but, to the priests of the Machine Cult, it was an easy matter. Their mechadendrites snaked forwards
from their backs, and, with a casual gesture that bordered on contempt, they flipped the heavy plate
of alien metal aside.
The noise of it crashing was all the louder for the depth of the silence that had preceded it. The
rumble of the Cadian machines was barely detectable in this part of the chamber.
Sennesdiar crouched down, his voluminous robe spreading out around him. <Here, at last,> he
said, <is Magos Ipharod.>
The others crouched, too.
<Your wait is at an end, brother,> said Sennesdiar. <And so is ours.>
Katz used the crashing of the massive metal plate to cover the noise of his footsteps as he moved
closer to the tech-priests. It seemed to him that they had found the thing they sought. He could see a
bundle of rags on the ground between them. He crept closer and closer, ever mindful of the slightest
noise that might give him away.
Damn their bloody chirping and beeping, he thought. If only I could understand what they were
saying.
He saw the largest one, the magos, unfurl the rags on the ground to reveal a skull attached to
metal vertebrae.
It’s another one, Katz said to himself. It’s a bloody tech-priest.
He could see augmetic attachments bolted to the skull. He could see a metal collar bone. Magos
Sennesdiar kept uncovering more and more. There was a structure like a rib cage, but formed of
steel spars and pistons. One of the arms was missing, but the other was bulky and ended in
something more claw than hand. Cables and flexible tubing trailed from the midriff like the entrails
of an eviscerated man.
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Katz wondered how much closer he could get without risking detection. He had to know more.
The major general was relying on him.
Slowly, carefully, he moved in, keeping to the wall on his right.
So far, so good, he thought. They’re preoccupied. They don’t have a clue I’m here.
<How audacious,> said Armadron. <The Cadian is barely ten metres from us now.>
<I want your attention on the task at hand,> said Sennesdiar. <I have already stated that I will
deal with our observer. Now raise the body into a sitting position. Lean it against the wall. I want
this done quickly.>
Xephous and Armadron saw to it. With precise and careful movements, they lifted the remains
of Magos Ipharod into position. He was in a poor state. With the exception of his skull and teeth, the
few biological elements left over from his human form had rotted away almost completely. His
missing left arm and the absence of his legs spoke of violent damage prior to his seeking refuge here
in Dar Laq. What had happened to him? If the procedure was successful, Sennesdiar would soon
know.
<Armadron,> said Sennesdiar, <assist me in opening the skull. I will extract the intelligence
core. Xephous, prepare to accept it. The magos will speak to us through you.>
<As you command,> said Xephous, reaching up to pull back his hood. His fingers worked a
panel on the side of his metal head. There was a brief whining noise as tiny motors lifted a square
section and rotated it away, revealing sockets sunk into the tissue of his living brain.
Sennesdiar detected no fear in his adept’s tone, but he sensed an increase in secretions from his
biological systems that suggested he was less than happy. Giving one’s systems over to the control
of another tech-priest’s intelligence core was a dangerous and highly irregular affair. Ipharod was
even older than Sennesdiar, and had enough authority to demand permanent control of the adept’s
body. Officially, Sennesdiar would be unable to refuse, but he valued Xephous enough to resent the
idea. He did not want to lose his adept quite yet.
No, he decided, Ipharod’s 1C module will reveal the information I seek, and then I will
deactivate it for eventual return to Mars. If Ipharod wishes to live again, let it be inside another body
constructed for just that purpose.
<I have it, magos,> said Armadron. He lifted a small cylinder of metal, covered in traceries of
gold, from a hatch in Ipharod’s grinning skull. It glowed ever so slightly in the dark, still charged
with the energy needed to maintain its integrity.
<Plug it into Xephous,> ordered Sennesdiar. <Be sure to limit control to sense and vocaliser
subsystems. No motor control. Is that understood?>
<Of course, magos>
<I am ready,> said Xephous, presenting the top of his head to his fellow adept.
<Do not be concerned,> said Sennesdiar. <I will restore you once I have the information we
need.>
<I am beyond fear,> said Xephous. <The Omnissiah asks it of me. You ask it of me. It is my
duty and my honour to serve both.>
Armadron carefully plugged the intelligence core into Xephous’ brain and closed the metal
hatch.
<Shut down your central operating systems and memory sub-systems. Reboot now as Ipharod.>
Xephous shuddered. Green diodes on his metal face winked out. His head lolled slackly onto his
shoulder.
Sennesdiar and Armadron waited. Nothing happened.
<Are you sure you connected it properly, adept?> asked Sennesdiar. <You have made no
errors?>
<I do not make errors easily, magos,> said Armadron.
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A faint, tinny voice issued from Xephous’ vocaliser. <Pride is an emotion. It is unworthy of a
place in a tech-priest’s mind. No errors have been made. I can hear you, followers of the Machine-
God. I am Ipharod. And I am returned to consciousness once more.>
158
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Ipharod’s recall was absolute. Had his rescuers thought to bring a hololithic projector, they could
have watched a perfect record of events in three dimensions as seen though his lenses.
Unfortunately, not all Martian priests were equal. Ipharod was not impressed with Sennesdiar. He
had come unprepared and under-equipped. He was probably no older than four centuries, and he
was incompetent like all the new breed.
For all its flaws, its inherent ambiguities, Ipharod had no recourse but to employ spoken
language. The first thing he shared with the other three tech-priests, however, was nothing to do
with the past.
<We are being observed,> he told them. <Behind you, Magos Sennesdiar, there lurks a man in
military fatigues.>
<His presence is known to us,> said Sennesdiar. <He will be dealt with in due course.
Concentrate on the information we need, magos. In your emergency transmission, you stated that
you had the fragment in your possessions.>
<A partial truth, Sennesdiar. A partial truth. I located the fragment as ordered and was in the
process of recovering it from the wreckage of The Fortress of Arrogance when my skitarii were
attacked by a significant ork force. My guards were slaughtered and their bodies were taken as
trophies. I was hacked apart and left for dead. They took one of my arms and both of my legs as
salvage. They also took the commissar’s ruined Baneblade.>
<Then you never actually had the fragment in your possessions.>
<I judged that the Fabricator General would not authorise a Reclamator mission to extract me if
he knew the truth. I was charged with securing the fragment, but was not given adequate resources
to achieve this. A computational oversights.>
<The fragment is still aboard The Fortress of Arrogance?> asked Armadron.
<Who are you to address me so, adept? Your superior alone may question me. Is that
understood?>
<Please answer, magos, as if the question had been mine,> said Sennesdiar.
<Very well. I crawled after the ork force, following their tracks in the sand, dragging behind me
a single orbital beacon with which I could broadcast my coordinates for rescue, but the orks moved
fast, heading north then east. They travelled through a heavily fortified pass in the mountains. I
could not follow that way and had to find an alternative route to their base. I happened across Dar
Laq, and decided it would be a safe place to await rescue, but only after I had once again located the
fragment and launched my beacon. Five hundred and sixteen point seven hours later, I located a
significant ork settlement to the east. The Fortress of Arrogance was there. From a distance, I
observed that the dominant ork had discovered the fragment and judged it worth possessing. The
creature was wearing it around his neck. I cannot comment on the status of the fragment now, but
my probability algorithms suggest that there is a high chance it remains with the dominant ork. I
coded my message into the beacon, released it and crawled down here to wait.>
<And the fragment?> asked Sennesdiar. <Is it all we hoped it would be?>
<Yes,> said Ipharod. <It is a relic from before the Age of Strife. Tech-Adept Reiyon, Yarrick’s
former enginseer, was the first to discover its existence on Golgotha. He planned to transport it back
to Mars after the war, never predicting that Yarrick’s forces would fall here. He was killed during
159
the commissar’s capture. If the fragment can be recovered once more, it will allow us to
significantly refine our teleportation technologies. It must be retrieved at any cost.>
<Have you any other information relevant to our mission?> asked Sennesdiar.
<Now that I have a body again, albeit one of such limited capacity, it is fitting that I now take
overall command of the retrieval mission. I’m certain you see the logic in this, magos,> said
Ipharod. <It is the task I was charged with.>
<It is a task you have already failed to complete, brother magos,> said Sennesdiar. <You
mishandled the original recovery operation. You transmitted false information in order to secure
your rescue. Since I am the only other magos present, it falls to me to judge your actions. Thus, your
1C module will be returned to Mars where you will face a tribunal. That is all.>
<Upstart. I am closer to the Omnissiah than you shall ever be. You presume to pass judgement
on me?>
There was a moment of silence while Ipharod tried in vain to rise, but Xephous’ body would not
follow his neural commands.
<Do not waste your time, magos,> said Sennesdiar. <My adept’s motor control systems are
locked. I will now remove your module from his brain.>
<You must not,> insisted Ipharod. <I can still be of great value to this mission.>
Sennesdiar reached forward and touched a recessed button on Xephous’ head. The metal panel
whined open again to reveal the adept’s soft grey brain.
<Do not do this,> said Ipharod. <I can still czzzzztk — >
Sennesdiar yanked the tiny, lambent cylinder from its socket and closed the panel. Moments
later, the diodes on Xephous’ face glimmered to life again.
<It is done,> Sennesdiar told him. He raised the intelligence core in front of the adept’s face.
The first thing the adept did was to pull his cowl up over his head. <Did he not demand full
control of all my systems?>
<He was unworthy of that. I am certain Adept Armadron concurs.>
Armadron nodded once. <Magos Ipharod is guilty of self-interest and deceit. He will be
sentenced on Mars.>
<Incorrect,> said Sennesdiar. <He has been sentenced already. I have the necessary authority.>
Without further discussion, he crushed Ipharod’s intelligence core between his metal thumb and
forefinger. The cylinder crumpled easily. Its dim glow went out. Then Sennesdiar threw the ruined
core over his shoulder with a very deliberate and precise motion.
It hit something soft before it struck the ground.
It hit Jarryl Katz.
“You may come forward now, Cadian,” said Sennesdiar in Low Gothic. “We have known of
your presence for quite some time.”
Katz shook his head. The game was up. He should have known better than to get too close. They
were tech-priests, so of course their senses were augmented beyond his own. Had they smelled him?
Or heard him? Had they sensed his body heat?
Resigned, he stepped towards them, sweat beading on his head despite the cool, dry air. “What is
your name?” asked the largest of the three.
“Schweitzer,” said Katz defiantly.
“A falsehood,” said the magos. The slightest fluctuation in your heartbeat gives your deceit
away. “Speak the truth.”
Katz couldn’t help but be impressed. “You can detect that?”
“From this distance, yes,” replied Sennesdiar. “That and much more. No matter who you are,
you could not have followed us without our knowledge. Still, it is remarkable that you moved so
quickly and quietly in this darkness. You are augmented, yes?”
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The magos took a sudden pace forward, and Katz found himself looking up into a face more
dead than alive. It was expressionless, unreadable, and he knew he had to get away. Whatever
humanity might have once existed beneath that pallid mask of ancient skin was long gone. Despite
whatever vestiges of organic matter remained, it was a machine that stared back at him through
black lenses — a cold, calculating, ruthlessly efficient machine.
“The expedition force will be moving out shortly,” said Katz, working to keep his voice level.
“If you’re finished here, we should all be getting back. We don’t want to get left behind, now, do
we?”
Katz wondered if the tech-priests were reading his heartbeat now. It was galloping.
The magos said nothing more. Katz had just decided to turn away when something metallic
whipped towards him from the bottom edge of his vision. Bright, flaring agony gripped him. His
lungs felt filled with liquid fire. He looked down and saw that one of the magos’ writhing
mechadendrites had punched straight through the fabric of his tunic and into the muscles of his
upper abdomen. Hot blood began to pour out over his tunic and trousers.
He grunted in pain. He tried to speak, but there was no breath behind the words. He couldn’t
draw any. His lungs wouldn’t work. He fumbled weakly, uselessly, for the knife at his belt.
“You will not suffer long, Cadian,” said the magos. “Your death is inconvenient, but we cannot
allow you to report what you have seen. There is already enough mistrust between the expedition
commanders and the Machine Cult. The relationship must not be destabilised further at this critical
