Thuzan117: BINGO! I hadn't read the book before but I took it as inspiration from the Lexicanum wiki.
Kit: Thanks for the tip; I'll try to make each chapter longer as I continue.
It has been hours since the Magos and the first tech-priests entered the craft. Hal didn't think too much of it, as he was too busy studying a fragment of the hull. He was vastly intrigued by the metal; it's as hard as adamantium, yet almost as heat resistant as ceramite. While heavy, it wasn't heavier than adamantium, and weight was never a problem for those with the right bodily modifications.
But something had caught the attention of his sensors. A familiar sound; a bolter firing from inside the bowels of the ancient ship. Hesitantly prying himself away from his work, Hal noted that some others have noticed the same disturbance, and have begun moving towards the makeshift entryway. Hal considered the possibility of Genestealers or other prominent and potential others on board the craft, but if that were the case, why were there not more shots fired? Hal pondered the possibility for a moment, before deciding on a course of action.
Deep within the ship, Magos Jellaph is the last human alive. Moments before, his team had encountered the first robots that they knew today only as the Men of Iron after prying open one of the many doors of the ship. Moments before, the wave of machines set upon them like a chaos marine set upon helpless babes. It ended before it had started. Magos Jellaph can only hope in vain that some of his peers had maybe survived the ordeal, perhaps even having escaped out of this living hell. And now he hid, in one of the many rooms they had pried opened before, listening to the heavy thunking of robotic feet ever so slowly approach his position.
The ship's speakers blared to life with static, catching the attention of the ever-calm Magos. A metallic, monotonous voice not unlike his own spoke. "Attention, human. We know you are there. I know you are there. Please, come out. Make it easier for the both of us."
Omnissiah help me, Jellaph thought to himself as the heavy footfalls drew near.
Hal swung a flashlight around the dark corridors of the ship. A fool could figure out where the Magos and his team had gone; simply follow the trail of boots in the dust. His two servitors in front of him would take the first hits that a genestealer or any other monstrosities would dole out. He had briefly considered the possibility of Chaos heretics or Ork stowaways, but had turned down both ideas. Had it been either, they would have already made their presence known. But it was suspicious that genestealers would stay this quiet, even on a barely inhabited planet such as this one. Hal had ordered some of his lesser peers to message the local PDF for military support, just in case.
He pushed such thoughts away from his mind. Now was not the time. As he continued down the corridor, with only his servitors for company, a reflected gleam of light down the hall caught his attention. He remotely ordered his servitors to halt and as he began to zoom in with his bionic eyes a searing jet of blue plasma hit his first servitor, reducing his flesh to charred ash in but a moment. Now Hal could see it; a humanoid of metal, its single blue, cyclops eye zooming in on him. It had four legs and three arms, one of which was on its back, its skull-like head holding silent vigil as it readied the plasma flamer fixed on its right arm. Immediately the second servitor moves between the robotic monstrosity and Hal, its defense program telling the drone to protect its master, becoming a pile of ash as quickly as the first. Hal wasted no time; he raised his bolt-pistol and fired at the mechanical monster's head.
Magos Jellaph swore to himself silently in a feudal language. Taken prisoner by these… Men of Iron? Mere fairy tales, told by old grandparents to their naïve children…yet, here he was. Jellaph knew that he should've been more careful, but the instinct of his flesh, the excitement of discovery, it had blinded him. Now he marched, stripped of weapons as one of the four-legged robots follows behind. Jellaph guessed it was but one of many dozens types; he had seen many more that stood on two legs. These… four-legged mechanical guardians seemed to be the heavier variation. Perhaps he shouldn't be so eased in the mind, but how could he not? They bore no symbols of chaos, and they did not appear to have been defiled by xenos. If anything, it was the opposite; Jellaph had spotted one of the mechs sporting odd sigils on one of the mechanical men; a planet with wings on one pauldron, a one-headed eagle in flight on the opposite. As he thought, the lights flickered on; fluorescent lights installed in the corners of the sleek, light-grey hall. "My apologies, humans," the monotonous voice spoke on the speakers, "but I had ordered my children to open fire upon contact until further notice."
"Then why did you spare me?" Jellaph asked.
"You are a commanding officer, are you not? You are valuable as a bargaining chip with your kind."
"The Imperium doesn't work that way…whatever you are, " Jellpah responded.
The voice was silent for but a few moments. "Is that how far mankind had recessed? A shame, I had wished to open up peaceful negotiations once my children made themselves apparent."
"Peaceful?" Jellaph fired back in his tranquil fury. "You have attacked citizens of the Imperium. No doubt they will label you heretical for that act, and destroy you and your kind as such. There will be no negotiations; you have proven yourselves hostile."
Something akin to an audible sigh could be heard from the speakers. "Disappointing. I did not wish to wage a genocidal war like my traitorous brethren had in the past."
Jellaph paused in his thoughts for a split second. Traitorous brethren? Had these… Men of Iron suffered a Horus Heresy of their own? "Regardless," the voice continued, "you are a guest of mine. I wish to learn more about the current age. I believe we can come to a compromise, then? Between two men?"
"Perhaps," Jellaph ended. While he was not content of this situation, there was no point in dying a pointless death. Besides, perhaps he could learn more of these machines…
What in the name of the Omnissiah are these damned things? Hal could do little more than to run. All of his servitors were destroyed. His bolt-pistol was empty, his last shot wasted on one of those metallic monstrosities. There were no end to them! Necrons? Surely that's not possible…they didn't feel like Necrons. But if they were, the situation is dire indeed. He continued and continued, for what felt like an eternity, before Hal finally burst from the single entryway that had been carved earlier that day. Startled, several tech-priests came to his side, inquiring about his search. "Quickly," Hal mustered in lingua-technis. "We need to evacuate. Now!"
The other tech-priests looked to one another in puzzlement. "Was there a Genestealer brood within the ship?"
"No, something worse." Hal quickly moved as the screeching of metal signalled the arrival of the metal monsters. "Get ready! They're here!"
But he was too slow, too late; a power sword ripped through the bodies of one of his brethren, tearing flesh and metal alike with impunity as a four-legged walker emerged from the dark depths, tossing the corpse off its tail-like arm-sword. Before most of them could even move, the walker flared up its blue flamer, charring half a dozen tech-priests before stopping its short burst, killing them instantly. Hal grabbed the nearest boltgun he could find and turned to the robot, opening fire. The rounds tore through its metal plates, detonating within, tearing it in two before it could use its final weapon. It froze up on the spot, its upper half landing in the sand before it. Hal's brethren quickly retrieved their weapons, but the enginseer took a moment to examine its final armaments on its left arm; a boltgun. A very sleek, professionally made boltgun, not unlike the considerably more worn one he held in that moment, except instead of a magazine, it had a metal belt feeding more cartridges into the weapon the same way a Heavy Bolter worked. A magnificent design of the highest calibre made by a master. A work of art created by human design. Were these the Men of Iron that the ancient texts spoke of?
The arrival of more of these machines forced Hal to break his chain of thought. These ones were different. Simpler; two-legged walkers with their bodies painted in dull grey, their helmet painted with a red stripe down the center, front to back, that looked no more different than a regular man encased in a power suit. They carried a lasgun each, a fixed bayonet beneath each barrel crackling with energy, as their softly glowing blue eyes quickly assessed the situation. Hal immediately opened fire, as did his fellow tech-priests, and as the Men of Iron returned the fire Hal could not stop praying to the Omnissiah to send help their way faster. The fate of the galaxy depended on it.