Simokh was fully aware of the fact that his neural engrams and mnemonics were broken.
If he reviewed his own history and memories before the Great Sleep, he remembered emotions quite clearly. Humor had been a good friend. Sorrow and anger had also existed, although their companionship had been less welcome. One painful memory was himself, mourning the true death of a very good friend.
It was all gone now. Emotions were a stranger, gone still in some kind of fracturing caused by the Great Sleep. Simokh did not particularly care, because it was hard to care about anything, but out of a sense of duty he had asked the Psychomancers and other Technomancers if there was anything to be done. They were all of the opinion that there was not. Engrammatic decay was to be expected and largely irreversible, so he should be pleased that his mind had came through relatively intact. Simokh accepted that, particularly since he could see a few others who had not fared so well. Simokh had not mentioned it to Rahkaak, but they really had only one functional Chronomancer. Poor Tilpaz could no longer truly remember how to make the gestures, although he tried.
So Simokh did not feel the kind of pleasure he knew he would have in the past, but he felt a kind of satisfaction at the progress of his new pupil. He had assumed the apprentice would be a burden, as apprentices normally were, but it was surprisingly easy. Giving him knowledge was like pouring water on dry earth, it was quickly absorbed and utilized. Why was it so easy though? That seemed odd to him, although he could not remember the past clearly.
He is young and hungry for knowledge. It has been so long since we were young. Perhaps that was it. It became harder to learn with age, and the necrons were unfathomably old. The few who retained the capacity to learn easily were the true geniuses of their race, those like Orikan and Szeras. Most others achieved a certain level of mastery and found it difficult to go past that. Simokh knew that to be true of himself… he was an accomplished Technomancer and proud of his achievements, but if he had been a genius of any kind, he would not have been serving such a small Dynasty. That was just the way of things.
Yantek, though, was still young and Simokh was curious to see how far he could go. He would provide all the water he needed to grow. And what kind of flower would bloom? It was not set in stone that he would be a Technomancer, although he did seem that way inclined. Perhaps ultimately he would be a Chronomancer, Yantek had already shown a deep fascination with the idea of manipulating time. Or perhaps he would become an Ethermancer, or a Plasmancer. The only thing Simokh was willing to completely rule out was a Psychomancer… Yantek was far too good natured to ever enjoy such a discipline. He would not speak ill of his fellow Crypteks, and it was not necessarily a flaw, but Psychomancers did often have a bit of sadism in their nature. Something that was quite alien to his apprentice.
For now though, he would set all that aside and task his apprentice with learning everything he could about Necron technology. It would be pleasing to have another Technomancer.
As much as he could feel pleasure in anything, at least.
Sixteen years later.
Manric stood on the bridge of their brand-new capital ship, the Orindo, beside Phaeron Rahkaak. He wanted to be calm, but anxiety couldn't help but rise as their small but beautiful fleet approached Mandragora. They were hailed and gave the appropriate responses, along with their Dynasty name and the fact that they wished an audience with Sautekh. That gave them admittance and they passed through the masses of ships that were the mustered might of the Sautekh, gathered for the convocation. As they moved into orbit, Manric regarded the planet thoughtfully. Even from space, he could see the massive Necron architecture on the surface. What would it look like in person?
"There is the Yama. Pull up beside it and hail them," Ahmakeph ordered and Rahkaak nodded acceptance. The rest of the fleet stayed behind in their designated spot as the capital ship found a place beside the larger Yama.
Who are you and what are you playing at? Came a rough voice, the person replying not bothering to send a visual. Ahmakeph responded in kind.
"Setotokh, is that you, you raggedy wanderer? Still searching for a jug of wine to give to the nemesor?" There was a very brief pause and then visual suddenly joined the audio. They were looking at the bridge of a very fine ship and a strong Lord, his eyes glowing with green fire as he looked at them.
"Ahmakeph?" He questioned and his eyes blazed a bit brighter as Ahmakeph nodded. "Where have you been? It's been twenty years! We thought you were dead!"
"Well, I spent part of my time listening to drukhari sadists torturing other pathetic organics. Then I was rescued, and spent a good amount of time in the Halo stars, doing not much of anything," Ahmakeph said with a humming laugh. "Can I get a shuttle? I am eager to come home."
"Ah, you bastard, I want the full story but it can wait." Setotekh made a series of quick orders then, getting the shuttle ready. Manric felt a bit of bittersweet sadness, that their time with Ahmakeph was done, but it was for the best.
"Good luck," he wished the other Overlord and Ahmakeph nodded back.
"The same to you," he returned before leaving the bridge to take his shuttle. Once the shuttle was safely returning to the Yama, they returned to their designated place. They had to be a bit slow and careful, the space around Mandragora was crowded.
Manric knew he would need to be patient. Necrons did not measure time the way humans did, so they could spend months, perhaps even a year in orbit. He spent a great deal of time practicing glyphs, attempting to master the non-verbal language of the Necrons. He was fluent in the spoken tongue by now, but his grasp of glyphs was still a bit shaky. The rest of the time he spent practicing, but without Itolyx. He had been left behind to manage the defense of Hope, which was an excellent decision but Manric found he very much missed his friend.
I am not used to separation from those I know. I will have to get used to it, Manric mused to himself as he ran through his practice routine, spear flashing out in quick patterns. If Imotekh accepts us, he will make use of us. They had brought fifty thousand of the new necrons, half of their total strength. It was not much, to be sure, but it was the flower of Hope's army, the best of the best. And if the Stormlord truly accepted their fealty, they might not return.
When the convocation began, things did not proceed smoothly. It had absolutely nothing to do with them and Manric watched with fascination by Rahkaak's side as a few issues with the pecking order of the Sautekh were ironed out.
Is this normal? Manric asked Rahkaak via a private interstitial message as he watched two Overlords squaring off, not for a physical confrontation, but for a comparison of titles and new achievements as they determined who would be allowed just a slightly higher place in the courtly dance that should have started an hour ago.
Unfortunately, yes. One of the strengths of my Dynasty was our relative lack of this kind of infighting, but that was not typical. Huh. To pass the time, Manric examined the world around him.
It was definitely worth a second look. Mandragora was not a world suited for humans at all, without a speck of water and an atmosphere that was toxic. It was still full of life, but of the metallic variety, and the architecture was awe inspiring. Manric took in the vast ziggurats, the floating pillars that glowed with eldritch light. He wondered what purpose they served. Were they defenses? Or perhaps navigational aides, to handle the airborn traffic? Whatever they were, they were very impressive and Manric wondered if someday, Hope would have them as well.
Mandragora was also crawling with scarabs and Manric looked on curiously as one of them landed on his side and began mending a tiny scrape he'd taken during practice. It was boring yet also fascinating, watching the little thing mending the tiny damage and cleaning his body.
What was also fascinating was the clothing of the Necrons and Manric switched to people watching. Normally, necrons did not wear actual clothing, only adornments. Generally tiles and sometimes cowls, fashioned of metal and clinking pleasantly. A major event like a convocation was, though, an exception. Rahkaak herself was wearing a garment of woven gold, adorned with more tiles of gold and set with fine rubies. Manric thought it would be crushingly heavy for a living being, but the necron frame handled it easily. Other necrons also wore metal clothing, or finely made adornments like heavy necklaces. A few even dared to wear softer fabrics, although that was very rare. Manric himself was actually wearing armbands and a cloak of plaques, to denote his place as Rahkaak's nemesor.
Manric had fallen to counting the rubies on Rahkaak's clothing before the dance finally started. That was a relief, as while Manric was not required to participate, he was able to move to the edges of the crowd and observe the dance from the sidelines. Rahkaak was part of a particular level of the dance, dictated to her as a foreign Phaeron.
Manric observed and quickly realized the whole point of the dance was politics. The movements of the dance were smooth but mechanical, without any spark. The point of it was to display how close you could get to Imotekh, who was watching the whole thing from his throne. Manric was willing to bet the Phaeron and great General had no real use for this, but knew better than to take away the trappings of nobility from his subjects. Manric covertly observed the Stormlord and found him daunting, just sitting silently on his throne. He wasn't going to enjoy –
"Ahem!" Eh? Manric turned his head to see someone had managed to sneak up on him when his mind was a thousand miles away. To his surprise, it was an Overlord who appeared to be very high status, from what Manric understood of such things. There were touches of gold on his necrodermis, a mark of royalty, and he was wearing a great cloak of tiles that showed high rank. It was similar to the one Manric wore, but grander. Behind him was a silent Lychguard carrying a truly impressive weapon that looked like a scythe. Manric decided instantly that he would hate to fight this Lychguard in a real battle, but would love to spar against him. Something about him just made Manric think he would be an excellent sparring partner. "I've never seen you before. Would you care to dance?" Manric was caught a bit off guard by the suggestion.
"It is far above my station," he said with a small bow, which was true. As the Overlord of a foreign Dynasty, and a tiny one at that, he had very little standing among the Sautekh. "And I fear I do not know this dance." Although Manric was an able dancer, in more ways than one, and could adequately fake it. The Overlord across from him had no real expression because well, they couldn't, but Manric got a confusing feeling of… jollity?
"Oh, come now, I'm sure you're an excellent dancer," he said with what Manric could have sworn was a twinkle in his eye, despite it being impossible. He was starting to wonder if his mind was playing tricks on him, to project so much into a Necron. Yet, his impressions never seemed to be wrong… "Although you might be more familiar with a different kind of dance, eh? But I'm sure you can learn this one." Well, it would be unmannerly to refuse.
"If you are willing to teach me, I would be willing to learn," Manric said with another bow.
"Excellent! Obyron, just wait here, we'll be back soon." The Lychguard stoically took a position against the wall. Manric allowed his partner to take his hand, leading him into the dance. They slipped smoothly between the dancers and he was brought surprisingly close to the Stormlord. They caught a few dirty looks, but mostly at Manric and they quickly vanished as they registered who he was with. But who WAS he with, exactly?
"Forgive me, I didn't catch your name?" Manric asked as they began to dance. He appreciated the slow, stately beauty of the dance, although it was absolutely nothing like a human dance. That was largely because the male/female dynamic was completely absent, likely lost with time. What was left was creating beauty for beauty's sake, for Manric at least, and he found it relaxing.
"Ah, forgive me, I am Zahndrekh." Wait, that name was familiar – "I assume you are Manric?" He almost missed a step in surprise, but then remembered.
"Oh, you are Ahmakeph's commander!" He'd completely forgotten, largely because Ahmakeph hadn't mentioned Zahndrekh much and usually with something excoriating attached. "He mentioned me? Is he well?" Manric asked as they touched hands for a moment, a stylized moment dictated by the music.
"He seems well, but I'm a bit worried about him. He's my cousin, you know." No, he'd had no idea. "I'm sure he didn't mention it. The poor boy seems to have forgotten, he tells me I'm misremembering, the scamp!" Scamp? Manric felt a bit bemused and thought he was getting a good idea of why Ahmakeph disliked Zahndrekh. "Did the Dynasty that captured him treat him well?" Fortunately, Ahmakeph's few rants about Zahndrekh had mentioned his disconnect from reality so Manric wasn't surprised, that he was referring to the dark eldar as a Dynasty.
"Alas, no," Manric said very seriously, even as he filled in a bit of the dance with his own footwork. No one else noticed, but it did blend in quite well. "He was the only one we recovered alive and sane from that – that abattoir." There had been a few other survivors, after a fashion. The warriors had given them mercy. There was a silence as they continued to dance and Manric could sense the good humor draining out of Zahndrekh like water from a sieve.
"I did fear as much. Abattoir though… what is the name of the dishonorable Dynasty that did this?"
"The Kabal of the Luminous Rose," Manric replied before trying his best. "From what we could determine, they are slavers and thieves who stalk certain territories. Ahmakeph's force happened to fall afoul of them purely by accident, as they warped in almost on top of him. If you want to catch them, that would be the best place to stalk… sooner or later, I would wager, they will be back." Manric wasn't completely sure of course but he was willing to place a bet that there were a few pathetic little human colonies in that area. So pathetic that the necrons had barely even noticed them, but the drukhari had very different priorities.
"I see. Well, Imotekh willing, we'll be able to spare a bit of time to bring this Dynasty to ruin." Manric very much hoped so. Then Zahndrekh's good cheer returned. "But let us enjoy the dance!" Manric was starting to wonder. How long did these dances go on, exactly? Although he was very much enjoying it. Was it acceptable to start getting creative…? Manric was completely oblivious to Imotekh's head turning just a bit, his eyes fixing on the only two of his subjects who were clearly enjoying the dance.
In a world of cold metal, when a dance was nothing but a tool of status and dominance, that was worthy of notice.