Day 55
Separately, Vidriov and Sathar had shown their worth several times. Despite the Wendigo eviscerating the two sets of power armor with ease, their designs, which had essentially been slapped together at record speed, had shown they were accomplishing the task Tide had been assigned, even if the routes they took were unusual. Vidriov was practical, with a work ethic that was simultaneously inspiring and concerning for all the time he spent thinking on the armor. Sathar was more experimental, with a keen mind for figuring out unique solutions. They were both innovative, simply in different ways.
Combined, however… Tide was afraid he may have unleashed something on the galaxy he couldn't take back.
"We can't have the internal generator produce that much energy or we'll risk cooking the bioform alive," Vidriov said, one of his spider-form's legs lancing out to kick at the writhing mass of worms that was Sathar's form.
"Tide can increase its heat resistance," Sathar argued. "The benefits of the additional power would be immense."
The generator which they were speaking of was laying in the middle of the partly-assembled prototype's frame, roughly where the stomach would be. For all that they were inventing a new kind of power armor, most of the components were things the tech-priests already possessed and used on a regular basis. The powered limbs were essentially just larger, hollow mechanical augments, easily produced in larger numbers with little reconfiguration from the factories, with certain components being even more easily produced after being replaced with special Flood bioforms. The generator itself was mainly meant for distributing heat, but it was not actually attached to the armor itself. Instead, the Flood form that would occupy the armor would carry it within their stomach, something that wouldn't be possible for a human pilot. Not without a disturbing surgery, at least.
Tide was glad they were starting to think to use the benefits of his unique biology, though if he ever intended to produce this armor for use outside the Wastes, certain modifications would have to be made to remove any Flood biomatter beyond the pilot to ensure secrecy.
The Frame, which referred to the interior of the armor that provided the bulk of the strength and protection from the cold, had initially been intended to use plasteel as the primary component, but then Sathar had gotten the idea to replace that with the toughest and most cold resistant chitin that Tide could produce. The result, drawn primarily from the late genestealer patriarch's own DNA combined with an interior layer of insulation taken from a certain species of spider that dwelled in the coldest parts of the Underhive, was able to be molded perfectly to fit the frame and was not only lighter than plasteel, but slightly stronger as well, though not to the degree of ceramite. Furthermore, Tide could mass produce them much more swiftly than he could plasteel and he had the biomass to spare.
Similarly, the outer sections of armor, the Plate which was intended to provide protection from everything else, was partly made of that same chitin, though a slightly thicker and stronger version. Initial tests with the material had proven it remained strong enough to not simply shatter in the Wastes. While it would not protect the armor or its occupant against the Wendigo's claws, it was mainly intended to protect the less sturdy Frame from the other dangers of the Wastes, like the strong winds and fast moving rocks. Tide had a heavier version of the hellgun being designed by other tech-priests that would go along with this new pattern of power armor. While the range of such weapons was significantly lower in the Wastes, either because of the unusual weather phenomena that seemed to suck up the heat far more quickly than it should have or because the Wendigos themselves were responsible, it was also the only weapon he had that had shown it could survive out there and could be produced in large enough numbers. Well, beyond large rocks.
Or clubs. He could give them clubs and see how that would work. The Wendigos had seemed to have an exterior of crystal, so they'd probably be brittle, right? Of course, he'd need to get close enough to one to engage it in melee…
Since the pair of tech-priests, and several others who had shown interest in the project, were putting the armor together from a variety of technologies and existing components, sort of like the pieces of a puzzle with only an outline of the final product to guide them, their progress was not as slow as it could have been. Certainly, this was faster than having them try and figure out how to mass produce the Sororitas or Faux-Mjolnir armors. That was a long term project and was secondary, at least for the moment.
Working together, Vidriov and Sathar each fed off the other's inspiration like symbiotic organisms. Each problem one was blocked by, the other swiftly found a way around. It was to a point that Tide almost thought there was something supernatural about it, yet he was fairly certain the Warp wasn't involved. Just in case, while they were working on the project, he'd had both of their bodies moved into his Domain, replacing them with passable copies to perform their regular tasks, ensuring they were beyond the reach of the Warp. While he didn't have a problem with the speed at which they were progressing, Tide knew some of its worst predators worked through simple things like inspiration and spontaneous ideas.
The last thing he needed was a Lord of Change or something suddenly popping out of a Warp Rift because the two tech-priests had inadvertently performed some sorcerous ritual.
Instead, he'd just have to watch their regular rituals carefully. Tide was glad that Sathar didn't consider him divine, at least not in the same way Vidriov did, but that did not mean the Logis was any less a believer that the rituals they performed to sanctify their creations were a requirement. To be honest, at this point Tide wasn't even sure that they weren't having some kind of effect beyond the physical actions being taken.
Machine Spirits were something he knew relatively little about. To be fair, the same was true for the tech-priests themselves, since nearly every one of them had a different definition or theory for what a Machine Spirit actually was.
Tide had interacted with several 'Machine Spirits' thus far. Well, significantly more than 'several', though the interactions were small things like the maintenance of gear or reconfiguration of factories. He hadn't performed any rituals, spoken any words of sanctifying, and yet the vast majority of the human machines he'd interacted with had functioned properly. The same was true of those machines interacted with by humans who had received portions of his collected knowledge, though many of those performed patchwork versions of the same rites as the tech-priests did, simply with a lot less holy incense or sacred oil.
However, there were a few machines that, for reasons Tide couldn't figure out, simply refused to function without… 'appeasement'. For most, it was small things. Sometimes, a certain old Leman Russ tank would suddenly experience engine trouble if a box filled with fingerbones of unknown origin were removed from inside it. A certain bolter used by a Sister of Battle would jam up more frequently if it was not dabbed with sacred incense before every battle.
Other times, it was large and inconvenient things. One of the primary power generators of the hive city Moros would begin causing electrical disruptions across an entire spire, even possibly causing life support failures, if it had anything beyond a speck of dust upon its surface. How it knew this, why it disliked being dusty, Tide had no idea. However, he did know that the local tech-priests had been receiving regular shipments of cleaning servitors to maintain that state, as old servitors were consistently dying to the radiation of the generator. Tide had quickly replaced those servitors with bioforms.
Oddly, Tide never had these issues with the things he built himself. Out of curiosity, he'd asked several different tech-priests to check over a few of the devices he'd built, including several who weren't aware of his existence by using puppet forms, and they'd each remarked over or thought of the surprising docility of the Machine Spirits within his creations.
He wasn't sure how to feel about that. Especially since most of the machines that he'd been having problems with used ancient technologies that he simply didn't have the means or knowledge to replicate.
He'd have to put more time into figuring this out…
"The outer walls have almost been breached," Janiel said with a snarl directed towards the black-robed tech-priest standing across from the cogitator display of the rapidly changing battlefield. They were not alone in the command center, though none of the serfs or officers dared to interject into their conversation. "You said you would help me, yet my forces remain unaided!"
"Surely the number of days has meaning to you, Great Lord?" The Emissary, as Janiel had taken to referring to him, asked, as though it were obvious. "Six days, a holy amount of time, I think you'll agree."
"Numerology has no place on the battlefield!" Janiel all but spat towards him. If he had not witnessed the power the tech-priest could unleash firsthand, he'd have had the wretch disassembled already.
"It has taken six days for our forces to be assembled and the requisite power gathered," The Emissary replied, his tone even, yet Janiel could almost see the sneer in the metal mask of his own face. "Of course, such rituals take time to even prepare. Do not fear, your forces will hold a little while longer. You are not their main focus at the moment, Eris is. We must use that."
Janiel gritted his teeth, wanting nothing more than to drive that perfect sculpted mask into the side of the cogitator again and again. He withheld himself through a supreme effort of will, but the temptation remained.
"When?" He finally hissed out.
"The necessary precautions have been taken," The Emissary assured him. "They will arrive shortly."
"That is not an answer!" Janiel bit out. "You damnable tech-priests are always spouting numbers, why are you the only exception!?"
The tech-priest tilted his head and Janiel thought he might have actually offended him.
Good.
"We are waiting for a prime opportunity," The Emissary finally said, his tone slightly harsher. Janiel could have strangled him were he not crafted of metal.
"AN OPPORTUNITY!?" He shrieked, loudly enough that the serfs and officers around them shrank back. "My men are being slaughtered out there!"
"The first strike is also the most powerful," The Emissary stated, in lieu of any actual answer. He pointed down to a part of the screen. Janiel's eyes followed and noted it was the largest concentration of his forces in the hives, nearly ten thousand men in a wide and open battlefield that led into the gates of the city, the landscape filled with the debris of battle. They were facing a similar number of enemy troops, yet this was no balanced engagement. The enemy, the supposed monsters the tech-priest had mentioned hidden in the forms of humans, was unstoppable, moving forward like the encroaching waves of a rising ocean. "Now, we shall see how our foe faces the truest servants of the Dark Prince."
There was a flicker of energized static in the cogitator as something arrived, a feeling of dread and pleasure that sent shivers along Janiel's back. In a moment, the screen cleared again and unknown signals filled the battlefield.
The battle was ferocious, but one-sided. Troops garbed in brand new uniforms, wielding freshly assembled autoguns, moved with the speed and skill of elite forces, far beyond what they should have been capable of. Others, equipped in shiny-black carapace were even faster, sharper, deadlier. There foes were hordes of PDF and screaming zealots, some holding icons of the Emperor's writhing form. Though the numbers were matched for one another, the skills of the individuals were not. Dozens of Ate's forces fell before the onslaught, collapsing from wounds that should not have been lethal, as though rendered into a deep sleep.
What was the greatest battle of their time for one side's forces was little more than a side-thought for the other. At least, it was until the air crackled with etheric energies and reality shrieked as it was split open.
They tore their way free of the diminishing teleportation energies, scattered across the battlefield, allowing for the sounds of clicking gears and languid cries of ecstasy to fill the battlefield. Daemon engines of all shapes and sizes emerged. Some rolled atop treads, others wheels or even snaked across the ground like serpents, but many more scuttled or thundered atop legs.
They crashed into the back of their own forces' lines and the slaughter began. Zealots turned and fled screaming from the sight of their true god's servants, only to be cut down by arcing blades that whistled through the air. PDF collapsed to their knees and were crushed beneath tons of steel or picked up and torn apart through sheer strength.
Decimators, Venomcrawlers, Defilers, Maulerfiends, and more besides fell upon their own mortal servants with a ferocious glee, even as they continued their charge towards the Malum forces. Leading that charge were thirty-six Soul Grinders, each one with chitin and mechanical claws snapping in the air eagerly, scuttling forwards atop six legs each large enough to crush an ogryn with a single step.
Perhaps it was a mistake with the accuracy of the teleportation, or perhaps it was purposeful for the daemonic constructs to slaughter as many of their own before even engaging with their true enemy. Regardless, the Malum PDF did not wait for an answer.
Screaming a battle cry and oaths that were less meant to praise the Emperor and more to deride their enemy's god, the infantry forces charged forward, firing off their autoguns at the daemonic constructs, attempting to distract the oversized metal monstrosities from their rampant slaughter. It was only partially effective.
The daemon engines crashed into the charging lines of the things pretending to be Malumites, wire whips lashing, iron claws snapping, sonic weapons screaming and filling the battlefield with the shrieking sounds of death. Their foes met them fearlessly, even as their pitiful autoguns failed to do more than dent the weakest sections of armor. They threw themselves bodily against the malevolent terrors, heedless of their own safety. When snatched up with claws, they would use the better vantage point it granted to fire into the eyes or other weak spots of their foe. When being ripped to shreds by teeth, they would pull the pins of their grenades, rarely killing their opponent but often doing enough damage that the next grenade could have a better chance.
Any who saw the Malum forces that day that were unaware of their true nature would have thought them fearless, rivals even to the might Space Marines in their willingness to give their own lives for the sake of victory. A hundred thousand men, quickly diminishing in numbers against a foe they could never have trained to fight against.
But they were not men, merely fodder who were in the way. The choice to not bring many tanks to the battle had been purposeful, to reduce the damage and deaths among their enemy. However, no such restraint was to be afforded these foes.
Like a great sigh of air, reality opened and lights that could not be described even by such immaterial creatures as these monsters flashed through the battlefield, temporarily confusing their corrupted auspexes and Warp-crafted eyes. What emerged from that glowing, vaguely purple light were not teleport pods or even swarms of familiar tanks such as Leman Russes… but prototypes ready for their first field tests.
Even a surprise such as this could be turned to advantage in other ways.
Tanks with powerful cannons that rolled across the debris-choked battlefield on four sets of treads fired their heavy guns, blasting apart smaller daemon engines in singular shots and wounding even the larger ones. Red-painted hoverbikes roared as they sped across the battlefield, forward-swept fins glowing with the backwash of energy as their twin-linked lascannons barked with every shot, the heat already beginning to chew through both thick armor and supple daemon-flesh. Four-wheeled vehicles boasting mounted turrets, some with autocannons, others lascannons, or missile launchers, or even plasma weapons all fired, driving circling around the larger and slower of the daemonic warmachines.
There were other vehicles besides, like the scarab-like aircraft with hover engines that roared to life, underslung weapons firing as they danced through the sky with the nimbleness of fairies, or the heavy artillery hovertank with curving armor that lobbed mortar shots through the air with startling accuracy. No two of the vehicles were quite the same, each one having been crafted with improvements or changes after the last. The earliest models were easy to pick out for how they underperformed or simply failed to function properly, but those born of the talents of tech-priests expanded by the unique traits of their new master were just as easy to determine.
However, there was one lone vehicle that took center stage beyond all the others, even over the large tanks that rolled or hovered forwards. There was only one of these, after all, and it was by far the largest of the group, easily the height of a medium Knight and even more massive. It stood atop four, thickly armored legs that dug deeply into the rockrete ground, even as its back, covered in a dozen heavy battle cannon turrets that could be found on many Imperial tanks, began to rain death and destruction all across the battlefield.
The Soul Grinders charged head, roaring their defiance and lust for bloodshed, even if their foe lacked any souls to harvest that the deals they made might be fulfilled. The other daemons engines had faltered in their advance at the sudden strike of strange new warmachines, yet now they rallied to their largest siblings, intent on nothing less than the destruction of their master's enemies.
For all the power and surprise their appearance had managed to bring, the weapons fielded against the daemonic, mechanical horde were still merely prototypes. For none was this truer than the knight-sized vehicle, whose movements were slow and cumbersome, its gait heavy. Rather than even try to charge forward, it was placed near the back of the formation, allowing its heavy guns to play their part from a distance.
Yet, such size inevitably brought with it attention. There was a moment of surprising coordination from the disparate daemons as their auspexes were linked together by a higher authority. Turrets turned, arms swiveled, and maws opened to reveal fire building within the throat. In a few seconds, the centerpiece of the enemy army was the target of nearly every ranged weapon the daemonic hordes possessed.
Needless to say, the vehicle did not survive the ensuing devastation, its carapace exploding outwards as its insides were ignited by warp-enhanced munitions. However, it had served its purpose well as a distraction.
With their guns and focus distracted in favor of the obvious threats, there was another flash of light and sigh of air. This time, however, it came from behind the daemonic hordes and the weapons that appeared now were no prototypes, but familiar designs that had been tried and tested for over ten thousand years.
Leman Russ and Destroyer tanks, Sentinel walkers, Chimera transports, even static artillery pieces like sentry turrets popped into existence in the flank of the daemon engines, opening fire with the kind of coordination that only a centralized will guiding every weapon, every hand, every shot could afford.
Some of the daemon engines turned and charged towards the new lines of vehicles, roaring in fury at the trickery, warhorns blaring with a sonic shriek that made ears run with blood. However, caught between two lines of powerful armor, the hordes of daemonic hordes were slowly being crushed, pressed from both sides like the squeezing of a gauntlet.
And then reality shrieked once more as it was split anew. More daemon engines emerged, primarily equipped with melee weapons such as biting swords or lashing whips, scattered throughout both lines of the Malum vehicles. Such vehicles were well-armored and equipped with powerful weapons… but only a few of them were quick to turn.
The daemon engines roared in delight as they were given easy pickings, tearing through dozens of tanks with their blades and snapping claws within seconds. PDF-armored troops rushed forwards again, charging in to harry and harass the Warp-forged spawn, but their efforts were to little avail. The tanks began to turn, turrets lining up new shots and many more daemon engines were annihilated, only for the original force of Warp-constructs to make their presence known once again, reaping a terrible toll against the Malumite armor with ranged weapons and rushing forward to crash against the fractured lines.
The Malum forces, coordinated beyond even the most controlling of commander's abilities, were nonetheless caught off-guard by the suddenness of the second half of the attack. Their numbers, both of vehicles and infantry, were rapidly diminishing on the battlefield. However, in the time that had passed, the battlefield had emptied itself of mortal foes who, unable to bear the sight of their so-called 'allies' had fled back into the depths of the hive, including many of those who had fallen to the Malum guns only to wake up and find their wounds miraculously repaired. Those who the daemons had not slaughtered, at least.
Such a thing was not victory, but it did provide… Options. Now that the enemy was no longer in need of their protection, those prototypes and other vehicles that survived and were nearest to the outside of the walls began a fighting retreat, withdrawing slowly down a tunnel. Meanwhile, the various tanks and other vehicles, as well as many of the infantry that remained on the battlefield, threw themselves with renewed suicidal fervor at the daemon engines, eagerly sacrificing themselves so that the more valuable and less replaceable units might survive.
The daemon engines, smelling their foe's weakness, cried out in glee as they descended with an equal fervor, gladly slaughtering any who came before them. The Soul Grinders in particular charged towards the retreating Malum forces, desiring nothing more than their wholesale slaughter and to cut off any line of retreat.
However, in their eagerness, they disregarded the hovering aircraft, which darted about nimbly through the sky, avoiding errant shots. The moment the first Soul Grinder neared the tunnel, they dived downwards, rocketing forward with all the speed their gravitic engines could muster. Like missiles, the aircraft slammed into the ground and exploded, enveloping the nearby daemon engines in a fireball that melted flesh and steel alike. The tunnel entrance shook and collapsed under the strain, burying a few of the Malum tanks that had been too slow to move out the way, but the damage to the Daemon Engines was by far the greater, as dozens of the smaller Warp-machines were melted down into slag by the kamikaze. A trio of the Soul Grinders were destroyed as well, their daemonic flesh-parts shimmering as they lost their grip and reality reasserted its own, shunting them off back into the hell that was their home.
The tunnel, now sealed off, allowed an easy withdrawal by the rest of the Malum vehicles. A mere fraction had survived against the daemonic host. Meanwhile, the daemons scuttled and slithered about over the ruins of the battlefield, having lost only a portion of its size. Both armies had learned much from this first engagement and now their respective masters began to scheme up new ways of dealing with the other.
A battle had been decided, but the war of engines had only just begun.
