Small Beginnings
It was lonely work deep beneath the hive. The magi's robes were visibly frayed and stained with the refuse and offal so commonly strewn about in these rarely trod upon halls. This was one of many duties he'd been dictated to as punishment by his ornery taskmaster. He has been offloading any responsibilities he could to me as he squatted in the dilapidated alcove, he had found me in. It was mindboggling how decrepit the systems that the upper hive spires and even the august forges and factories of the Mechanicus relied on were. Seldom thought about transformers, aquifers, relays, plumbing, and waste disposal was littered throughout the under-hive and its abyssal depths. The air was rank with the lingering taste of rust, acid, pollution and who knows how many corpses left forgotten to rot amid the never-ending gang wars and ruthless purges following a food riot. Every step was careful and deliberate. Nobody had properly maintained these facilities for thousands of years, even during the bygone epoch where the Emperor's Space Marines made landfall on this aimless planet to impose Pax Humanitas.
Broken glass, loose twisted wiring, pockmarked piping, flickering floodlights, and fetid air. The ground was awash with empty shells, stagnant water, sad machinery, decrepit refuse and the brutalised remains of countless gangers, mutants, and ever more bizarre creatures. The pathetic lighting created a dire atmosphere that caused queer shadows to loom from the shattered bones of the long dead. Machine and Living alike. His boots squelched with disturbing frequency and his balance was perilously close to sending him hurtling down some yawning chasm among these vast corridors. The only source of relief was his solitary flashlight that banished these loathsome fears for a brief moment. The mere sight caused a headache where-
"Magos?" the question seared through the silence like a blowtorch. It reverberated across the expanse like a bomb. Ah, my minder deigned to speak.
"You've been stationary for 20.234 seconds staring at that defunct ventilation duct. My auspex detects no heat signatures nor movement beyond the usual vermin however your pulse has elevated steadily. Is your Mind Impulse Unit in need to re-calibration?" beckoned my stoic bodyguard, her tinny voice echoed softly from bare metal speakers hacked into her long neck. Her face was utterly passive and uncanny. You wouldn't know at first glance that she was a killing machine born from a cloning vat. Whoever created her was diligent in making her seem harmless to the "unenlightened" masses. Barely perceptible along her frozen face was delicate seams and subtle light flowing through her multifaceted eyes. The stiff silicon plates were melded together and presented a more benevolent image of the Cult Mechanicus to the wider Imperium, people would rather look upon something pleasant rather than the agonised shells of the regular servitors or bleak Skitarii legions. Stiff cabling cascaded down her head and fused into the bulky and invasive power pack carved into her back. The miniscule glimpses I had of her frame bristled with augmetics, pale pallid flesh, whirring motors, and undulating coolant. Anything beyond that was cloaked in a plain habit reminiscent of a monk's garb flecked with filth like mine. The array of sensors, antenna and curious gears twitched with every mechanical pump of power and oil. In one hand she carried a menacing lasgun connected to her back and the other held a plain riot shield looking a bit worse for wear. Her augmented arms and auspex rendered free hand aiming an afterthought while the shield would hopefully provide cover against whatever lurked in these bare warrens.
She was quiet as a grave the entire march into these godforsaken tunnels. This was her own punishment too. I only met her a few hours ago before the old man waved us away with a snide remark toward her enigmatic makers. Seeing him casually strap her down and nigh vivisect her to refit a new change of coolant had been ghastly and made me retch, her total indifference and silence during it only compounded the effect. Every time I tried to ply her with conversation met a swift demise. I was only a lowly and misbegotten adept to her doomed to constant drudgery among miles of wiring and pipes. If only she knew.
Just behind her the trundling box on wheels abruptly stopped as well. This was a depot drone, one of the myriad CATs (Cyber-Altered Task) used by the Cult. Simple mechanical robots strictly regulated and painfully braindead with their programming, the scars from AI in the Mechanicus still stung raw it seemed even with technology seen pedestrian even from my time. A benign thing it was. A 6 wheeled drone laden with spare parts, tools, sealant, power packs, ammo, water, rations, spare digital storage, and other little essential items for a friendly jaunt beyond civilised forges. An ugly RC car scaled up to arm a small neighbourhood with a ponderous .50 machine gun bolted to the sides. The vague connection to it I felt in my Mind Impulse Unit (MIU) jolted like a particularly lazy dog in the back of my mind. It was currently in sentry mode as we loitered here, the faint line of a rangefinder streaked into the darkness ahead.
This was going to be a miserable day he just knew it.