"Aldren! Aldren!"
There she was, looking just as she had those first few years, spent together supervising on the factory floors. She had not yet received many augmetics, and the few she had meshed seamlessly with her natural-born flesh. Her supervisor was obsessed with 'maintaining the human form', after all. Every augmetic both of them had was painstakingly manufactured to match human proportions, save for their mechadendrites. Those, she had five of back then. Generic ones: basic models with nothing more than some general-purpose manipulators. But that early in your career, even they seemed like a heavenly blessing: who did not want five extra arms to apply the unguents and draw the runes?
Her face curled into one of her shy smiles as she reached out and shook him again.
"Aldren, wake up! There's work to do! The Magos is going to tear your MIU out with his bare hands if he catches you uplinked again!"
He could not stop a protest-filled groan from escaping his consciousness as he began to disengage from the Manifold. Most Techpriests he knew did not sleep; they could shut down their biological parts in phases to purge them of accumulating stress, and a fifteen-minute uplink with a central data-core of any respectable size was enough to flush out even the worst cases of garbage data accumulation. Nevertheless, he liked to go into a low-power state when he uplinked, shutting down all non-essential physical functions while he withdrew into the data-sphere, peacefully floating in and tinkering with a sea of information. It was in these times that he felt closest to the Omnissiah: a speck of data shining brightly amongst a larger, disorganized ocean, bringing order and understanding with the power of knowledge. Perhaps the fleshlings would identify this as a meditative trance rather than sleep, but this is the closest he could get.
"Aldren!" She shook him again.
"This is not real."
His own speech cut through the warm fog of the memory: cold, powerful, and clinical. The supervising partition. Its Manifold cant was exquisite. Only the primary share of processing power could make it so.
"Wake up. The time has come. This is a memory. She is gone."
"Come on." She extended her hand. "I'll help you up."
He took one long look at that face. It had been so long since he had visited this engram bundle. It would be longer still until he would again. Then he reached out and touched her cheek. In a blurry flash of pixelated data, she dissolved. His hand, till now of old flesh, regained its present form of blessed metal.
"Wake."
He commanded the data-stacks to spin down, reconstituting his consciousness with the primary partition. His form shot upwards through the bottomless depths of the Ark's core processes, steadily sending test-bursts of motive force through his physical form. Systems were coming online. Machine spirits rose from their slumber, whispering in his thoughts. He spoke back, still half-asleep, greetings and benedictions flowing like golden ribbons that energized every facet of his body.
Manifold info-spaces dissolved into sensorium feeds, running streams of raw info-dumps through his secondary parser arrays. The primary array had developed errors in the coding; logs indicated that a minute power surge during his uplink was to blame. With a thought, he spun new webs of novabyte, purging the kernel of its faults. The flow was rerouted, out of redundancy and into the normal. As it should be. The machine spirit whispered its thanks.
The final transitionary rites announced their completion, and the vision of realspace stabilized. Interface cables automatically detached themselves from his many MIU ports. He was in his specialized interface body: nothing more than a massive protective tank that ran from ceiling to floor in his quarters, bristling with sensoriums, augmitters, and manipulator arms. He used it to channel the productive energy of his trances, when the Omnissiah's wisdom occasionally made him his vessel. When inspiration struck, the instruments would swing into action as if motivated by divine will, flawlessly assembling technology or penning theses. He had completed many a difficult project by bringing them here. One such machine was even now cradled in his arms.
He commanded the systems into action, turning it over to estimate progress. There were certainly improvements. Yes, many improvements. In fact, it was almost complete. What little work was left could be completed in a matter of minutes. Then, all he had to do was rouse the chirurgeon servitor-complex in his quarters' augmentation room, and the work would be done. One of his optics swivelled to read the research notes still scrawled across his walls in Noospheric perma-bleed. It was uncomfortably graffiti-like, but it could not be helped: when the Omnissiah's grace struck, a few semi-permanent digital scrawls could always be forgiven. No successful Magos could claim to have done less in his long life. No matter. The project was done.
He set the bulky weapon down carefully, letting his manipulators extend to find an appropriately sized security chamber among the vaults nearby.
The door chimed, releasing a small Noospheric query. Someone wished to enter. Authentication tags indicated a servitor. He authorized it, and the reinforced gates slid open without noise. A servitor did indeed enter. A single glance confirmed his suspicions: definitely a product of Logis design. The mathematically aesthetic contours gave it away, and the near-fully biological appearance indicated Organicist influence. He already knew who wanted to talk to him. He interrupted the machine's message with a tag and sent it on its way.
No rest for the weary, and the Archmagos Dominus of an expeditionary force. There was considerable overlap between those roles. He let his consciousness flee to the complex system of cranes, drills, manipulators and gantries sprawled across the ceiling, canting instructions to it in short bursts of binharic. Its machine spirit was massive, but nebulous: it only had the patience for short and simple instructions. The less reverent would call it a little stupid.
Nevertheless, he had experience making himself understood. The arrangement came to life, deftly peeling back layers of armour and electronics to reveal the vat of bright green fluid within his present form. At the centre of this preserving and revitalizing liquid lay a flat disc the size of a human fist: his data-core, containing arrays of engram-chips that stored his personality and memories between bodily transitions. He guided a fine manipulator down to pluck it from its rest, feeling tiredness wash over him as, disconnected from its power source, it switched to low-power reserve batteries. Acting fast, he summoned the vault containing his void-capable form, getting its interfaces open and connecting the data-core to its systems. It was a tall, spindly thing, bristling with interface ports and utility mechadendrites to interface better with ship systems. It was also highly void-hardened, second only to his war-form. All the better to survive potential inconveniences like sudden decompression.
Within a second, his work was complete. Letting the potentia coil take over power supply, he quickly booted the body's systems, running it through automated self-diagnostics to ensure connection integrity. Success.
His quarters were the largest on the ship, mostly out of necessity rather than status: his many projects and concerns demanded constant attention. Besides his interfacing body in the corner, it had three separate workstations set in the living space alone, alongside maintenance kits, tomes, data-slates, half-assembled contraptions, and nutrient supplement dispensers for his few remaining flesh-parts. A door to his right led to his personal foundry, where even more workstations, servitors, and assembly lines awaited: enough to outfit a small army in a day, or fabricate one of his high-complexity weapon patterns over the same period. To the left was the secluded meditation room, smothered with the smell of incense and glowing techno-runes across the walls. Flocks of servo-skulls sang soft binharic hymns and sprayed sacred oils over the shrines. Beyond the foundry was the meeting room, set with all the physical comforts befitting his stature: couches, chairs, tables, carpets, food and drink. All of the finest materials and the most mathematically perfect ergonomics. It was also the least-used room, only coming into play to receive important dignitaries. The door set along one of its walls, however, was the only way outside, to the private hallway connecting him with the rest of the Ark.
Intricate geometric patterns, runes, and tapestries covered every wall, even in the oily and grimy foundry, maintained painstakingly by dedicated maintenance automata. They were part-beautification, part-egotistical displays of the aesthetic prowess of their creators, and part-acknowledgement of the glorious and mathematical perfection of the Omnissiah's creation. Of particular importance to him, however, was the relief work on the ceiling. He let his eyes swivel up to it.
A massive Cog Mechanicum, its eyes looking down upon him and his works. A representation of the Omnissiah's omniscience and blessings. This one, however, was angry. He had asked for it to be made that way. The target of the skull's wrathful gaze, however, was not him. The Omnissiah passed eternal judgement upon the figure hanging from delicate golden chains anchored to the cog's teeth.
There she was, suspended in a contorted posture to represent her corruption. Her blank eyes stared straight up into the Cog, running with artificial tears that dripped constantly down her cheeks. Her nude form was perfectly and aesthetically biological to the untrained eye, hiding the wealth of augmentation beneath the skin. That body, like a Janus Simulacrum from the hands of a sublime Artisan, had served her purposes well, in more ways than one. Her purpose, first as an envoy of the Mechanicus, and then as an agent of the Dark Mechanicum. A heretek. He remembered still. How they had met on the battlefield, after so many years apart. How she had tried to justify her heresy. How she had pleaded for her life. How she had promised him everything: her knowledge, her contacts, even her very flesh, in exchange for survival. How he had laughed in her face for thinking she could titillate what he had long abandoned.
He remembered how his weapons had scorched the life from her. She had been his first prey: the first betrayer he had brought to justice. And here she was now, strung up in his quarters: a reminder to him, and all who served him, that duty was above everything. Everything. The Omnissiah demanded loyalty, and loyalty was absolute.
He was ready to leave. Nothing more to do here. The door to the hallway slid open with a rune of authentication. The Skitarii guards stationed outside snapped to attention, flanking him on either side of the hallway with their backs against the wall: an impromptu honour guard. The two short, stocky figures on either side of his door saluted him as well, thumping their fists against their powerful chestplates. The Hearthguard armour had always reminded Aldren unfavourably of eggs, but when he had mentioned this to Overlord Darnig, the Kin had laughed his head off and said that they did not go to war to look pretty. He could respect that sentiment. Besides, the exo-armour suits were beautiful in their own way, replete with icons, warpaint, and heraldry passed down from generation to noble generation. A living proof of their warlike history, akin to those few storied Secutor data-tracts that had adorned the archives of every single War-Temple across the Mechanicus for millennia.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
"Everything alright, Archmagos?" The Hearthguard's voice was deep and gravelly, like stones grinding deep underground. "You seem shaken."
"I was in meditation. Such proximity to the Omnissiah is not without its perils, Captain Hemi."
"Very good, sir. Do you require an escort?"
"Negative. Hold your position."
Their armour whined smoothly as they assumed a rest stance again. Despite their decidedly unassuming looks, each of them was more than a match for an Astartes Terminator in combat. He still remembered a joke the younger adepts used to tell each other in whispered cant during his younger days. What was the only difference between an Astartes and a Kin? One was a self-important airhead who overcompensated for his inadequacies with big guns and garish iconography, and the other hailed from a high-gravity world and grew four feet tall. The Magi put a stop to that one with surprising efficiency after a Techmarine on pilgrimage overheard it.
A few of the Skitarii fell in step behind him as he stalked down the hallway and into the open thoroughfare of the vessel. There was no asking them to stay behind: regulation demanded he travel with a minimum of five guards at all times. Appearances had to be maintained. They helped to clear a path through the bustling traffic anyway. Even in these parts of the ship, reserved for senior Techpriests and their affairs, there was a veritable snarl of traffic: hulking labour servitors carrying contraptions, students staring into data-slates as they deftly sidestepped their counterparts with practised ease, Skitarii and attendants shouting commands over vox-casters. And this was only at floor level: layers gantries and rails carried cargo containers at breakneck speed to myriad personal laboratories and foundries just like his own. There were even constantly sparking teleportariums moving high-priority traffic with the requisite speed and efficiency. Most of them tried to scatter and make way when they saw him, but the interaction of augmented calculations and non-augmented politeness only worsened the situation, as carefully orchestrated movements were disrupted by the clueless shuffling of fleshling feet. Why some Magi kept these servants and concubines like pets, he would never understand.
Fortunately, he did not have to go far. Logis Cythidon was waiting close by, near one of the large and ornate Cogs Mechanicum decorating the pathway. As soon as they acknowledged each other's presence, he turned and wordlessly authenticated with unseen mechanisms. With a movement of well-oiled joints and gears, the Cog split down the middle, disappearing into unseen alcoves on either side to reveal a dimly lit, carpeted hallway. He disappeared inside, compelling Aldren to follow. The Cog snapped close behind him, with minimal noise.
As soon as they were alone, the Logis spoke.
"Archmagos." A simple, neutral greeting.
"Logis Cythidon. If you wished to meet in the high-clearance zone to begin with, why request my presence in the lower decks? That seems obnoxious to one as… mathematically minded as you."
"Humorous Interjection: I feel you wish to use the term obsessive. Upscaling conversation seriousness now. Observation: You have attained the station of Dominus. I am aware politics do not interest or concern you anymore. But they do me. I must make it seen that I am associating with you."
"Why is that?"
"Theory: Some of the other Magi are conspiring and spreading slander in my name. They say I research heretical subjects in my labs here. If I make it known that I am with you, the rumours lose their potency. Everyone is aware you would never court such blasphemy."
An irritated burst of static escaped Aldren's vox-grille. "I do not appreciate being used for your political posturing, Cythidon."
“Apologies. Though I am 96 percent sure this is to our mutual benefit. Observation: The average skill level of your inner circle would suffer considerably if I faced an unfortunate accident.”
"That arrogance will be your downfall someday."
"Statements of fact, not ego." His stocky body was in motion again. Unlike most Logi, who preferred mathematically pleasing, abstract forms to showcase their sophisticated grasp over their field, Cythidon was bulky and crude: a walking ocean of cogitator capacity. Function over form. He spoke with results, not appearances. For him to engage in this kind of political manoeuvring was extremely uncharacteristic. He must have been in true danger.
They passed hallway after hallway laid out in dendritic and labyrinthine patterns, meant to confuse any unaugmented mind that somehow found its way here unguided. This area of the ship bore the mark of sophistication, with rich carpeting, wood panels sourced from the finest on-board arboriums, and art pieces from famous Imperial artists strewn about like common furniture. Those were in a constant state of flux; after all, a visiting Inquisitor might not exactly appreciate a sculpture whose creator was outed as a Chaos worshipper three days ago. That tended to happen with depressing regularity.
"What did you wish to speak about, Cythidon."
"Information: I have various topics. Let us confine ourselves to the most pressing for now. Begin: Artisan Ouden has forwarded the data from preliminary analysis of the specimens recovered from the hulk. They are being studied by our analysts, but if early hypotheses are to be believed…"
"I am aware. The devices bear signs of Mechanicus engineering. Sanctus Ferrum engineering, to be precise."
"Clarification: That is not all. We have uncovered further information. When our Lexmechanics used predictive algorithms to trace the divergence from established design paradigms, they made a… troubling discovery. The drift matches with a high fidelity with projected future development curves in our construction and design methodology." He stopped and turned his bulk to stare right into Aldren's optics. "De-abstraction: The technology appears to be of Sanctus Ferrum, if Sanctus Ferrum were to proceed a few millennia into the future."
Aldren could almost hear his own cogitators whirring as he tried to digest this information. "A visionary of this calibre has no reason to engage in these cheap tricks. Such a radical advancement in our technology could produce much greater fruit."
"We have many theories, none promising. Nevertheless, it is my recommendation that we withdraw the expedition."
"What?"
"Clarification: The data is sparse, and confused where it is present. It is not our way, or your way for that matter, to go into battle with grievously lacking information. The Omnissiah demands an inquisitive spirit in us all. Disregarding it will surely spell doom."
"That is why the Omnissiah's Wrath has its Laboratoriums and Machine shrines and workshops, Logis Cythidon! So people like you and Artisan Ouden and those you command can inform our foray into the unknown!"
"Supplication: We are trying to our utmost capacity, Archmagos. But if the expeditionary force should run into something we cannot accurately predict… the losses could severely damage Sanctus Ferrum's standing with the other institutions, as well as within the Mechanicus. Observation: You have a reputation, Archmagos. If it should fail, the consequences for you, as well as many who rely on you, could be catastrophic."
"Are you here just to save your own skin?"
"As well as yours." He switched seamlessly into the Noosphere, communicating with bleed richly decorated with mathematical abstraction. "Our ties with the Inquisition and the Adepta Sororitas are tenuous already. A massive loss, especially one that seems calculated, may set fire to that discontent."
"I care not for politics, Cythidon."
"But politics cares for you, Aldren!" The slight tinge of rage centres that had entered his bleed subsided. "You are acting uncharacteristically immature. I calculate 75% chances of a non-trivial collapse in your material and diplomatic resources in the case of an unfavourable outcome to this situation."
He released a binharic sigh from his augmitters as he authenticated with a door, walking onto an observation deck richly appointed with plush couches. Servitors augmented for their beauty stood frozen in revealing clothing, holding up trays meant to carry food and drink. He interfaced with the holo-projectors set into the walls, calling up a view of the hulk through the Ark's optics. It floated there with its air of menace, as passive as ever. No more attacks since that first one. He heard the soft scratches of metal against fabric as Logis Cythidon followed him in.
"And what do you calculate the odds of damage to my reputation to be, Cythidon, if I return empty-handed? When an Archmagos Dominus appears before the Fabricator-General and tells him he ran scared from a fight because his Logis told him that it would probably be inconvenient to his political status?"
"You are not so politically inexperienced as to state that as your reason. They will understand the logic of your decision if you frame it on the basis of insufficient data."
"They will certainly understand. But do you believe they will still not use that against me? Even you are not that inexperienced in politics."
"Acknowledgement: That is sound logic. Then let me recalibrate my request, Aldren. Let us halt the advance at the next resupply setup, just until we can shed more light on the situation. Time is no bar, after all. Our mission has an indefinite mandate."
"Acknowledged. I will give the orders."
"Benediction: I knew you would see reason."
"You know flattery doesn't work on me."
"Explanation: Hence why I prefaced it with an obvious conversation tag. The chance of you mistaking my intentions was deliberately kept at 0.0000001%."
"Not zero?"
"I have known you from your adept days, Aldren. Inference: I would not put random stupidity past you."
"You're next on my Cog, Cythidon."
"Looking forward to it."
"What was that other thing you wanted to talk about?"
"You. Observation, downcycling formality: You've been spending an unhealthy amount of time locked up in that little hovel of yours."
"I have been meditating upon a new project. As an Archmagos ought to do."
"Be that as it may, it is essential that your cogitation mechanisms be given rest. Decision fatigue buildup could be fatal to your logical processes."
"That's not a thing."
"I can say with 99.999% probability it is. To use a more flesh-like expression, it is time to cleanse your palate, Aldren. Living too long within rigid order blinds your eye to atypical patterns. Atrophies lateral reasoning, problem-solving. Pursuing the Omnissiah's will requires imaginative potential. Come, let us partake of some art."
He canted brief commands to the servitors, and they bowed obediently, bending down and operating control panels set into the couches. They flowed and shifted, settling into more ergonomic forms for their augmented bodies. Cythidon took up his place, facing the projection of the hulk. After some hesitation, Aldren followed, settling onto one of the other seats. A servitor offered him a nutrient cube on a silver platter. How quaint. He shooed it away with a binharic scolding.
"I never knew you, of all people, would have an appreciation for art, Logis. Is your field not devoted to mathematical certainty?"
"It is devoted to the parsing of data. A statistical majority of the time, this involves static paradigms. But not always. That is why we practice atypical parsing and abstracted mathematics, and learn to create patterns where none are immediately obvious. Besides, the pursuit of the arts is important to our religious duties."
"How so?"
"Postulation: Art is the expression of higher thinking in a society. Represents potential for abstract thought, non-empirical reasoning, and cohesive interpretive frameworks. Painting, sculpting, dance, music: expressions of creative thought. Desire for greater purpose, transformative experience, philosophical meaning to existence. A society that progresses into higher science invariably and axiomatically progresses into sophistication in art first. Inference: Artistic thought necessary prerequisite to complex scientific thinking."
"And that is why I have to watch this."
"Affirmative."
Some of the servitors had shed their clothing and were now twisting and writhing together in some form of intimate, sensual dance. It looked like something out of the deepest recesses of a pleasure world, not a sight to be viewed in an Ark Mechanicus, and especially not in an area reserved for the senior-most Magi and dignitaries.
"Out of curiosity, Logis Cythidon, have you gelded your carnal desires?"
"That is an irrelevant question."
"You did not answer it."
"I hope you will forgive the impoliteness."
"I see."
As thoroughly unaroused as he was, Aldren could not deny that there was a certain, absolutely non-sexual allure to the dance. The way their bodies moved belied incredibly precision, hyper-precise movements of every single muscle on active display. The strange rhythm captivated his analysis rites, the machine spirits straining to get a closer look as, in a long time, atypical data presented itself. His mind was already sharding into different partitions again, branching off the data to apply to a dozen nagging problems. Motion. Oscillation. Sound. Particle physics. New pathways came with unprecedented ease, and with such simplicity that he cursed himself for not seeing them sooner.
"I think I see your point now."
"Acknowledged. We will next match up the hulk's spires with the Golden Ratio."
"Please excuse me."
"Denied."
Aldren sighed, concentrating on the display before him.