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PERFECTION by Laurence
Sinclair It was cold
here, she knew that much. And dark,
too. It was still black, even when she
opened her eyes. Aside from the cold and the
dark, the only other thing she could be certain of in this unknown place was the pain. It flowed
through her veins, keeping her still. If she
didn't move, she could hardly feel it at all. But
staying still wasn't going to help her find out where she was. After a few minutes, she succeeded in her attempt
to sit up, although she was out of breath. And
hurting. Even the movement of her lungs to
pass air ripped through her. Hesperides could
see stars above her. A good sign. At least she wasn't locked up somewhere, a
prisoner of the Imperium she had fought long and hard for.
She may have been writhing in a pit of permanant agony as a punishment for
her sins against the Emperor, but at least she was outside.
She was free. Or at least she
would be, if she could bring herself to stand up. She
wasn't sure if she was ready for such a commitment. But
then, the decision wasn't up to her. Somebody
grabbed her roughly by the shoulder and hauled her to her feet. Gaping silently at the agony, she struggled to
stay awake. But it was too much, and her body
gave up, letting her limbs fall loose and her eyelids fall as unconciousness took her once
more. This was getting
to be a bit of a habit. *** When she came to
again, the pain was gone. She found herself
sitting in a chair of some sort, inside a tent. It
was much larger than her cell had been aboard the Vengeful
Mace, and was certainly better decorated. The
'walls' may still have been white, made of some form of plasticloth, but all around her
were benches, crammed with bizarre objects. Intricately
carved statuettes stood next to vases of ancient antiquity, patterned with black wax. Busts of humans and aliens lay beside curious
metallic devices of unknown purpose. And yet
more was hidden under dust sheets. She knew
that these things were the work of idolators and long dead heathens, but none the less was
caught by their beauty. Such care had clearly
been put into each example, almost the equal of the great temples of Terra. She reached out a hand to touch the nearest
artefact, a bizarre hexagonal plate featuring a bull headed man in relief. 'Ah, you awake
from your slumber at last! I had thought that
maybe I'd wasted my medical supplies!' The voice was
soft, and had the quavering quality of the aged. Hesperides
looked up, and saw that she had completely failed to notice the tent's other occupant. He too was seated, on a simple stool of black
wood, some ten feet from her, in front of the tent flaps, which were fastened shut. He was a short man, and possibly quite plump,
depending on how thick the layers of red robe that he was swathed in were. His face was smooth, devoid of hair of any sort,
although a scrub of grey was growing from his scalp.
Upon his stubby nose were seated a pair of spectacles whose arms, rather
than resting on the man's ears, were bolted into the side of his head. They were tinted yellow, only slightly deeper than
his lemon complexion. He sighed, long and
deep. 'Please don't
touch that. It is the only example of
Malaproprian dinner ware that is left in the Imperium.
I'm rather fond of it.' She halted her
hand, and hesitantly withdrew it, placing it in her lap with its opposite number. 'Now, who are
you, woman? I don't believe I've seen you
around here before, which is a pity.' A faint smile raised itself on his face at this last
comment. 'I am
Materfamilias Hesperides of the Adepta Sororitas Order of the Argent Shroud, and I would
rather you gazed upon me more respectfully.' she told him, staring at his glassed eyes. She was not going to endure this behaviour from a
mere antiques collector. She may not have had
much left, but her respect was valuable to her. It
was what raised her above the shameless populance. His smile
remained. It was joined by a short guffaw. 'Of course, and I am Commissar Yarrick! Please do tell another!' She was not used
to this. In her few dealings with outsiders
she had always been treated with courtesy, maybe even been held in awe. Just one look at her polished silver power armour
- She looked down
at herself. She was not wearing her power
armour. She was still wearing the simple
white robe that had been given to her by the Hospitallers, and it had seen better days. It was tarnished and stained, not only by dirt but
by the blood of the Eldar she had slain. Yet
it was also torn, not reaching past her elbows or knees. She
couldn't think how this could have happened. But
it did explain the man's reaction. The man waved a
hand dismissively. 'No matter. Call yourself what you will, I don't care. I'm sure whatever distemper of the mind you are
suffering from is quite harmless. As for
myself, I am Eschatologist Prolixite. And
this is my collection. You wouldn't believe
how long it took me to amass this, you know. See
this, this Ogygian tooth remover? Well, I
found it on-' Prolixite didn't
seem to be talking to her. He seemed
satisfied that there was someone in the room with him while he was talking, and was paying
her no attention. As she watched (trying not
to listen to his meaningless blather) him caper around, pointing at each of his treasures
one at a time, she couldn't help but feel pity for him.
Was there no one else here, wherever here was, driving him to this obvious
insanity? That would mean that she was
trapped with him, and she didn't exactly relish such a possibilty. But she didn't have to listen to this. She got to her
feet, and prepared to clear her throat. But
the tent flaps opened at that moment, and the Eschatologist paused in his demonstration of
an interesting Nephelococcygian hearing aid. 'Who is it?' he
demanded. The figure that
forced itself into the tent was definately not swathed in robes. Its bare torso was covered in a layer of skin that
was alternately deathly pale and sunburnt red. With
one outsized hand it held the flaps open, the other- The other wasn't
even a hand. From its left shoulder sprouted
a mechanical contrivance, all pistons and wires. Various
fluids of different colours pumped their way through this network, and sparks jumped from
loose connections at the 'elbow'. The limb
ended in an unpleasant industrial tool, the use of which was unknown to Hesperides,
although it did conjure numerous images in her head. The face was a
similar blending of steel and flesh. Its eyes
were blank and unseeing, with large metal plates hammered onto the skull, covered in
numbers and alchymical symbols. Its jaw was
broken in several places, allowing the large transmitter to fit in its mouth with no
difficulty. It was from this orifice that the
voice came. Hesperides had
heard an Astropath talk, communicating messages across the vast distances of space, but
the noise which left the mouth of this servitor was less organic, even less natural. Flat, emotionless.
Not alive. 'eschatologist
i will see our visitor now' It wasn't even
an order, it was a statement. But she had to
admit that it had an effect upon Prolixite. 'Yes, yes at
once! Get along now, I will bring her
presently!' The cyborg
stepped back into the darkness without. Hesperides
sat back down. So she and Prolixite weren't
alone. That was a relief. But that thing, that blasphemy, could mean only
one thing. The Adeptus
Mechanicus. Maybe being
alone with Prolixite would have been preferable. *** Forelir opened
his eyes. That had definately been one of
the less pleasant webway journeys he had ever had, but, under the circumstances, that was
understandable. A dying farseer would find it
hard to fix upon a destination, yet alone the intervening distance. The pain was near overwhelming, but he had learned
to deal with with pain, to control it. He had
not become the foremost Striking Scorpion Exarch of Ulthwe through giving in to pain. So he got up
with little more than a grunt. It was dark
here, but then that's why his helm had been fitted with night vision. It didn't improve matters much. While it was worrying to see that his
mandiblasters were exhausted and that he was otherwise weaponless, that did not matter. He was confident that he could handle himself. What was disquieting was his total ignorance of
exactly where he was. He was inside
somewhere, and his respirators told him that the air was stale, unused. The walls, ceiling and floor were all devoid of
marking or insignia of any kind. He was
standing at a crossroads of corridors, which all looked the same. And, worst of
all, there was no sign of his prey. The
mon-keigh who had killed Nimuenir was nowhere to be seen.
But then, he had always enjoyed the chase.
Picking a direction at random, he set off. *** Hesperides
followed Prolixite as he left the tent. He
didn't seem to be in any hurry to get where he was going, so she slowed her pace to keep
up with him. The cold sand beneath her bare
feet made this much easier. It was still
dark outside, the stars easily visible against the night sky. There was no moon.
About a dozen tents, all of the same material as the first, had been
erected, bland and unimposing. There was a
pen located roughly in the centre of the small enclave.
Strange sounds issued from it, low moans and the movement of many feet. It was too dark to see exactly what manner of
creature the servitors were keeping there, but the night could not cloak their stench. She turned to
look away, and spotted something that just managed to be silhouetted against the sky. Something darker than the darkness. A looming structure that dwarfed the already
small tents. She didn't have time to examine
it further, as Prolixite came to the end of his journey. 'After you, my
lady.' he mumbled, holding the tent flap open. This one was
slightly bigger than the others, but she still had to stoop to get through the opening. She was about to turn to hold it open for her
guide, but found that Prolixite had let it close, showing no intention of following her. She soon saw why. The interior was
well lit by a single lamp that hung from a hook at the centre of the tent's 'ceiling'. A crude wooden bench lay against one wall, upon
it a bundle of wires and metallic plates that linked to a polished screen, not unlike the
STC database she had once seen. This machine
seemed to be turned off, though. At the back
of the room was a simple bed, made less simple by another complex device that was
attatched to the head so that it provided a grotesque canopy. A number of crates and stools took up much of the
rest of the available space, some open, others in the process of being packed or unpacked,
sawdust scattered around them. A high backed
chair sat beside the bench, its occupant looking directly at her, his stare unblinking. The fact that he
was a tech priest was immediately apparant. His
red robes and white/black skull amulet confirmed it.
A heavy belt held many mysterious tools and implements as well as, she noted
with a little apprehension, a holstered plasma pistol.
His right hand only just emerged from the long sleeves, resting flat on the
bench. The other hung loose by his side, a
three taloned claw that flexed itself every few seconds with a sharp grating noise. From his back emerged the traditional servo arm,
which must have been somehow attatched to his spine given his lack of any back pack. Unlike the claw, this seemed quite inactive. Beneath the cowl was half a face. The right was completely made of metal, including
a bionic eye that was hooked up to an antennaed skull on the right shoulder. The smooth expressionless steel and polished bone
might have been unnerving, had not the flesh and blood face been even more disturbing. This tech priest
was thin to the point of malnutrition. Bloodless
lips curled back to reveal perfect teeth, and an eyelid raised to reveal an eye that was
just as white. No iris, no pupil. Tears continuously ran down the priest's cheek,
only to be caught and devoured by an ever alert tongue, thick and red. 'So, you are our
mysterious guest.' The voice was cultured,
speaking High Gothic clearly and precisely, with much less slurring than Prolixite had
been prone to. 'Before I begin to ask you
what you think you are doing in my camp, let me introduce myself. I am Tech Priest D'Arethon, adept of Mars and
explorator of the Adeptus Mechanicus.' He grasped the
arm of the chair with his hand to push himself to his feet, then raised both it and the
claw so as to caress the one with the other. 'So now that you
know who I am, would you mind explaining who you are?' The truth
wouldn't do any good here - if Prolixite's reaction was anything to go by, he probably
wouldn't even believe her, and it would probably be even worse if he did. Still, there was no need to lie unless it was
absolutely necessary... 'My name is
Hesperides, but I have no idea how I got here.' Well, she didn't, she told herself. What remained of
D'Arethon's face creased up in a grimace, and Hesperides knew immediately that she had
said something wrong. He raised the claw, its
great blades springing apart and then closing suddenly.
She flinched. 'My lord. You will call me 'my lord'.' he told her. She was
beginning to see some sort of a pattern here... Never
the less, she gritted her teeth. 'My lord.' He nodded and
lowered the claw. 'The sun will be up soon,
and there is still much work to be done. For
now you may sleep in one of the storage tents.' He turned from
her, apparantly deciding that the audience was over, and that she had permission to take
leave of his illustrious prescence. Who did
he think he was? Her anger abated
somewhat when she felt a heavy hand upon her shoulder.
'Be so good as
to escort my guest to supply tent beta.' There was no
option but to follow the servitor for now. There
had to be some way out of this, but she would think about it in the morning. Right now she would settle for another rest. D'Arethon waited
until the woman and the servitor had left the tent before calling the Eschatologist in. 'And what is it
that you desire of me, my lord, first blessed of the-' The
tech-priest's stare cut Prolixite off mid-flatter. 'It
would appear that the Machine God smiles upon us, Prolixite.' 'What
circumstance has arisen so as to give you that impression, my lord?' 'In this, my
hour of need, he has sent a sign, a means by which I may continue my work.' As he said this, D'Arethon stooped low over one of
the crates. 'Surely you do
not mean-' D'Arethon smiled
as his hand slid across the smooth metal within the box.
He ignored the rough sawdust, concentrating instead upon the intricate
carving and potential for power that his fingertips rubbed against. Then he blinked, and withdrew his hand, standing
up once more. Not now, but soon... 'But of course. If I am to succeed in my mission, and you to get
your relic...' 'But if you
would but remember what befell the others...' Prolixite swore
that he would take the grin of the tech-priest at that moment with him to the grave. He didn't care. 'I don't care.'
D'Arethon said. 'Success is all. Tomorrow will dawn a new era, and I will usher it
into being.' *** Forelir was
lost. These catacombs seemed to go on
forever, twisting and turning, splitting and rejoining.
Maybe the inscriptions and pictograms upon the walls meant something, held
some clue, but he was ignorant of it if they did. His
patience was beginning to wear thin. But wait! What was that tang in the air? The unmistakable aura of power that only machinery
could generate. And judging by the strength
of it, it must be one big piece of machinery. Quickening pace
slightly, he found that a chamber of sorts opened before him. Still dark, but he could make out some low
structure in the centre. The chamber was
square, and about five times as wide as the corridors.
Within the walls seemed to be alcoves, set at regular intervals. The occasional crackle of energy across their
surface betrayed the prescence of stasis fields. Forelir took a
step towards the structure. It was as high as
his waist, and as long as he was tall. It too
was adorned in hieroglyphs. This was the
source of the power. It was so obvious. He reached out a hand to touch it... *** The supply tent
was cramped, but at least it was warm. Warmer
than a night in the desert outside. The
servitor's unsleeping form standing outside banished any thoughts of escape from her mind. Not that she was in any condition to make a break
for it, anyway. Not in this robe. But this was a
supply tent, wasn't it? Somewhere, in this
multitude of crates and boxes and barrels must be some supplies of the apparellic kind. It was just a matter of finding the right one... *** The sun rose
over the sands, but D'Arethon paid it no heed. Instead
he merely stood silently, leaning upon his staff and staring up at the structure. It was at its most magnificent at dawn, he had
found. Light, but not too light, so as to
expose the cruelties of time on its weathered surface.
Behind him the
labourers, some servitors, others merely slaves, emerged from their tents, blinking in the
light. They moved automatically towards their
tools and positions, exchanging not a single word with each other. D'Arethon approved of that. Discipline was achieved through the proper
disposal of conversation, the doing away with any form of interaction between workers. It only distracted from purpose, delaying the
great work. And he didn't have time to spare. Even though they worked all the hours the long
desert days provided them with, still they wasted the hours of darkness. Even the servitors needed to recharge in this
accursed sandpit. But soon would be an end to
all that... They set to,
digging at the sand at the base of the structure, some with primitive shovels, others with
huge earth moving vehicles. The sand was
carried away by the mehari beasts, servitors leading them by the nose. They unearthed more and more every day, and even
D'Arethon was amazed by the scale of it. Truly
the ancients were mighty indeed to have constructed such an awesome symbol of their power. Such power... Prolixite
coughed. D'Arethon swung around. 'Sorry to
disturb you, my lord, but-' 'I trust you
have made the apparatus ready, eschatologist?' 'All is
prepared, we merely await-' 'Our visitor.'
Although there was no change of expression in the dead fleshed face, Prolixite turned to
follow its gaze. Hesperides had
stepped out from within the supply tent, only now there was something different about her. The eschatologist saw that it was a good change. No longer was she clad in the shapeless off white
smock, now she wore something.... more appropriate. Heavy
brown boots, quite adept at traversing the treacherous dunes. His eyes moved upwards, soaking up every detail. Her legs were covered by thick, sandy coloured
trousers, too big for her but fastened securely by a heavy belt. As his gaze rose ever higher, he saw what had
become of the dress. The garment now tucked
in to the belt bore it an uncanny resemblance in colour, if not shape. She had clearly torn the sleeves from it, as well
as any material below her midriff, baring not a little flesh (quite inappropriate for the
blistering heat, but he wasn't about to tell her to cover up). Her dark hair was still a mess, at some time it
may have been neatly trimmed, but had recently grown out of it, alternately sticking up
and laying flat. The final point to consider
was her fine boned face, its pale skin doubtless set to darken under this sun. The moment he had first seen it he - She was staring
straight at him, and advancing. Her walk was
not the confident stride of the previous night, but a faltering step, as if she were
embarassed in some way. If he was any any
judge, she should be feeling nothing but pride. 'I thought I
told you not to look at me in that fashion?' she snapped. He blinked, and
then turned back to the tech priest. D'Arethon
had managed a half smile, and Prolixite stepped back to let him speak. 'I trust you had
a pleasant night?' If it was
sarcasm she was in no mood to retort to it. 'I've
had better.' 'Yes, this place
does somewhat lack in-' Once more
Prolixite was cut off by a single glance from the tech-priest. So it's not just me, she thought, they're all
scared of him. She followed his gaze, and
noticed the worksite for the first time. A
huge number of workers and servitors were digging away at the base of a vast pyramid. In the dawn light she couldn't make out much of
it, but there was some form of cross emblazoned upon it.
A curved, alien cross. Doubtless
there were other details, but then they were doubtless heretical, and besides which her
attention span was being shortened somewhat by her hunger.
When had she last eaten? 'If you would
follow me, we will break our fast in the emperor's name.'
D'Arethon had clearly said it out of habit, she could tell he didn't mean
it. There was no respect. Sometimes
she wondered why the Ecclesiarchy let the Mechanicus exist when they persisted in their
belief in a false god. But food was food. She followed him
into his tent. Prolixite entered behind her. A fold up table had been set up, and a white sheet
spread upon it. Now there were three chairs,
and D'Arethon indicated one with a wave of his claw.
'Sit.' She sat. Her hosts took the other seats, and a scrawny
servitor with a large cutting blade in place of its right hand approached from somewhere,
holding a silver platter in its free hand. 'I will
apologise now for the poor fare we must put up with here.
We have been here in this desert for over a month, and the supply ship is
not due for another week, assuming of course that the Warp is accommodating, Machine God
willing.' The platter was
set upon the table, but the cover was not removed. A
metal mug was set beside each of them, from what Hesperides could see they contained an
orange liquid. It bubbled slightly, and had a
smell that she did not recognise. Was this
some sort of special Mechanicus drink? Noting her
hesitation, D'Arethon raised his own cup. 'A
simple fruit drink, nothing more.' he smiled. There
was no way of reading his expression (without peeling off the flesh to read whatever was
printed on his metal skull). Prolixite was
another matter. He seemed to be watching her
glass intently, which was strange because so far he had done nothing but examine her body,
lecherous wretch that he was. It might just
have been her paranoia playing up again, but there was definately something that he was
expecting of her. 'Actually, I'm
not thirsty.' She pushed the mug away from
her just in case they didn't understand. 'What, not even
in this blistering heat?' D'Arethon smiled again. 'It
is for your own good. The desert can be a
pretty dry place sometimes.' 'Why yes,
sometimes it doesn't rain for years.' Prolixite volunteered. His smile
evaporated as the priest rounded on the eschatologist.
There was no denying it now. They
wanted her to drink the drink, and not because they were worried about her dehydrating. She had to get out of here. Where she would go was another matter, but she
could think about it later. She put her hands
on the table to push herself to her feet. Cold steel
against her throat. She relaxed her hands. D'Arethon got to
his feet and scooped up the tray. Hesperides
felt a hand upon her shoulder (again), and realised that the knife armed servitor must be
behind her. There was definately something
wrong here. 'Well, if you
insist, Ms Espridez, we will do this without anaesthetic.' said the tech-priest as he
raised the platter. There was some
sort of machine on the tray. It bore
resemblance to a spider, a blasphemous reproduction of the Emperor's work. Upon its abdomen was the same symbol as that on
the pyramid. D'Arethon carefully picked it
up, holding it in the palm of his hand. It
was big enough to let its legs dangle over the edges. 'It was lucky
you turned up when you did.' he continued. 'After
the Dialogus Sister wore out, I feared that I would never see another female again.' 'Wore out?'
Hesperides realised that her voice was somewhat panicky.
Although she was fully justified, she swallowed and tried to steady it
before continuing. 'You have had the audacity
to defile a Sororitas, and want to do so a-' D'Arethon's face
was as near surprise as could be possible given his restricted facial muscle. 'Of course not!
How dare you imply such a thing. I am a
priest you know! I-' As if realising the redenning of his cheek (which
almost made it the colour of healthy flesh), he quickly turned the conversation back to
its original subject. 'This is a scientific experiment. I
know not whether or not you have heard of the Necrontyr,' (The what?) 'but their total
symbiosis with their machinary is an inspiration to us all.
By fully melding their minds with the blessed Machine they have shown me the way.
They are perfection itself. Imagine
it, a world without the petty and unnecessary biological needs. Perfection. Forget the STCs, the Throne itself, mere childish
constructions. The secrets contained inside
that pyramid will allow me to bring such a blessing to all of mankind!' He was ranting
now, his streaming tears mixing with the spittle dripping from his mouth. Hesperides had thought Confessor Bernando's battle
frenzy was the ultimate example of religious fervour, but this psycho had him beat. He may not have had belief in any god, but he
truly believed what he was saying. As she had
once believed. 'But until those
inefficient drones outside have uncovered any sort of entrance I will be forced to
experiment. I haven't enjoyed much success as
yet, but I'm getting better.' 'What is it that
you're going to do?' she asked, speaking as quietly as possible. That blade was uncomfortably close. 'This' he raised
his hand, 'is the only Necrontyr artefact in the Imperium that the thieving Inquisition
haven't got their hands on. I recovered it
years ago, have have been testing it ever since. It
didn't take me long to discover that no male body can handle it, but I don't know why. The procedure I'm going to perform is really very
simple, I'll just need to cut into your chest...' Hesperides
looked at the Nekrontire thing. there was no
way that it would fit inside her chest. Maybe
this priest didn't just have devotion, he had true madness... His blank eye was staring at her. There was no sanity there. He had no idea what he was doing. He was doing it for pleasure's sake, enjoying the
pain he caused. By the looks of things it
would be very painful. If only she hadn't
forsaken the Emperor's protection. Ah! 'It's not too
late to have some anaesthetic now, is it?' she asked timidly. 'Not at all.'
The smile showed teeth this time. The servitor
drew its arm back, allowing her to reach forward, picking the cup up again. She raised it to her lips. And then swung it around into the servitor's face. She had expected
only a little surprise on the cyborg's part, just enough to get past it maybe, but it
seemed to be totally preoccupied. The liquid
was eating away at its face. It wasn't
anaesthetic, but one really strong acid. The
priest was mad. As the servitor
reeled back, sparks flying as the acid ate away into vital wires, Hesperides got to her
feet. Prolixite was nowhere to be seen, but
D'Arethon was still there. Dropping the tray
to the ground, he dashed the table aside with a sweep of his claw, scattering acid into
the desert sands. She wasn't going to wait
any longer, and ripped the tent flaps open. After the gloom
of the tent, the early morning sun was like a slap in the face. She squinted to shut out the brightness and ran
forward blindly, not caring where she went. Already
the sun was burning at her exposed arms, but that was far preferable to having acid eating
away at her from the inside. Her foot hit
something, sending her tumbling into the sand. She
turned quickly, seeing D'Arethon literally tear his way out of the tent, throwing the
broken body of the sevitor aside. Flexing
his claw, he raised his hand above his head, still holding the spider. No longer was there any fluid dripping from either
his eye or mouth, but his bionic eye was starting to glow red. She hazarded a guess that she may have made him
angry. Then she saw
Prolixite at his shoulder. He coughed
politely and D'Arethon swung on him, punching him to the floor with the flat of his
talons. She took the opportunity to get to
her feet, and then she saw the pyramid, only a few dozen yards away. The work had stopped, the ediface no longer
buried. It was totally uncovered. As she watched the servitors and slaves drop their
tools to the ground, she heard the escatologist speak. 'Muh, my
esteemed lord,' he wheezed, 'I am happy to report that the dig is finally ended!' This was enough
to distract D'Arethon's attention. She would
have a chance to run, search for some sort of spacecraft, some way out of here, off this
world. Then the sound of an engine starting,
and she looked back at the tech-priest. He
was definately distracted now. The spider
had come alive in his hand. *** Forelir jumped back.
The stasis fields flickered and died before his eyes, and their occupants
emerged. Then he was alerted by another
danger, as he heard the entrance closing behind him.
He was around and running for it in seconds.
A stone block was descending from the ceiling, closing off the passageway. It was slow though, inefficient. Forelir was fast, and wasted nothing, energy or
opportunity. He dived through the opening,
rolling to his feet just in time to hear the trap slam shut behind him. He paused to
collect his thoughts. The creatures that had
emerged from the tombs, they seemed somehow familiar.
He had only had a second's glance at them, but it had been enough. Their slow, shuffling movements, their
disproportiontely heavy bodies... He had to get
out of here, before they managed to break through. He
could already hear a dull pounding. He
sprinted back the way he came, pausing at the t-junction to look at the hieroglyphs with a
new eye. He should have realised immediately,
when he first saw them! If only his mind
hadn't been clouded by revenge. He could see
it now, of course. That was the body, those
lines the legs, some mandibles- The wall moved. Something hit
him in the face, and then he was aware of several needle sharp metal points digging
themselves into each side of his helmet. He
raised his hands to remove it, or at least try and dislodge his attacker, but then two
more spikes buried themselves in his eyeballs, and his soul slid from his carcass. *** The workers,
returning from the dig, were greeted by the sight of D'Arethon flinging the scarab to the
ground as if it had burned him. When they saw
the red weal upon his palm, they realised that it probably had. 'Don't just
stand there!' Prolixite screamed, pointing as the machine as it scuttled away, 'Stop it!' Several of the
workers had about their person (or at least close to hand), a number of shot and stub guns
(paranoia was another of D'Arethon's many virtues). They
blazed away at the thing, and were eventually rewarded when one of its legs detatched and
the thing sank slowly to the sand. 'Who fired?' The slaves
instinctively moved away from the guilty one, as D'Arethon drew his plasma pistol. But his hand still hurt, and he dropped it. Waving his arm to cool it down, he gestured with
his claw. 'Fine. Bring the scarab to me and then you will recieve
your punishment.' The claw snapped shut to
emphasise the point. Hesperides saw
the man hesitantly step forward, wrapping his hand in a shred of his tattered shirt. She carefully got to her feet, thanking the
Emperor for the timely distraction. But
somehow she couldn't turn away, she had to watch, to see what would happen next. Prolixite stooped to retrieve the plasma pistol,
while the digger stooped to gingerly touch the scarab.
There was a
single, electronic beep. Then it exploded. The man was
engulfed by the flame, and she hoped for his sake that he had died instantly. Everyone else was thrown to the ground, and a few
tents were levelled. But there had been no
sound. She had always thought that explosions
caused lots of noise. This one had been
totally silent. Coughing sand
from her mouth, she swept her hair out of her eyes. Most
of the others, D'Arethon and Prolixite among them, were getting to their feet, but some
would never get up again, their limbs, metallic or flesh, shredded. And then came the sound. It was quiet at first, but gradually grew in
volume. A rumbling sound. The survivors turned as one to see what was
causing it. The pyramid was opening up. It stood at
least a mile high, and the gateway opening at its base was at least a third of this. Stone blocks slid to the side, or up or down, as
the portal widened. Empty blackness lay
within. As the ancient mechanisms quietly
subsided, another sound replaced them. The
tramp of many feet, all marching as one. It
brought a tear to Hesperides' eye. The sound
of discipline. But when the
army marched forth from the pyramid, any more tears she may have had quickly dried. Rank after rank of androids, in perfect
synchronisation with each other, strode into the sunlight.
They were humanoid, more or less, but with grotesquely bulky torsos, upon
which was emblazoned the same cross as was upon the pyramid and the scarab. The cross, being blue, was the only colour to them
at all, as their bodies were just bare metal, pistons and wires exposed, like servitors
without the skin, without even a single layer of paint.
But then their eyes lit up, a daemonic red glow cast forth like some
infernal searchlight, staring out of their grim skulls.
They all carried
weapons, attatched to them by more mechanical trickery.
It was no more than a lasgun sized tube terminating in a large spike, but
Hesperides was more than a little disconcerted by the glint of green gauss energy at its
tip. She had good
reason to be. The robots halted, and then
raised their guns. As they fired, men died. Their flesh was ripped from them, they were
stripped to skeletons, and then even that disappeared.
That seemed to break the spell that held the diggers in thrall. Some began to run in panic, others to grab their
guns once again. At this the warrior robots
broke formation, chasing down individual targets to flay with their weapons. All was chaos as
human fought machine, and generally lost. Those
that fled were mercilessly destroyed by the necrons, standing stock still to rapid fire
their lethal guns into them. Those that stood
their ground found themselves outclassed, kicked to the ground by the butts of guns, or
torn assunder by metal talons. Those that
could get a shot off were rewarded by buying themsleves a few seconds more life. Mercifully the
screams of the dying lasted only a split second, just long enough for their entire being
to be dissolved, but the sheer quantity of them composed a hellish symphony of
intermingled death cries, varying in pitch and tone.
Hesperides tried to keep it out, to drown it in verses of the Fede
Imperialis, but still it got to her. So many
souls, snatched away by these steel daemons... But
then she remembered her training, and cleared her mind.
She needed a weapon. She saw
one lying on the floor, a few feet away. A
shotgun. She had seen militiamen use them,
and if such untrained vagabonds could do so, surely it would be no problem to a highly
trained Sister of the Adepta Sororitas? Grabbing it may
well have saved her life. In the corner of
her eye she picked up movement, and rolled to her back to see a beam of green light stab
through the air where she had been standing only a few seconds ago. As the necron slowly traversed to bring its weapon
to bear on her new position, she fired. She
aimed at its knee, thin and probably vulnerable. She didn't know
whether or not she had hit at first. The
recoil of the gun took her by surprise. She
just wasn't used to firing them without the aid of power armour, and had taken the
strength it bestowed her for granted. She was
also surprised when the necron warrior fell upon her leg, but at least she knew that she
had hit it. It was missing a leg. Its weight was
incredible, and she bit back her pain. She
brought the shotgun down to point at its head and pressed the trigger again. One of its eyes lost its glow, but still it came
on. It tried to grab a purchase in the
treacherous sand with its free ahnd, while simultaneously trying to raise its weapon with
the other. She was out of shells, so she
kicked it. It hurt. It was like kicking the side of a rhino. As the daemon finally managed to hold itself
steady, she closed her eyes and begged the Emperor for forgiveness. Forgiveness for her sins, and also forgiveness for
dying in such a humiliating way, unbecoming of one of His servants. Then there was a
hiss, the weapon discharging. She felt an
increase in the temperature, but no pain. Why
had they screamed so much? Then she opened her eyes.
The necron was scattered in several pieces, Prolixite standing above her
with a smoking plasma pistol in his hand. He helped her to
her feet, kicking bits of metal out of the way. Then
they hid behind one of the remaining tents. 'I humbly
suggest that we hasten to get ourselves as far away from here as possible.' he said, in
his matter of fact voice. Hesperides
nodded, too exhausted to speak. The necrons
seemed to be busy eradicating all trace of the excavators to be bothered about them, and
she saw by the amount of debris scattered around that those that had been had been dealt
with by Prolixite. She looked
back. The humans were huddled in a small
group around the tech priest, blasting away for all they were worth at the wall of metal
surrounding them. For a moment she felt shame
at abandoning them, but then it was gone. They
were only servitors. She turned back
to the eschatologist. 'Have you got any means
of getting us off this planet?' she asked him. He raised his
eyes to look into hers. 'The revered
tech-priest did keep a small personal transport a short distance from here, but none of
the servitors or slaves were privy to this fact. It
is not equipped for warp travel, but I believe there is enough food aboard to keep us
going until the supply ship arrives.' 'Then what are
we waiting for?' Prolixite caught
her by the arm as she began to walk off. 'A
short distance, I mean to say, if we travel by mehari.'
He pointed toward a large beast that was currently enjoying itself nibbling
on a necron elbow. It was
powerfully built, with large splayed feet for desert travel, and thick folds of leathery
skin. If it had eyes, they were sunk
somewhere into its head. She tried not to
think about the smell, but couldn't help it. 'We will surely
die if we attempt it on foot.' She sighed. The creature did have a form of saddle, just big
enough for the two of them. On her third
attempt she managed to mount it, being hindered somewhat by having to hold her nose to
keep out the stench. Prolixite made to get up
behind her, but she gently kicked him in the side of the head. 'You're sitting
in front. I don't trust you behind me.' She heard him
mutter beneath his breath, but he complied. Handing
her the pistol, he told her to hold on tight. Then
he smacked the mehari with a large stick that he had got from somewhere. Hesperides later realised that it had been
D'Arethon's staff, only now it had snapped in half. *** The beast ran. Wind dragged itself through her hair, and
threatened to pluck her from her seat. She
remembered just enough to grip Prolixite's waist with one hand, desperately searching for
somewhere to place the plasma pistol. She
also thought about how fast the creature was moving.
She wouldn't have thought such a large and obviously heavy creature would be
able to keep this speed up. She had once,
while only a novice, opened a hatch on a moving rhino and stuck her head outside. The mehari may not be moving quite as fast as
that, but it was definitely close. 'How much
further is it?' she bellowed, the wind all that she could hear. 'Not far
now!" came the reply. She remembered
Sister Leda saying just that whenever they were in the rhino. Where was she now, she wondered? Suddenly the
beast lurched to one side and she almost lost her hold.
'What the frag was that?' Prolixite wailed. She turned her
head and saw it all too clearly. In the sky
was some sort of skimmer machine. Eldar? No, this one was different to the jetcycles and
grav-tanks she had seen before. It was small,
supported by three anti-gravitic motors, seating a single necron, that seemed to be
actually a part of both the skimmer and the large flayer cannon seated next to it. The cannon was smoking, and Hesperides guessed
that it was the discharge of this weapon that had disturbed the mehari. And the skimmer was gaining on them. She swung in her
seat and raised the plasma pistol. Her shot
went wide, her trying to hit a rapidly moving target not helped by the fact that she was
seated on one herself. While the necron
seemed to be faring no better, it was only a matter of time before it got lucky. Still holding onto Prolixite, she raised her leg
and rolled from the saddle, dragging the eschatologist with her. The sand was soft enough to break her fall, but
hard and hot enough to remind her of the toll the sun was taking on her arms. She let go of the man and looked up. The mehari was still running, and then the skimmer
flew past their position. Its pilot noticed
that they had abandoned their steed, and was already turning for a pass at where they now
lay. She knew it couldn't fail to hit them
this time. Holding the
pistol in both hands, she fired. One of the
skimmer's motors exploded, and it spiralled over the horizon. She looked again at the weapon in her hands. For a machine it was a thing of beauty, elegantly
crafted and hardly chipped at all. And barely
warm. Which was strange, considering that she
had expected it to overheat on maximum power, but it hadn't. Then she noticed the words 'manufactured on Mars'
carved into one side. That explained a lot. Prolixite was
stirring. He still had the stick in his
hand. 'Wha-' he began. 'Never mind that
now, it'll be something to talk about while we're waiting for the supply ship. Just tell me, can you get that... animal back?' He looked at the
stick. 'Of course I can. Lacking the constant application of pain-' he
swished the stick through the air a few times '-they soon come to a halt. At heart mehari are lazy creatures, and it'll come
wandering back to us soon enough.' The mehari was
still running. 'Not long now.' *** As the last of
the slaves dissipated into the ether, D'Arethon looked around desperately for another
human shield. With none forthcoming, he
raised his arms in gesture of surrender. When
the necrontyr lowered their gauss rifles he sensed that they understood. Of course they did, he corrected himself - they
were the highest form of life, after all. They
obviously recognised him as an equal, and wanted to impart their knowledge to him, as the
ambassador between the ancients and the Imperium. This
was even better than finding their technology in the pyramid; to learn from the masters of
that technology themselves! The others had
been inadequate for their needs, but he would be the perfect vessel for them. Then the ranks
of the necrontyr parted, and an obviously important ancient stepped forward. it was like the others in several ways, but it
wore a cloak of shimmering metal plates, and its head, with its obvious beard and hat,
resembled the carvings on the sarchophagus he had seen on Mars. Clearly this was a lord amongst the necrontyr. It handed its staff - topped with the same ankh as
on the pyramid and each individual necron - to another, and seemed to be studying him. He cleared his throat and then wondered how he
should address it. He almost regretted having
disposed of the Sister Dialogus. But it was
of no consequence. If he spoke loudly and
clearly enough - The Necron Lord
reached out a hand, and touched the right hand side of his face, metal against metal. 'Yes, I am like
you!' he blurted. The Necron Lord
reached out its other ahnd to touch his claw. 'Yes, we are
kindred spirits! Together we can bring order
to the chaos that is the Imperium!' Then the Necron
Lord tightened its grip. 'Wait, what are
you doing?' Pressure was
being exerted upon him now. The Necron Lord
was pulling at him. He desperately
fumbled for his pistol with his hand. It
wasn't there. Panic. His claw was held immobile by the steel strength
of the Necron Lord. This wasn't supposed to
be happening! 'No! I have freed you!
You cannot do this to me!' Finally,
whatever it was that held the metal to D'Arethon's bones gave way. The Necron Lord tore off his arm and half his
head, pouring gore from the rents left in the tech-priest's body. D'Arethon felt his life flow away, even as his
brain tumbled from his skull. He was not
worthy. He had been foolish to think that he
could compare to their perfection... The Necron Lord
handed the inorganic remains of the priest to a Necron Warrior and took its staff back. The host of the necrontyr formed up behind it,
and they began to march slowly back towards the pyramid.
Then the Necron
Lord tilted its head. In the sky, something
was moving, and it was not a Destroyer. Something
was trying to escape. This could not be
allowed. It stopped moving and behind it its
subordinates stopped also. The pyramid
began to crack. At its peak fissures came
into being. Another opening formed as the
four sides of the pyramid split. From within, swarms of scarabs took to the air,
irridescent wings fluttering fiercely. As one
they streamed into the sky, towards whatever it was that thought it could escape the
necrontyr. The Necron Lord
and its entourage resumed their journey. *** Hesperides
slumped in the co-pilot's seat. She had been
relieved to finally end their mehari journey when they found D'Arethon's transport, to
finally leave the smelly beast to die in the desert, but this was almost worse. She had had no
knowledge of how a spacecraft was flown. That
was the job of the Navy, and she was pleased to leave them to it. Now she was experiencing it first hand, watching
Prolixite at the controls. This control
chamber wasdark and cramped, and filled with dials and flashing screens, buttons and
panels that Prolixite insisted were essential to the correct running of the ship. He had explained that D'Arethon had personally
taught him how to fly, so that he might get on with his work during journeytime, but she
wasn't really listening. She had never been
claustrophobic, but this room was starting to make her feel sympathetic towards those who
were. Yet Prolixite had insisted that she be
seated next to him, just in case 'something happened'.
Something was
happening now. On the screen before her,
which was old and prone to flickering, she could see hundreds of scarabs heading towards
them. She told Prolixite. 'Yes, I can see
them. But there's not much we can do about
them. This craft has no weaponry to speak of, so we will just have to pray to the Emperor
that those things aren't capable of travelling into orbit.' The Emperor had
no reason to listen to her, but she prayed anyway. She
couldn't help herself. 'They are
detonating themsleves against the hull!' Prolixite gasped. 'They're not doing much damage,
and we'll be in space in a few seconds, but if they can follow us we're doomed...' Hesperides
smiled. At least this death would be quick. And at least she wasn't the only person panicking
aboard this heap of scrap metal. Then Prolixite
breathed a sigh of relief. 'Clearly they are
not capable of leaving the atmosphere. We are
safe.' Talk about stating the obvious. And she would be stuck with him for a week...
'It's a good thing we are staying in orbit, because otherwise I'd say we weren't in any
condition to leave orbit!' At his smile she
took this to be what passed for a joke, and so smiled back to humour him, although there
was no humour in her expression. She got out
of the chair. 'Well, if you
don't need me any more, I'll be in my room, getting some sleep.' Prolixite grinned. 'And I'll be sure to lock the
door.' The
eschatologist looked hurt at the implication, but she ignored him and left. She only needed him until they actually contacted
the Imperium again, then she could see about returning to Terra, or maybe going to Ophelia
VII istead, if the Prioress was still so intent upon seeing her. No, she would have to go back to Earth. It was her duty, her responsibility. And if she didn't, the Inquisition would hunt her
down soon enough. Her room aboard
this ship was small, but it did have a bed, with actaul sheets, and it wasn't white. That was all she needed, really. Placing the plasma pistol under her pillow, she
took hold of the rosarius that she still wore around her neck. Tonight she would pray for their survival, and a
quick rescue. Was a sudden speeding of the
supply ship too much to hope for? She took a few
deep breathes, and cleared her mind. Our
father... Something
grabbed her leg. She fell heavily to the
ground, and saw something under her bed. A
single red eye shone out in the darkness. When
her leg was released, she scuttled back out of the way.
The thing dragged itself out. It
was no dream daemon, but the pilot of the Necron skimmer.
Being fused to both its vehicle and weapon, it had no legs or right arm, and
the right hand side of its head was missing. It
must have survived the crash and somehow reached the ship before them. It was slow,
sparks fizzing along its surface as it dragged itself by its sole limb. It was between her and the pistol, but the door
was behind her. She opened it and stepped
back out of the room. With agonising slowness
the necron moved towards her. She leaned back
against the door opposite her room, and waited. Seeing
the thing writhing before her, she felt revulsion stir once more inside her. This thing was a cheap imitation of the Emperor's
form, an exaggerated parody. Even now, when
it should be humbled before the children of the Emperor and accepting an end to its
existance, it still insisted on struggling on, trying to keep a grip on whatever passd for
life within its metal skull, trying to bring the righteous down to its own level. It deserved destruction. She slammed her hand onto the door close
mechanism, and let the powerful pistons do their work, crushing the infernal device even
as it reached the doorway, close enough to reach out an arm towards her leg.
She looked down at the scattered wreakage. Suddenly she didn't feel that sleepy anymore, but when she finally did, she had a feeling that there would be something to replace the daemon in her nightmares tonight... |
