiarity ended.
"Look over there, Wrath fighters, Throne they're rare," Persion exclaimed.
"Deathbird strike-bombers," Smyth started, "I didn't know Space Marines flew those."
"We typically don't," Toran muttered, "The Amber Vipers must have scrounged them from somewhere. Looks like they salvage anything and everything."
Persion looked about, "Sentinels, Chimeras, Land Crawlers, Cargo-8's, Hydra batteries. Looks like the Amber Vipers have rummaged through the contents of a PDF depot."
"Inferior gear, of no value to a Space Marine," Smyth sniffed.
"To be fair, they seem to be pulling them apart for spares," Persion argued, "Or melting them down for raw material."
"Don't be looking to excuse Tech-Heresy," Toran grunted.
"At least they have Rhinos," Persion sniffed, "A lot of Rhinos."
"Some must have come from the Serpens Rex, others the Angel's Revenge," Smyth pondered.
"It matters not, we must find Castabore," Toran stated, "Zeax!"
A Storm Herald Sergeant had been standing guard about the perimeter, his squad watchful for intruders. At his Captain's call he marched over, grizzled features hard as granite. "Sergeant, has there been an issue?"
"Not counting the Tech-heresies, no," Zeax replied.
"Is the Archmagos injured, or otherwise incapacitated?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Then why isn't she answering the vox?!"
"Ask her yourself, she's over there."
The Archmagos turned out to be among the rarest relics. Her tub-like body was examining a Rhino variant, the bulky missile launcher on top marking it a Hunter air defence unit. Surprisingly conventional, in Toran's opinion, but the fact Castabore was not injured or incapacitated irritated him. She better have a damned good excuse for making him come down here.
"Castabore!" Toran shouted.
"Ah, there you are," Castabore replied as she pivoted about.
"Why did you not respond to my vox-hail?!"
Castabore replied, "There have been complications, I had to shut off external stimulus."
Toran gritted his teeth, "Archmagos, time is growing short."
Castabore didn't reply directly, spinning to the machine, "This is interesting, noble Tarasque. A Hunter STC, common to Astartes, but the missiles are different. These tinkerers lacked the necessary expertise to fashion proper guidance spirits, yet they somehow cobbled together a working template out of junk. I believe this represents the pinnacle of the Amber Viper's ability."
Toran sighed, "As interesting as that is I must insist..."
Castabore shrugged him off, "But of course you've seen these before. Yet I venture you've never seen a relic like this!"
Toran found himself turning to a broad machine, with two decks and heavy armour on all sides. It rode on caterpillar units and bore Lascannons to the flanks and its top a multi-barrelled array of guns. The front was a clamshell door, flanking by multi-meltas and a rear hatch made it a breaching tunnel. Toran judged it could burn through any fortress wall and then create a tunnel deep into the enemy's underbelly.
Persion blinked, "Is that a Legion Mastadon?!"
"Indeed, such a sight. Machines such as these have not been produced in millennia. You will never see the like of Blood Talon again!"
"Blood Talon, as in the extinct Chapter?" Smyth asked.
"The Amber Vipers renamed this Machine to honour the lost, but they could not awaken its spirit. It took my most subtle arts to coax the logic engines to life, but it responding! Posix could never have achieved such a feat!"
"Speaking of whom..." Toran ventured.
"These are worthy examples of the Omnissiah's bounty, but this is where the true innovation begins. Behold Drakones!"
Toran saw a Land Speeder hanging beyond, coasting on a field of anti-grav. Numerous menials tended the Machine, sprinkling its hide with blessed unguents. A Storm-variant with an expanded troop bay, typically reserved for Scout novices but the armaments were all wrong.
"A Plasma-cannon, and twin assault cannons?" Persion mused, "Gives it punch."
"This does not conform to the tenants of the Universal laws," Smyth chided.
But Castabore scoffed, "Belisarius Cawl has taught us to look beyond such narrow vision. These combinations of weapons, with a limited troop capacity, have great merit, it will interest him to study the potential boons. I shall propose a theorum-study of wider applications. But the true majesty of this artefact is the unique force-field that protects it. A relic of the Dark Age, unlike any I have ever seen. An energy-draining barrier, that robs thermal, kinetic and charged particles from shots."
Toran was intrigued but still time pressed and he said, "Archmagos if you will come with me..."
Castabore wasn't listening, "Now here lies the deadly Scorpus, bearer of the great STC!"
Toran beheld a Predator tank, a familiar and trusted sight, yet its weapons were strange. The turret was Annihilator pattern, but in the place of twin-linked lascannons it bore a single barrel, longer and more bulbous. Toran had never seen the like but it looked potent to his eyes. The sponsons were different too, strange guns with fat barrels, neither Heavy Bolters nor Lascannons. He would have taken them for Flamers, save for the clunky canister feeds from the magazines.
"They've armed it with a laser destroyer?" Persion asked.
"Already?!" Smyth gasped.
Castabore elaborated, "The STC itself, what we are all here for. I have had a chance to examine it in detail. The weapon is far more energy-efficient and precise than a pair of Lascannons, without losing any penetration or destructive might. It is in many ways similar to the Destroyer Tank, but not as grand in scope. An efficient design, perhaps the original. Cawl already schemes to marry this weapon to his Repulsor design, creating a tank-hunter for the Primaris. Blessed Cog, it will be wonderous!"
"What are those side cannons?" Smyth asked.
"Phosphor blasters," Castabore sniffed.
"Is that approved by the Codex Imperialis?"
Castabore didn't sound concerned, "Such weapons are common to the Mechanicus, though I wonder where these amateurs dug up the formula."
"Isn't using it Heresy?" Smyth asked.
"Once it would have been, but this is a new age, and the stranglehold on technology is not so tight. Scorpus suffered a recursive loop-error in the Machine Spirit, but once I performed the ritual appeasements its spirit awoke."
Persion looked over to the side and asked, "What's that one?"
"That," Castabore said reluctantly, "That is the problem."
"A tank?"
"That tank, as you so bluntly put it, is the oldest Machine I have ever seen. Its spirit dark and troubled. That machine fought in the Heresy, it lived through the death of innocence and the fall of Horus. It still dreams of those days, it misses them."
Toran saw a sleek machine, with an angled front and broad treads, chained to the deck by steel hawsers. It was undoubtedly a creation of the Adeptus Astartes, but never had he seen one of this make. It looked eager, as if yearning to break free of its shackles. Not as potent as a Land Raider, but swifter and deadlier than a Predator. Three Heavy Bolters ringed the lower half, but the top was crowned by a massive pair of weapons, plasma carronades of shocking scope. Toran was amazed so small a machine could power them, let alone move and fight.
"A Sicaran," Castabore explained, "Considered advanced at the height of the Great Crusade, its design is lost to the Imperium now. This Omega variant will cut through power armour like a fusion torch through a circuit board, if it can be mastered."
"Why is it chained?" Smyth asked.
"The Machine Spirit is spiteful and bitter. It has maimed a score of menials with snarling gears and misfiring engine, and taken the fingers of a hundred more. These tinkerers fear the vehicle, as much as they covet it. They began to whisper it was cursed by an evil data-djinn."
"Does it have a name?" Toran asked.
"The name was buried deep in the logic engines, under replaying nightmares of battles long forgotten. Fighting through the data-files was like reliving those battles myself, I think this Sicaran relished watching me squirm. Its Machine Spirit is more churlish than an Administratum pict-copier. I had to shut off all extraneous stimulus and dedicate all my run-times to unearth the name, but I learned once it was called Bahamat."
Toran had the creeping sensation the tank's optics were staring at him, as if it were alive. He had fought Daemon-engines before, and this was nothing like that, but still it felt as dangerous. He had the worrying notion that if unchained it would turn its guns upon him. Toran was not given to spirituality, but reverence for the Machine Spirits was deeply ingrained. This one felt bitter and spiteful, like a predator nursing a festering wound, yet still able to strike with claw and fang. Bahamat hated them, it hated everyone, Toran was sure of this.
"I wouldn't want to trust my life to that," Smyth muttered.
"I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of those plasma Carronades," Persion countered.
"I suffer a long-running script error at the thought of Posix getting his grubby hands on a spirit as dark as Bahamat," Castabore spat.
"He will if we don't get moving," Toran remarked.
"Re-enter input?" Castabore started.
"The Conclave began... about five minutes ago."
"Error-shunt abort!" Castebore yelped, "My chronometer was disabled. Why didn't you tell me!"
"I've been trying," Toran protested.
"There's no time to defrag the drives," Castabore lamented, "We must be away!"
Castabore shot off on a cloud of anti-grav, leaving Toran to trail in her wake. Behind they left the Machines to their keepers, awaiting the call to war. Such mighty Machines would be feared by many, but first they must be mastered. A task that few would dare to chance, but one that must be attempted in time.
