His vehicle dipped into a gentle slope that gradually widened out into a shallow crater. The ground under the tracks was soft, irradiated sand, carried there by the freak atmospherics that blew from the monstrous refineries of black iron in the south.
The pings of the auspex grew more urgent, and he saw that he was practically right on top of his find, though he couldn’t make out much beyond the dirty glass. Unhooking the auspex from the roof, Quinux hefted a simple bolt-action lascarbine from the back of his cab and checked the load.
There wasn’t much left in it, but enough to deal with any feral servitors that might be lurking out in the wasteland. Looking at his useless augmetics, Quinux felt a certain sympathy with the poor, wretched servitors, but not so much that he wouldn’t put a bolt through their skulls if they tried to get between him and his find.
Next he lifted his pack and slid his arms through the straps before wrapping his rebreather hood tightly around his head. Quinux then opened the cab to the elements, wincing at the force of the gale that plucked at his robes and threatened to slam the door back in his face.
Getting too old for this life, he thought as he climbed down the ladder and stepped onto the sand. He followed the strident chimes of the auspex towards a large dune field ahead of him, trying to make out what it was reading. He couldn’t see anything valuable, but as he drew closer, he saw that the nearest dune was a damn sight taller and more regular in shape than the others.
Consulting the auspex, Quinux was pretty sure that whatever he was picking up was beneath the dune. Perhaps a flyer had crashed or an ore tanker had been forced to ditch and then been covered by the sands before its crew could send out a distress signal.
Whichever it was, it marked the end of a lean patch for Quinux Fortran.
He slid the auspex into a zipped pocket in his robes and slung his rifle as he approached the dune, clambering up on all fours as the sand spilled away beneath him. Climbing the dune was hard work and he sweated profusely in the dry heat.
Quinux reached the top of the dune and began clearing away the sand with a collapsible shovel from his pack. With quick, economical strokes he dug down into the sand, widening and deepening the hole as he went.
Pausing only to take regular sips of brackish water from his hide canteen, Quinux gradually cleared the top of the dune. The wind attempted to thwart his labours, blowing fresh sand and ash back into the hole, but after an hour of digging, his shovel struck metal and he gave a grunt of pleasure.
‘Right, let’s see what you are then,’ he said, dropping the shovel and sweeping his gloved hands over the find.
It was metal sure enough, fresh and untainted by corrosion or rust. The surface patina was blackened, as though it had been scorched by intense heat, but as he scraped the edge of his shovel across it, he could see that the damage was only superficial.
He cleared more sand away, guessing that the main body of whatever lay beneath him was roughly spherical from the curve of the exposed metal. More shovelfuls were scooped from the ground, and Quinux frowned as he saw the outline of what looked like some kind of battle robot emerge.
Three blisters of metal faced him, like sensor domes, but devoid of life.
‘Now what in the name of the Omnissiah would you be doin’ out here?’
The auspex chimed. Loud. A strong signal.
Puzzled, Quinux dug the device from his robes and looked around him for the source.
He could hear the roar of engines above the howl of the wind, but couldn’t pinpoint its source. Quickly he swept up his rifle, ready to defend his find, but there was nothing to see.
A harsh beam of light stabbed from the sky above him and Quinux shielded his eyes as the roaring engine noise leapt in volume. The down-draught of a flyer’s powerful jets blew up a storm of smoke and dust.
He couldn’t see anything through the whipping ash, but kept his rifle pulled hard into his shoulder. The pitch of the engines changed from a howl to a whine as the craft descended, and moments later the stablight was replaced with the diffuse glow of landing lights.
As the dust settled, Quinux looked up and saw a group of people marching towards him from the belly of a heavy lifter, an aircraft capable of transporting enormous items of machinery in its hold.
The dust blurred the newcomers’ forms, but whoever they were they weren’t getting a piece of this mother-lode.
‘This here’s mine!’ he shouted, jerking the barrel of his rifle towards the dune. ‘I found it and you ain’t gonna take it off me. I got salvage rights.’
The figures stepped into view, and Quinux’s heart sank as he saw a host of brutal-looking, body-armoured Skitarii led by a robed adept of the Mechanicum. The adept was swathed in thick red robes and augmented with a multitude of glowing green cybernetics on snaking manipulators. He wore an iron mask with glowing red eyes and a huge mechanised device hunched at his shoulders.
‘Actually you don’t,’ said the adept, one of his green-lit manip arms aiming at the machine beneath the sand. ‘That machine belongs to me.’
‘And who the hell are you?’
‘I am Master-Adept Lukas Chrom.’
‘Never heard of you,’ said Quinux.
The light at the end of Chrom’s manip arm flashed and he said, ‘Come. I am here to take you back to Mondus Gamma.’
‘I aint’ goin’ nowhere with you,’ snapped Quinux.
‘I was not talking to you,’ said Chrom. ‘I was talking to the Kaban Machine.’
The sand beneath Quinux trembled, and he looked down in alarm as the sensor blisters he had uncovered lit up with a yellow glow. A tremble of power vibrated through the machine as its dormant power cells came back online and returned it to life.
It lurched forward, and Quinux lost his balance, sliding end over end down the shifting sand and losing his grip on his rifle. He fell to the ground and rolled onto his back as the awakened machine emerged from its concealment.
Nearly ten metres tall, its mass was roughly spherical with two heavily weaponised arms attached on opposite sides. Behind high pauldrons to protect its sensor apparatus, a number of metallic arms extended from its shoulders, like massively thick mechadendrites equipped with a variety of lethal looking weapons.
The machine sat immobile for a few moments before training its weapons on his bulk-hauler.
‘No!’ shouted Quinux, rising to his feet and scrambling towards the adept. His cry of protest was drowned out in a blaze of gunfire as sheeting hails of light blasted from the Kaban Machine’s weapons.
Quinux’s vehicle exploded in a smoky orange fireball, the over-pressure of the blast swatting him to the ground. He gasped acrid, toxin-laden air and realised that the explosion had torn the breathing apparatus from his face.
He scrambled for his rebreather hood, but couldn’t find it, feeling airborne poisons eating away the blood vessels of his lungs with every breath. He rolled onto his side, coughing up thick wads of phlegmy mucus as he felt a heavy rumbling through the ground.
The machine was moving and more of the sand fell away. Quinux saw its body was mounted on a heavy-gauge track unit that threshed sand before it gained traction and rumbled forward.
Quinux scrabbled pitifully at the ashen ground as it rolled towards him.
‘Please! No!’ he screamed, the words gurgling as blood poured from his mouth.
Its sensor blisters glittering with cold mechanical purpose, the Kaban Machine ignored his pleas and ground Quinux into the Martian soil beneath its bulk.
BENEATH THE TOWERING peak of Olympus Mons, the Fabricator General watched as a parade of augmented Praetorian battle servitors marched from the labyrinth of Moravec. They moved by a variety of means of locomotion – some on tracks, some on clicking mechanical legs, others on thick, rubberised wheels, while some retained the use of their human legs.
They filled the great engine hangars beneath the mountain, thousands of newly enhanced warriors ready to fight for Horus Lupercal. The power revealed within the Vaults
of Moravec was like nothing Kelbor-Hal had ever known, the joyous tumult of it filling his flood-stream with vigour and insight beyond that of beings composed merely of flesh.
Kelbor-Hal felt a surge of raw, unfettered aggressive power through his crackling energy fields as he watched the assembling army. This was a time of great moment, though only he and Regulus were here to witness it.
That would soon change when the dreadful war engines of the Mechanicum were unleashed, these weapons of the Dark Mechanicum.
The weaponised servitors were huge, muscular and sheathed in layered armour that was blackened like scorched flesh, their spines hunched over and threaded with barbed spikes. Those without mouths burbled scrapcode from integral augmitters, a glorious hymnal to the newest power on Mars. Others, with etched bronze frightmasks, spilled nonsense from bloodied lips that twisted and leered with brutal anticipation.
Beside Kelbor-Hal, Regulus watched the procession with glee, his electrical field warping and twisting with pleasure as each of the newly transformed servitor warriors emerged and took position within the great hangar.
‘These are magnificent, Fabricator General,’ said Regulus in admiration. ‘The power of the warp and the power of the Mechanicum alloyed together in glorious fusion.’
Kelbor-Hal accepted the compliment, knowing that Lukas Chrom had done the bulk of the work, but unwilling to admit the fact. He had simply combined Chrom’s advances in artificial sentience with the power contained within the Vaults of Moravec to produce something wondrous.
‘These servitors are just the beginning,’ said Kelbor-Hal. ‘We begin work on the Skitarii next. The scrapcode has worked its way through the entire floodstream network of Olympus Mons, and is already spreading beyond Tharsis.’
Virtually every port and connective point on Mars was linked somewhere, and the glorious code of the warp was scurrying along every conduit, wire, fibre-optic, wireless feed and haptic implant. Soon it would reach every forge and adept, and those touched by its transformative power would be born anew.
‘I can feel forges as far away as Sinus Sabaeus already scratching with elements of transformed code,’ confirmed Regulus. ‘Soon the aegis protocols of the other forges will be broken down to allow the scrapcode into their inner workings.’
‘Then they will be ours,’ hissed Kelbor-Hal.
‘There will be resistance,’ replied Regulus. ‘Not all the forges are as vulnerable to the scrapcode. The Magma City’s links have proved to be resistant, as are those of Ipluvien Maximal and Fabricator Locum Kane.’
Kelbor-Hal nodded. ‘That is only to be expected. Adept Zeth is pioneering a newly developed form of noospheric data transfer. Her forge and those of her allies have been modified to utilise it over more traditional forms of communication.’
‘Noospheric? I am not familiar with the term.’
‘No matter,’ said Kelbor-Hal. ‘It will be ours soon enough. I have dispatched Ambassador Melgator to the Magma City to sequester her data and determine her loyalties.’
‘I already know her loyalties, Fabricator General. She is an enemy of the Warmaster.’
Given what had happened after the opening of the Vaults of Moravec, it was hard to fault Regulus’ logic.
When the skies above Olympus Mons had raged and buckled at the bloody dawn of this new power, freakishly induced weather patterns carried the echoes of its shrill afterbirth from the Great Mountain to every corner of Mars.
Every corner but one.
As the seething Martian skies darkened, a searing surge of psychic energy above Koriel Zeth’s Magma City had pierced the heavens and almost drowned the birth-shout of the emergent power with its light and violence.
Kelbor-Hal did not fully understand what he had witnessed that day, but Regulus had watched the event, the spiking flares of his magnetic field betraying his naked fear and hostility.
‘What was that?’ he had asked. ‘An accident? A weapon?’
‘An enemy revealed,’ was all Regulus had said.
2.02
SHE WAS TRAPPED in the darkness. She tried to wake, but there was only the utter, unbreakable darkness in all directions. In truth, she could not even think in terms of directions, for this space appeared to be dimensionless. She had no sensation of up or down and no sense of the passage of time. Had she been here for long? She couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember much of anything.
Her memories were hazy. She had once roamed freely, she remembered that much, feeding, birthing and extinguishing stars without heed, but now…
Now there was only the eternal darkness of death.
No, not death, but was it sleep? Or was it imprisonment?
She didn’t know.
All she knew was that if this was not death, it might as well be for all the power left to her.
Were these memories or hallucinations?
She perceived of herself as female, but even that meant nothing. What did sex matter to a being of pure energy and matter?
Her mind roamed the darkness, but whether she ventured across the span of galaxies or travelled only millimetres, she couldn’t tell. Did she journey for mere moments or the lifespan of a universe?
Many of the dimensions she was thinking in were meaningless to her, yet she sensed that they were all equally ludicrous in this darkness. Nothing existed here, nothing but the darkness.
Nothing.
Except that wasn’t always true, was it?
Sometimes there was light, tiny sparks in the darkness that were gone as soon as they were noticed. Holes of light would sometimes appear in the darkness through which elements of her being could be drawn, atoms of existence planed from a life the size of a star, unnoticed but for the promise of a world beyond the darkness they brought.
She tried to focus on one such light, but no sooner had she registered its presence than it was gone, only the tantalising hope of its return sustaining her. This was no life, this was pure existence sustained at the verge of extinction by the forgotten mechanics of Old Science.
Dalia.
The sound came again, no more than a whisper, barely heard and perhaps only imagined.
Dalia.
The word gave meaning to form, and she began to build a sense of scale and place with the concepts given weight by the sounds. As more and more of her surroundings became concrete, she began to re-establish her sense of self.
Dalia.
That was her name.
She was a human being… not a creature of unimaginable scale that defied time and the material universe with its power. Indeed, she wasn’t sure if creature was a term large enough to encompass the immensity of its existence.
She did not exist in the darkness. She was not a prisoner hurled into the lightless depths of the world by an armoured gaoler and bound with golden chains.
She was Dalia Cythera.
And with that thought, she woke.
INFORMATION PASSED AROUND Mars in a multitude of ways, along trillions of kilometres of cabling, through fibre-optics, fizzing electrical field clouds, wireless networks and hololithic conduits. The exact workings of the ancient mechanics by which many of the forges communicated were unknown, and even the magi that made use of such things did not fully understand them.
Almost all the myriad means of information transfer were, however, vulnerable to the corrupting influence of the scrapcode boiling out from the depths of Olympus Mons in the dead of the Martian night.
It moved outwards like a hunting raptor, drawn by the scent and flow of information. Everything it touched it corrupted, twisting elegantly crafted code into something vile and debased. The wondrous flickering, chattering cant of pure machine language, the gurgle of liquid data and gleaming information-rich light became a hateful birth scream of something malformed and evil.
At the speed of thought, it spread across the planet’s surface, slipping like an assassin into the networks of the Martian forges and wreaking untold damage. The aegis barriers tried to hold it back, but it overwhelme
d them in moments with its ferocity and diabolical invention.
A few, a very few, forgemasters were quick enough to cut themselves off from the networks when they saw the danger, but so deeply enmeshed were they with the Martian information exchange systems that it was impossible to avoid exposure completely.
Replicating itself at a terrifying rate, the scrapcode found each forge’s weakest point and induced disastrous system failures at every turn.
At Sinus Sabaeus, the continent-sized assembly lines of Leman Russ battle tanks ground to a halt, and machines that had run without interruption for over a century seized up, never to operate again.
In the Tycho Brahe ammunition storage facility, a rogue set of commands raised the temperature in the promethium tanks until a catastrophic explosion ripped through the lower storage levels. Liquid flame bloomed up through the crater, igniting a devastating conflagration that engulfed the entire facility, detonating billions of tonnes of ordnance and obliterating the holdings of High Adept Iaigo.
The great Schiaparelli Repository on the Acidalia Planitia, a towering pyramid of unlocked data from the earliest days of mankind’s mastery of science and gathered wisdom from across the ages, was infected with scrapcode, and twenty thousand years’ worth of knowledge was rendered down into howling nonsense.
Warning klaxons and shift horns blared as the scrap-code issued commands and countermanded them an instant later, the forges of Mars screaming at the violation done to their wondrous mechanics. Machines screeched and shrieked as rogue current surged through their workings, blowing circuits and frying delicate mechanisms that would never be repaired.
Almost no corner of Mars was safe from the scrapcode, which gathered momentum and ambition as it encircled the globe in an ever-tightening web of malice.
The chemical refineries of Vastitas Borealis opened their pressure valves and flooded the workers’ hive-sinks of the northern polar basin with a mix of methyl iso-cyanate, phosgene and hydrogen chloride. The deadly cloud slowly oozed down into the sinks, killing every living soul as it went, and by morning’s light, over nine hundred thousand people were dead.