Day 27


Tide had to admit, it had taken more time for something to go disastrously wrong than he had expected.

His puppet, aesthetically designed to be a Sangheli dressed in a white lab coat that was as much a Flood form as the one who wore it was, rested its head in its four-fingered hands as the fires raged around it. Similarly dressed Sangheli puppets were strewn about the test chamber in various states of either dismemberment or charred-ness. Nearby, half-protruding out of a wall, the half-exploded remnant of the Ghost prototype land speeder had embedded itself through nearly half a foot of solid rockrete.

Note to self, remove additional puppets from the chamber during testing, Tide told himself. From the entrance to the chamber that was serving as one of a number of different construction and testing facilities scattered throughout the underhive, a small swarm of Flood forms poured in. A few were infection pods, who leapt upon the puppets that had been slain by the explosion, hastening the repair or outright resurrection of the pure forms, using their own biomass to make up for what had been lost. Other forms were much, much and looked almost like blankets of some thick hide that waddled on the corners. They threw themselves upon the burning flames, their thick, fire resistant hides able to withstand the burning without destroying much of their biomass.

Also, get some fire extinguishers, Tide decided. A few of the other puppets/scientists rose to their feet, their damage fully repaired, and they moved over to the last remnants of their prototype.

It hadn't been much more beyond a thin frame, the power supply, an engine, and a control scheme meant to be usable by an Elite. The initial test of levitation had gone well, with one of the scientists slowly managing to bring it up and down. However, the moment they had tried to push it to slowly go forward, it had launched forward at its maximum acceleration, slamming into the wall and causing the engine to violently explode. While most of the chamber itself was fine structurally, more than a few of his Puppets had been caught in the explosion. Fortunately, he'd at least had the foresight to remove any sensitive materials outside the room before starting.

This was not an isolated event, annoyingly enough. He'd already constructed several basic prototypes of the Ghost, its small size allowing him to manufacture their parts quickly in comparison to the other, larger vehicles he'd begun designing. More than one had already exploded and while he could figure out what went wrong without much difficulty, it was still annoying that he couldn't see the problems ahead of time.

Sighing through the puppet, he walked up to the remains of his latest failure and, with a burst of titanic strength, wrenched it free.

He wondered if psykers who could see the future would be able to warn him of any issues, but he quickly banished the idea as he wasn't sure their powers were that accurate or reliable. Especially not when there was a sizable chance of them being fucked with by Tzeentch. He'd rather nothing he invented end up summoning a horde of daemons into his development centers. No, the old fashioned way was the way to go, much as it might aggravate him every time something blew up in his numerous faces.

Vidriov was feeling sublime. For decades, he'd had ideas, moments of inspiration, yet the chances to act upon them were rare. As a Genetor, he understood a fair amount about the interface of machine and nerve. His mind had concluded long ago that the Machine God spoke its sacred truth in those moments of clarity. His encounter with Tide had solidified his faith, even if it was not shared by the Chosen of the Machine God.

For the moment, Vidriov was hard at the task of recrafting the power armor of the Inquisitor. He looked at the internal mechanisms of what had once been the Inquisitor and he understood them. He had a technical understanding of almost everything, how it worked and how it functioned, but this understanding was beyond even that surface-level knowledge. Everywhere he looked, he saw ways to reshape and improve, to bring that armor into its holy form. Ideas flooded him like a dam had been broken.

Do you see the blessings granted by the Machine God? Vidriov asked inside his own mind. He had adapted to always having access to Tide easily, perhaps from being used to having silent, mental communication with others via machine implants. This was not too different, only being constant, though Tide rarely spoke when not spoken to first.

I see someone who has had their mind stifled by restrictions their entire life set free, Tide replied. Vidriov would have smiled if he still had lips.

Only the Machine God grants life and knowledge, Vidriov responded simply. I am merely a vessel for its will, as you are.

We both know your fellow priests would disagree.

Some, no doubt, Vidriov admitted. The work of modifying such sacred machinery would have been seen as the actions of a heretek by many in the Machine Cult, even some of his own subordinates, but Vidriov knew it was for a higher cause. Tide had taken the form of that powered armor for a reason, to give Vidriov the insight to bring it into existence. Whether or not that had been Tide's intent was unimportant, as it was the Machine God's will that guided all things. I believe many more would accept you for what you are.

What you say I am, you mean.

There is no difference, Vidriov insisted. You merely need accept this truth, accept the Machine God.

I have little interest in being the chosen of a god, Tide stated. Not when so many of the monsters that claim that title in this universe are what ills it.

Vidriov paused for a moment, considering something. You speak to the universe, do you not?

Saying I speak to it is not remotely correct, but it's one of the closer metaphors I can think of to explain it.

Vidriov would have arched an eyebrow at that. It almost sounded like Tide was saying he was not intelligent enough to understand the truth. Which was true, Vidriov only had a single mind after all, and Tide was the Chosen of the Machine God. Regardless, he continued his line of thought.

The Machine Cult holds that the Motive Force fuels the action and reaction of all forms of life, whether crafted of machine, flesh, or both. However, I, and now you, know of some sects that believe this to be only one portion of the Motive Force's power.

You're referring to the Electro-Priests of Novarus? Tide seemed skeptical, perhaps having caught on or simply having read Vidriov's mind to understand where he was going. They're a fringe cult, at best.

In the grand scheme of things, yes, Vidriov agreed. The Electro-Priests of Novarus held great power in the three Forge Worlds of their star system and the vast expanse of disorganized space that were the Ghoul Stars, but their beliefs held little influence in the rest of the Mechanicus. However, after learning of you and your abilities, I believe they may be closer to the truth than the rest of us ever were. The Motive Force and the concept you claimed much of your power came from, Neural Physics, share much in common.

Tide was silent, waiting. Vidriov wondered if he had more of the Chosen's attention now.

You told me that Neural Physics allows for the manipulation of the forces of the universe by communing with it.

True enough. Tide admitted. When using Neural Physics, I am not actually doing anything besides asking the universe for aid, though that's not really accurate. It is difficult to describe in a way that is not open to misinterpretation. The universe does not think in the way you and I do, it does not really think at all in some ways, but it does in others. Language is an imperfect tool.

Indeed, Vidriov agreed and his mind drifted for a moment to Magos Zalum, who spoke only in the Lingua Technis. Yet, even that blessed language was insufficient to properly communicate such concepts. No, he corrected himself, it was simply his own insufficient nature that prevented him from fully comprehending. However, he understood well enough and could make connections. You ask. We pray.

They are not the same.

Aren't they? Vidriov asked.

I am not praying, nor invoking a request for aid from a god.

But you admit you are asking for it from a universe, Vidriov countered and Tide once more fell silent. Vidriov said nothing more, knowing that the process would likely take much longer than this to assure success of bringing Tide into the light of the Machine God.

All would be as it was willed to be, of that Vidriov had no doubt.

Ahsael was soaring, swimming through currents of thought, buffeted by gusts of emotion. The Warp was freedom, of a sort. He was a comet, a quiet blue flame tumbling through a void that was anything and everything except empty. Daemons and other things gazed hungrily at him from the waters, the strength of his soul drawing them like sharks to blood even as his sorcerous powers kept them at bay, at least for the moment.

The comparison brought form with it and Ahsael soon saw several fins like those of a shark of a variety of colors and sizes, poking out of the surface water, though there was no surface as such to the Warp. They circled him, coming closer and closer, moving almost as one, but these were no pack predators, working together to trap their prey. These daemons were as cautious of one another as they were of him. He did not recognize the signs and symbols of many of the creatures that now surrounded him, implying allegiances not to the Four.

However, implying something did not make it true and he was no novice. He knew daemons well and was versed in recognizing clues to their origins, if not their powers and forms. While daemons might not announce who their god was, they could never deny them. So, he waited and watched, careful to maintain his concentration and power to ensure that his soul was tantalizing enough to draw daemons towards him, but not great enough a prize that they would rush in and risk themselves, nor would he draw anything too large for him to handle.

The daemons writhed, darting to and fro in seemingly random motions, agitated by something unseen. They were always agitated these days, after the Great Rift had opened, but there were degrees and there was something different to them this time. One of them should have attacked by this point, even without any prodding on his part. Their inaction was unusual and unexplainable, neither of which Ahsael liked.

There, he thought. One fin, shifting in color from grey to black and moving in a pattern of certain shapes Ahsael recognized to be the letters of a certain language, one long taught by the Thousand Sons. The language of Prospero.

With a burst of power that sent the smaller daemons fleeing and the larger rushing in, ethereal jaws bared, Ahsael ignored all but the focus of his mind's eye, reaching out with invisible hands and clapping them shut around the surprised creature. It struggled with all its might, but Ahsael's power was far stronger.

When the first daemons reached him, he was already fading back into reality, his prize forced to cross the barrier with him through his sorcerous might. The daemons howled in rage and fell upon one another in a vicious flurry, seeking to sate their eternal hunger on their own kind instead.

Ahsael entered back into reality, ethereal claws caging the Tzeentchian daemon in their grip, who was now forced to take form by his spells. It shifted and twisted in upon itself, flesh exploding in rivulets of gore and blood that was black and speckled with the white of strange stars, like someone had taken the night sky and melted it into liquid form. It screeched in pain despite having no mouth and spoke outraged sounds that could have been the words of a language forgotten by all save it as much as they could have been meaningless shrieks. The poisonous will of reality bore down upon it, even as his sorcerous craft kept it from leaving either his presence or this plane of existence, and it was not happy.

"Betrayer! Incompetent!" The daemon shouted as a snarling grin stretched across the blob of shifting flesh which slowly began to stretch and widen, growing feathers of blue and white. It became a set of nine wings attached only to one another and a central eye of silver that shone with malevolence, its sclera of the same black speckled white its blood had been moments before. It flapped within an invisible cage, still pained as reality attempted to unmake this thing that should not have been.

"Speak plain, daemon," Ahsael replied, though he suspected it mattered little what he said. All the Tzeentchian daemons he'd spoken with, save those caged within the daemonhosts, had the same things.

"A flame burns brighter only to die all the faster!" The daemon snickered, now cackling at him. Ahsael growled, but he did not tighten his hold on the daemon. Instead… he loosened it.

Reality crashed down upon the Neverborn all the harder, eager to banish the unnatural thing before him back to the hellish realm from whence it came. Ahsael did not permit this, but let the neverborn howl all the harder, the shard of Tzeentch suffering as it was trapped between planes. Its body grew faint and flickered, almost as though it were a hologram whose power source was being disrupted, but it did not disappear.

"You claim I move too quickly then?" Ahsael was not truly speaking to the daemon now, more to himself. Its feathers turned thin and sharp like steel spikes and it collapsed to the ground from the weight, its wings suddenly turning into spider-like limbs. It stabbed at him with several of them, but it hissed each time it left the invisible wall of his spell, for outside the range where he provided it just enough power to continue existing was the place causing it so much pain. A trapped animal that was more dangerous than any beast on the material plane.

"Plans within plans have unraveled by your error," The daemon spoke with venom dripping from every syllable. Ahsael briefly wondered what that metaphor would look like in the mindspace of the Great Ocean. "What could have been now never will be."

"Such is the case with all actions taken," Ahsael replied, and the daemon hissed. "I took action because of the situation in Malum that had to be dealt with and the opportunity provided by the genestealers. If your masters take issue with that-."

"Ha! Fool! Wretch!" It interrupted him and was laughing again, speaking jovially. "A sorcerer with no wit for sorcery! An observer who sees nothing!"

"TELL ME THEN, CREATURE!" Ahsael roared and it screamed as he allowed it to feel more pain, more suffering.

"Four times! Four times the waters stir, rousing things from the deep!" The daemon suddenly cried. "Four times the tides of this world's fate shift and all we see is unmade and remade and unmade and remade again, four times!"

"Speak sense!" Ahsael shouted but the daemon merely screeched and leapt out of its invisible cage, claws extended for his throat, and into the unmaking grip of cold, hard reality. It vanished just before they grazed his neck, disappearing back into the Warp. Ahsael sighed.

Four times. That number had been coming up a lot lately whenever he demanded answers from daemons. It wasn't just Tzeentchian daemons either, as they could hardly be trusted. However, he'd spoken with neverborn of Slaanesh and Nurgle and even Khorne. When he could get answers out of any of them, they all were agitated by the number four.

It wasn't one of the gods sacred numbers, not that he knew of at least. It was half of eight, so perhaps it had something to do with Khorne. The Blood God's spawn were enraged by bringing it up, but whether that meant it was pleasing or displeasing to their master was difficult to discern.

If it was related to Khorne, then it was likely the work of the Blood God's cults on Monstrum, which mean Kalak. He had spies in almost every circle across his four cities, including Kalak's horde, whether it was aligned to a god or not, and they had not mentioned any rituals that would cause fate itself to unravel, even if in a local area. Mostly just blood sacrifices and the normal infighting of any cult of Khorne. He also doubted Kalak would even be capable of such a ritual.

Still, better safe than sorry. He'd have to inform Uirus to deplete the numbers of the Blood God's wretches and investigate whether they were up to anything nefarious. It wouldn't be hard. Kalak and his lot weren't given towards scheming.

Still, that was for later. The Great Ocean was disturbed and the daemon had mentioned that things were being roused from the deep. What exactly that meant was not clear to him, but perhaps it had something to do with the unusually high number of Warp entities he had encountered recently who weren't related to the Four? Still, daemons spoke as often in half-truths as they did outright lies and he had no verification of this one's claims.

Ahsael let out of a calming breath and focused his mind in preparation to return once more to the material realm's counterpart to get his verification.