"Ageless beings, regardless of their race of origin, are deemed monsters to many be they man or alien. Many xenos seem immune to, or at minimum resistant to, the encroaching damnation of time. Endless in its flow and relentless in its pursuit of humanity. Our lives are so short by nature, but in so many ways we spit on nature and surpass what should be impossible for mortals. This presents to us a paradox. If we spit on nature are we not spitting on the Deus Mechanicus? Are all things not their creation?"
- From, De rebus machinis et xenaritis. Written by Archmagos Battista Albrecht Ghetaldi, 348.M36
01010000 01100001 01110010 01110100 00100000 00110110
Shadows danced and writhed in equal measure here, that place of depravity and endless darkness. Screams filled the air as assuredly as misery filled the streets. This place, Comorragh, was once home for Caenryx. A sad, horrible, soul crushing home. Caenryx had escaped long ago, but that didn't stop his mind from forever being chained to this place, even after the rituals of rebirth cleansed his soul of the Dark City's influence. The dreams were always similar, but that did nothing to make them less agonizing.
There were many variations of the visions, but they always followed similar patterns. Caenryx pressed his back against a wall of stone, his breath was rapid and his heart raced like wild. He glanced around a corner to see guards rush past his hiding place, giving him a brief moment of relief. Caenryx began stepping down the other direction, running face first into a wall of shadows, pitch black surrounded him.
Vague whispers filled his mind, and the darkness felt suffocating. Echoes of the past, moments of pain and terror replayed infinitely. Caenryx felt a weight in his grip, his blade was coated in fresh blood. Who it belonged to he didn't know, but he felt the guilt and shame pull at him. He looked back up, and saw his brother. So young, vulnerable, behind them both guards lay dead with their heads and organs in various states of evisceration.
He had his orders, mixed with an overwhelming desire to spite his mother. His hands, still soaked in the viscera of his earlier kills, shook as he prepared for what he was about to do. The screams of his brother were first drowned out by Caenryx's own strangling grip, then by the encroaching darkness that overtook him again. He trembled at the unwanted memories, and sought any way out. Anything he could find, except for the pull he felt at his soul. At all times, She Who Thirsts was there. Tempting him towards the depravity of Commorragh, towards further and ever more excesses of violence and sadism.
He dropped to his knees and gripped his ears, feeling the slick warm blood stain the sides of his head. It did nothing to stop Slaanesh's dark influence, but there was a glimpse of light. The same glimpse of hope he'd felt when he set from the webway to find the Ynnari, to find his future. Hands grabbed at him from the shadows just as he took a first step towards the glimmer of faint light, and dragged him back into the screaming horrors of the Drukhari way of life.
Caenryx shot up, nearly banging his head against a pipe that sat just above the alcove he and Fiachyth had climbed into to rest. At some point, against his better judgment, he'd drifted off despite offering to keep an eye out for the both of them. The Exodite was still asleep, after the multiple days she'd had he couldn't blame her. The sooner they got this over with, the sooner she could return to her people to help rebuild. It was a better life than this, and far better than he deserved. He laid back down slowly, the cold steel around him a stark reminder of his current reality. The nightmare still clung to his mind, but he forced himself to breathe steadily, grounding himself in the present.
Necron tomb worlds were in many ways a living organism. Though the xenos race itself lacked anything remotely organic, the functioning of a tomb was a dead mirror to a living being's automatic functions. While the xenos slept, a network of constructs kept the monolith running. Damage to the blackstone flesh was repaired by scarab platelets, infections were purged by an immune system of sentinel canopteks, and a neural matrix of ancient routines made sure everything was where it needed to be. It was a microcosm and a behemoth all at the same time, a paradox in perpetuity.
Aside from all philosophical interpretations possible to researchers and xenobiologists, this posed a far more pressing problem to the forces of the Adeptus Mechanicus. They could reduce this tomb to a ruin and destroy everything they saw, but there would always be hidden paths and tunnels they'd miss. A small remnant of the Necron scourge would remain and begin to piece the rubble back together. The Mechanicus didn't need to destroy the Necrons for now, but they did need the STC Fragment hidden somewhere in this crypt's guts of stone and heretek. Once they had that, the cohort could request clearance to destroy this foul world.
Exterminatus was the only way to fully confirm the destruction of the tomb. Pythagoras had pulled his final remaining Kastelan robot back to the barrier of the forcefield, there it kept a vigilant position in defense of the skeleton crew. The air was thick with the acrid scent of plasma discharges and the metallic tang of blood. The constant hum of machinery and the distant roars of the Necron forces created a cacophony of war that grated on the skeleton crew's nerves.
"We need a better plan than this." Epsilon said, Pythagoras overflowed with annoyed and fearful binharic data. "Do you think I'm not aware of that?! This was your plan in the first place, Marshal Unit." Epsilon looked around, assessing what he had on hand. Two heavy Skitarii, one damaged Cyberhound, one belligerent if well meaning Datasmith, himself, Xor, and half a Dunecrawler. His cogitators continually returned the same calculations, their demise was almost guaranteed now. With the Seraptek shoving back the majority of the ground forces, the other Necrons could focus on the closest opponents.
Their plasma fire and monolithic robot was practically a beacon to the bestial directionless Necrons. The noosphere told him Fusillades were coming, but they were too far to be depended on for their immediate survival. They would have to hold out longer, by any means necessary. Epsilon felt the weight of the situation press down on him. The calculations all pointed to a grim end, but he had learned from Quill that pure logic wasn't always the answer. Sometimes, the will of the Omnissiah required a leap of faith.
"Datasmith Xanryl, probability of defensive hold nearing nonexistent levels. Diagnostics fail where human logic can succeed." Epsilon quickly sent a string of commands to his Skitarii nearby. Pythagoras saw the threads and beads of glimmering data, and was immediately confused. "What are you doing? Your commands are saying to…" Pythagoras didn't need to finish, the Skitarii obediently removed the dim power cell from the Dunecrawler. One of the Heavy Skitarius substituted it for the power source of his own Arc Rifle. It was a slapdash fix, it only provided enough power to fuel the forcefield, and it impeded efforts to repair the real weaponry. However, it was also damaged and very unstable at that moment. The Skitarii carefully hauled the cell to Epsilon, and the Marshal turned to stare Pythagoras in the lenses.
"Cybernetica Automata present can provide a large enough blast to cut Necron wave by approximately fifty percent." Pythagoras was aghast, "Which only improves our odds of survival by a measly three percent! Losing our only Kastelan left would damn us for certain. I refuse to give the command!"
Epsilon directed the Skitarii forwards anyways, "Datasmith Xanryl, analysis of your statement indicates you would rather submit to a slow guaranteed death instead of trusting the Omnissiah's will and performing a daring unexpected maneuver." The Datasmith paused and glanced slowly at his Kastelan. The Necrons would soon overload its repulsor grid, it was likely to be left as little more than scrap sooner than he'd like but a damaged Kastelan with weapons was better than a bomb that may not even do what it needed to do. Just as Pythagoras was about refuse once more, Necrons began to break through. Only a few at first, which were gunned down quickly or flattened by the Kastelan, but they needed to make a decision fast.
"I… Ave Deus Mechanicus fine." Pythagoras began programming the Kastelan, when a blast from a Necron weapon tore into the ground between them. Pythagoras shielded himself well enough, but Epsilon was sent backwards, his head slammed into the barrel of the Onager's gun and the Marshal slumped to the ground with a metal clang. The lights of his eyes went dim, not dead but certainly unconscious.
The Skitarii paused immediately, one of the workers rushed to attend to the High Marshal while the others looked to Pythagoras for orders. Pythagoras emitted angry binharic, and with his raspy machine voice he shouted, "Don't gawk at me! Keep fighting, keep fixing!" He snarled to himself with his flesh voice, and sent a minor alteration to the Kastelan. It reached up, and ripped off its phosphor blaster. Setting the heavy weapon down before the dwindling cohort.
"Do not make me regret this blasphemy against the Legio Cybernetica… One of you, interface with that weapon and shove them back!" The last thing Epsilon saw in his vision was the Kastelan Robot grabbing the power cell, and charging forward towards the enemy. As his vision faded and his augmetics began to shut down, he heard the sounds of battle intensify with the Skitarii war cries being echoed by the unexpected voice of the Datasmith accompanying them.
Deep underground, explosive charges beeped occasionally signifying their connection to Magos Tahr'Kull's commands. Then, they sped up, and continued to do so causing a confused reaction from the Crypteks repairing the damage of battle in the crypt. Moments later they detonated, incinerating fire filled the tomb in mere moments. A wave of destruction left entire rooms and pillars of blackstone slag and rubble, what remained of the Necrons were destroyed in the explosion or left broken down beyond combat effectiveness.
At the surface, the Astartes and Magos Tahr'Kull braced themselves as the ground shook with the force of the ordnance. Quill was still hurt, but his insectoid legs helped him remain stable. The Astartes were unphased, until the spout of fire billowed from the entrance. That got at least a minor reaction out of all five.
"Magos," Asked Azracai, "What happened to Brother Armaros last you saw him?"
"I had detected a fault in one of the explosives, we needed to ensure all of them went off properly. Armaros volunteered to remedy the problem but before we could plan our final meeting place I was attacked by Ophydians. When I tried hailing Armaros I got no response." Azracai nodded solemnly, "I understand. To fall in battle is no small honor, we will ensure our battle brother is memorialized as a valiant warrior should be." Quill had to suppress his disgust, he didn't know if there had ever been an Armaros or who they actually were but he knew they'd played him for a fool. Him, a member in good standing and of considerable rank in the Adeptus Mechanicus. He wasn't sure what was worse, him being caught in an inescapable prison like this or the potential for these four Dark Angels to be just as tricked as he was.
The tomb's structural integrity was thoroughly compromised, entire sections of the tomb collapsed in on themselves. A few Necrons and Canopteks continued out from the entrance the Dark Angels used, seeking any evacuation from their impending burial, but they were rapidly cut down by expert precision from the Astartes. "Lord Anaxagoras," Azracai said over vox, "Mission successful, the Necrons should be defeated for now."
"Statement accuracy, determined false. Necron siege construct approaching Mechanicum forces, present weaponry incapable of destroying the abomination in time. Requesting backup immediately." Azracai looked at the others, "We don't have the necessary firepower, you have more weaponry than we do."
"Provide assistance however is possible, there are no other alternatives."
"Throne. Even when we destroy their tomb these monsters refuse to give up, Magos. We have limited time to assist your fellow explorators in destroying the last gasp of Necron resistance. I am open to ideas." Quill pointed at the damaged Thunderhawk, "That is all the ordnance we need."
Lazaron glanced between the tech-priest and the gunship, "Magos… That thing can barely fly, its weapon systems are shut down just to divert power to the thrusters. It can only provide transport and little else." Quill started, albeit slowly thanks to his damaged machine body, towards the gunship. "Irrelevant, come. Astartes Araleal and Azracai possess all required equipment to make this vessel an effective way of saving the cohort." The marine in Gravis Armor looked at his squadmates, Quill noticed the confusion and continued. "The other three of us lack anything to survive an emergency disembarkation from an aircraft, but you both can. Now, let me make some last minute adjustments to the engines as I explain the plan."
Epsilon faded in and out of consciousness, his mind wandered in the stupor. Occasionally traveling back to a hazy time of his life. He felt his flesh as if it were untouched by metal, weak? Or did he long to be whole again? Every time he tried to answer himself, he found that he couldn't. There was a war within his own mind, he remembered being a menial, a Skitarii, and finally a Marshal. His time before was the hardest to recall, his mind throttled by the augmetics implanted to ensure obedience to programming and doctrines of war. He couldn't even recall how he'd ended up in the Skitarii corps, what he'd done that got him sentenced to conscription instead of servitorization. Though, with his mind freed partially by Magos Tahr'kull he considered maybe they were equal fates to each other.
The sound of a roaring energy blast pulled him back to reality, just long enough to see a Kastelan be reduced to scrap metal and sparking circuitry by the damaged energy cell. The repulsor grid backfired and sent an additional shockwave of energy. Crushing Necrons, and knocking a few of the Skitarii back with the force of the pulse. The shrapnel was incinerated by the Emanatus Forcefield, leaving the Mechanicus inside safe while the Necrons were burned, shredded, and crushed by the blast and by the falling wreckage. The cohort cleaned up the Warriors and Immortals, giving them ample breathing room from the wave of war forms.
Then, Epsilon looked to his right. The Seraptek had taken notice of both the damage it sustained trying to break through the now full power cohort, and the bright blue explosion of energy. Somewhere in its programming, it decided the latter was a more pressing issue, and approached them. Slowly, the lumbering giant grew closer. While they had bought themselves time, they now had a much deadlier foe at the end of said time. Grinding and shrieking grabbed his attention, his vision began to clear and he saw an Ophydian burst from the ground and lunge at him. Green blades of power hummed in anticipation of the kill, but a power fist slammed into it.
The Necron assailant was knocked aside into the metal of the Dunecrawler. Before even Xor could react, Pythagoras slammed his power fist into the Destroyer again. Its head was flattened, its body spasmed with excess power, and the Datasmith's servo arm grabbed its arms. In one motion and with the sound of strained metal the Necron was ripped apart beyond the healing capacities of Necrodermis, the salvo of point blank shots from Pythagoras' Archeotech pistol were largely unnecessary. Though Epsilon knew it was mostly because of how unused to direct combat Pythagoras was. The Datasmith hadn't ever had to deal with this intense of a near death experience and his remaining flesh body was reaching a point of exhaustion.
Epsilon struggled to his feet, and the two of them went without pleasantries. Thanks were unnecessary to the steel minds of the Machine Cultists and the Seraptek on the horizon left them no desire to waste time with unneeded words.
"I hope you're not too disoriented to think of a battle strategy, that is what your augmetics are designed for."
"Time estimated before fusillade bombardment?"
"Ten minutes. If that." Epsilon nodded, it would be tight but they might make it. If they could find some way to slow down the siege construct. Still, he found nothing. No methods, nothing they had could prove effective in stopping its advance. They had, at long last, exhausted all options. So the Skitarii, Sicarian, and Datasmith could do nothing but watch their demise approach. Pythagoras' lenses focused on a distant plume of smoke, up in the sky. He focused more intently, and he realized what was approaching. A Thunderhawk, that had no business flying in its current condition. Its wings and tailfin were scored and partially destroyed, its shields were dead, its weapons were silent, but its engines were uncannily bright. Full of life, and driving the Thunderhawk well beyond acceptable or expected speeds.
"Marshal Unit Epsilon, were you alerted to reinforcements on approach beyond what we expected?" Epsilon looked and saw the aircraft clearly, now that it was closer.
"No. Approaching vessel does not match any available datasets, except…" Epsilon hailed Quill's vox frequency, "Magos Tahr'Kull, abnormalities in present situation detected. Approaching Thunderhawk matches iconography and identifiers of First Legion Astartes. Present course would be lethal even for augmented or enhanced soldiers."
"Trust my judgment, I have a plan, Epsilon"
Just as the Thunderhawk grew dangerously close to the Seraptek, two Astartes leapt out of the hangar off the boarding ramp. One was accompanied by a jet of flame slowing their descent to safe levels, the other fell to the ground like a meteor. Crashing into the dirt and leaving a small crater. The Thunderhawk crashed into the Seraptek in a massive fireball, the siege engine stumbled over, and fell to the ground. Kicking up another dust storm, which drew annoyance from Epsilon. He'd just escaped the second and now there was a third. Though through the veil of dust, the Seraptek's lights were still vivid and clear, and they were moving. It was getting up, shrugging off the crash. It would only buy them a few minutes, that was all they needed.
Araleal and Azracai rejoined away from the crash site. Azracai's helmet sent him coordinate data, and he guided his Battle Brother towards the Mechanicus gunline.
Elatus stalked the halls of the cruiser Drakon Hesperios, on his way to the bridge to discuss their next steps with his brothers. He wasn't nervous, but five years separated from a band of Alpha Legionnaires presented a certain potential for tossups in both command structure and who had sway over what. Scylia had tried assuring him that things had stayed relatively normal, but every time he returned from assignments and missions he partially expected to hear their Master of Executions had attacked Telemateus, or something similarly counterproductive. It had been a while since they had encountered either loyalists or traitors, and both could present a foe to undermine. But the Mechanicus offered them no ways to continue propagating the long war as intended.
They needed supplies, desperately. Therefore they needed to delay any efforts to bring about more conflict between the Imperium and the Heretics. That didn't sit well with the Chaos Lord, he'd grown used to a certain cadence to their missions. One that had been disrupted for a long time.
The door to the Bridge opened with a hiss of pressurized air and the soft hum of a small motor. Before him stood Telemateus, Scylia, and other members of the Warband. All collected together to discuss the unplanned presence of the Machine Cult. Scylia stood out as the only normal sized human present, but she was a direct line to the human agents and cultists in the warband's employ. So she was granted the privilege of being present at these types of meetings. Beside her stood Telemateus, which was normal for the two. Their connections to the warp made them close comrades, with the Astartes providing something of a mentorship to the human psyker.
The gathered Legionnaires glanced at him briefly, before Damastes, the Lord of this vessel, nodded sternly and spoke up. "Welcome back, Brother. Your work from within the First Legion was, as expected, exemplary." Elatus took his place, and removed his helmet with the hissing release of its enviro-seal. "I'm sensing a "but" somewhere in that sentence?"
"But… The Cult Mechanicum being here means we will surely be detected if we proceed as planned." Scylia cleared her throat, which was something of a habit for when she wanted their attention. Normally, they would ignore such interruptions from regular humans but they'd learned over the many years that not only would she not accept being ignored, but she also had a strong track record of sound advice and well thought out ideas.
"Lords, if I may suggest we dispense with the usual cloak and dagger methods I believe our best course of action is to simply cast off to the Manufactorum. If the Machine God's servants wish to pursue us, we simply mirror their course across the planet to avoid engagement with their fleet. If they send splinters to engage us, we have the capacity to fend off any individual capital ships they send. They would need the entirety of their fleet to sink us."
The Astartes all looked between each other, it wasn't a terrible idea. Though it was very unlike their preferred tactics. Medon, Master of Executions, spoke up next. "We would never be able to predict their next movements in order to outmaneuver them properly. Eventually, we would encounter each other directly by sheer chance." The others broke into a flurry of arguments and opposing ideas, until Elatus stepped forward with his hands raised. "Brothers… We may lack the technological means to track the cult flawlessly, but are we forgetting who we are?"
"What are you proposing?" Asked Telemateus. Elatus grinned, which usually meant he had a plan, "We must think like our gene fathers, if we lack the means to track the cult from outside their vessels…"
Telemateus nodded, now seeing where Elatus was headed, "Then we will track them from inside. First, we must see if the cult even pursues us. Then, we can proceed with installation of agents in deep cover for the duration of our salvage mission. Scylia," The Psyker turned to Telemateus, "Bring us your finest, I believe I have just the disguises in mind."
As they began to agree on the finer details before they returned to their own ships, a bridge pilot turned from his terminal. "My Lords!" The human shouted, "We have a problem." Damastes turned to address his crew, the human continued. "The Obsidian Whisper has vanished, they entered a warp rift and vanished from realspace from the other side of the moon. They left no communications, no indication of their destination, nothing."
Elatus grew concerned. Over time the Mechanicum on board all their ships had been acting strangely, Obsidian Whisper was the main vessel that housed the bulk of Dark Mechanicum leadership, for it to disappear meant that leadership was acting of their own accord outside of the will of the Alpha Legion. The Chaos Lord glanced at Scylia, and her face betrayed the same concerns.
"Keep trying to hail them, I ask that the rest of you check your communications officers and Mechanicum personnel to see if they received anything from the Whisper." Said Damastes. The Legionnaires all nodded their approval and left to prepare for their mad dash past the Adeptus Mechanicus. Elatus, Telemateus, and Scylia all left together for Deception's Venom. The sorcerer broke the silence first, "Do you believe the Obsidian Whisper has gone rogue?" Elatus shrugged, "I don't think it's mere coincidence that they told us of our target in the first place, then left when it was within our reach. I suspect they had unspoken motives."
"Probably some level of heretek they want to get their grimy metal hands on before we get there. While I don't approve of their deception in that case, I'm not sure what good it will do us to come into conflict with a second group while we try to restock."
Elatus nodded, "There is wisdom in that, I don't enjoy it either but if they are not intent on betrayal then I don't think we should try to stop them from their excavation. Just be ready, spread the word throughout the warband that we should stay on alert."
The billowing clouds of dust were dispersed by the beating membrane wings of a convoy of Archaeopters. Whistling bombs fell from the fusillades, raining firey death and crushing force onto what little remained of the Necron's ground forces. The Seraptek's lights erratically flickered, and it almost lost its footing. A transvector settled on the ground behind the Emenatus forcefield, and five blind acolytes bearing massive coils on their backs ran to the Dunecrawler.
"Praise the Machine God." Exhaled Pythagoras. The Electro Priests had already been told what was needed, and excess power burst from them into the Dunecrawler. A hymnal of pure machine language flooded the noosphere, adulations of the Machine god and prayers for guidance through this turmoil. The Skitarii joined the hymns of the priests with rhythmic chanting as static filled the air. The coil of the Eradication Beamer glowed with new life, and overloading energy drove the weapon systems to new heights of destructive capabilities.
The Seraptek's own weapons began to charge, but they were cut off. A beam of pure energy erupted from the Dunecrawler, knocking the Seraptek back several steps. Its guns died as it redirected power to its forcefield grid, desperately holding back both the kinetic force and energy pouring over its form. At that moment a war cry shook the planet as the Skitarii legions rushed forward to lay down withering fire onto the monolithic beast. The line of Dunecrawlers all drank deep of the excess energy the priesthood provided through their blessed coils. Curtains of machine code filled the sky before the Mechanicus, and with the blessings of their god another Eradication Beamer joined the first one, knocking the Seraptek back further. One by one more weapons opened up onto the Giant Canoptek. With a burst of energy, its shields failed. Its Necrodermis was torn apart by the weapons of the cohort as they advanced. Pressing their advantage until the Titanic machine collapsed under its own weight, the light in its ocular receptors finally dying for the last time. A cry of thanks and praise to the machine god pierced the sky, a procession of worship replacing the clamoring sounds of a pitched battle.
Epsilon got up from his makeshift cover, and hesitantly began rescinding the protocols locked into the minds of the Skitarii nearby. Their postures relaxed noticeably, now that the fight was over they each leaned against the wreckage for support and desperately took the moment to relax before they returned to the cohort.
As they approached, various repair specialists ran over to usher them back to the command post. Salvage teams rushed forward to collect the remains of the deceased and the excavation teams set their massive mining drills and constructs forward to begin tearing apart the corpse of the tomb, looking for the blessed archeotech. Epsilon was at his limit, and almost buckled under his own weight but one of his elites helped him stay upright.
As they left for repairs, Epsilon paused next to Pythagoras and a small gathering of the Legio Cybernetica. The two stared at each other for a while. But eventually, Pythagoras cleared his throat and with his flesh voice addressed the Marshal. "I believe that I may have been hasty in chastising your methods. Had the Necrons been able to join their Seraptek in the counterattack, I don't believe any of us would have survived. Your tactics proved the correct choice, I will ensure Lord Anaxagoras knows that." Epsilon only saluted, as was the way for Skitarii. And was hauled off for repairs and medical attention.
Quill and the other three Dark Angels joined the Mechanicus leadership at the command post a bit later, with Araleal and Azracai greeting their brothers with wide grins and firm salutes.
"That was without a doubt, Magos," Chuckled Araleal, "One of the most egregiously reckless and destructive plans I've ever had the pleasure of being involved with." The four gradually removed their helmets, and saluted Quill, Azracai took up his position at the front of the squad. "On behalf of our fallen brothers, we thank you for your help in our vengeance. Magos, we will stay here to lend our aid just in case any more abominant Xenos surprises find us."
"And I thank you for saving my life, Sons of the Lion. Should you need me personally, please don't hesitate to hail my personal vox frequency. Working with the Angels of the Omnissiah himself is a rare treat." The Astartes all nodded and left to see if there was anywhere they could lend a hand, though silently they each were a bit offput by being referred to in religious terms. Still, it was best that they keep that to themselves, especially around the fanatical devotees of the Cult Mechanicum.
The makeshift repair bay was incredibly busy, servo skulls and Skitarii alike worked feverishly to at least stabilize the cybernetic warriors of the cult as they came in with various levels of injury and damage. A special repair bed was set aside for Epsilon, as he was still the current High Marshal. Quill entered the bay moments later, "Epsilon. I hear you had quite the interesting time"
"Necrons sent in Seraptek counterattack. Marshal unit- … I dealt with it." Quill chuckled, "Yes. I reviewed the battle report, quite a clever gamble. Reenergizing a downed Dunecrawler? Phenomenal, using every gift the Omnissiah bestows upon us to its fullest extent. I think someone is due for some upgrades soon."
"Magos I… I don't understand. What is happening?"
Quill settled nearby to have his own augments repaired, though the Darkfire cannon he was holding onto drew some odd glances. He was adamant that the Skitarii present integrate it to replace his missing Eradication Ray and eventually they relented. Though it was through no small amount of angry machine code slipping into the noosphere.
Magos Tahr'Kull had grown a reputation with the Skitarii of the fleet. He treated them well, but he also had a habit of making requests of them that got them in no small amount of administrative trouble with other Magi.
"I spoke with the Explorator Majoris, you've been approved to remain High Marshal of the Explorator Fleet. As such, your primary mind locks have been released. Congratulations old friend, you're yourself again. Almost at least, there are of course more vaults and locks implanted within you that I am still searching for. In time, you will be ready."
"Ready for… What? Magos?"
"In time, you just have to trust me a little bit longer. For now, we must get back to excavation efforts as fast as possible." Epsilon sat up with no small amount of effort, "Magos… What is that?" Epsilon pointed at the Darkfire cannon that Quill was flexing on his repaired servo limb. "A new acquisition, simple as that. It should give us the edge over anything else that tries to stop us." Quill's Mechadendrites pulled the Thallax faceplate and singed mask out from his robes, "Though… When we return, there is one thing we must address. I found some things we must analyze. When the chance arises."
"Magos, database analysis says that's-"
"No. Don't say it, not here. We must keep this within our own circle, understood?" Epsilon was silent for a bit, and internally he wasn't sure about Quill suddenly having Heresy Era technology. But, the Magos had never steered him wrong before. How many times had Quill ensured Epsilon and his mens' collective survival when other Magi would consider them expendable within expected parameters? "Acknowledged, Magos. We will discuss on board Praeco Voltaic." Quill nodded, "Find me when you are done. I only needed minor repairs compared to the damage you sustained."
Quill stood and, after testing his newly repaired limbs, walked out to assist in directing recovery efforts. Returning to the light of the planet's sun, he could fully appreciate the destruction at hand. Things were bad, the cohort's losses had been almost disastrous. The battle had left corpses littered everywhere, and Quill couldn't help but glance at his new acquisitions and feel it was pyrrhic. He stalked off to an unseen corner of the command center, and pulled out something else he found in the tomb. A copy of a manuscript he'd given up on finding, banned by the Martian priesthood and destroyed almost in its entirety.
It was worn and old, covered in the dust of time but it had escaped whatever battle occurred underground before their arrival relatively undamaged. He ran a hand over the cover, emblazoned golden lettering flanked by designs like that of a circuit board spelled out the title. De rebus machinis et xenaritis.
The Obsidian Whisper broke into realspace in orbit above a planet with a surface marred by destruction. Life was nonexistent, and the sun burned hot due to its close proximity. The ship's shields protected the New Mechanicum on board, but the heat would not stop them. Inside, chittering adepts and foul engines of pain, heresy, and twisted blends of flesh and metal growing between each other worked to prepare.
The Mechanicum had planned and prepared, now they would answer a summons. The pieces were falling into place, soon their unenlightened counterparts would arrive, and the final phase of the plan could begin. On the bridge, a Tech Priest in pitch black robes covered in symbols of chaos and heretek opened a hailing frequency.
"My Lord. We. Are prepared. For. Planetfall, Basilisks. Will be quick. Behind." The priest's voice was raspy, and strained. His lungs had long ago been replaced with accordion style bellows and ancient heresy era machines. An unknown voice responded with a notably less weathered voice. "Proceed at once, recover the relic in possession of the explorators when they arrive. Then we may dispose of the Alpha Legion, make haste. Our time for preparations is never as much as it seems." The vox died, and the cruiser descended to the dead planet.