Chapter 106: The War for Cypra Mundi: Phase I part 3

POV: Nicole

It feels strange being out of the loop for once.

Both the Mechanicus and Imperial forces of Cypra Mundi are on the move, and while I have the clearances to access and learn what they will be doing next, no one has gone out of their way to inform Master Doll or I of the next stage. High Command has simply left us alone to make scanners.

“Two hundred portable units, fifty stationary units. Is that too many?” I ask Master Doll.

“I managed to make seventy portable units. The emitter assembly and central processing unit were an interesting challenge. Their production required more effort than expected due to the precise nature of the parts,” he buzzes with amusement, “I think we can pass half off as our reserve, and I am sure they will be quite happy with the numbers we deliver.” Master Doll’s back hisses softly as he detaches one of his mechadendrites, swapping it for a heavier-duty servo arm.

“When we don’t have to synthesize the rarer materials, fabrication is considerably easier,” I say with a nod as we pack the units into their secure crates.

“I heard congratulations are in order? You bought another ship,” Master Doll says, a minute hint of amusement in his vocalization makes it clear he is teasing me.

I let out an unhappy noise. “Don’t remind me of that monstrosity. Ugh… Yes, I own ‘The Slab’ now. That… thing is ridiculous. It’s like someone saw an Ork Rok and wanted to make the Imperial equivalent, but they didn’t start with an asteroid. If it was any slower, I would not have agreed, but Archmagos Croft gave me generous terms, and it is better than a mobile space station… barely.” I grumble as I pull up the ship’s specifications again.

Twelve kilometers long, three point nine kilometers abeam at the fins. It looked like someone took a Universe-class and widened it thrice over, giving it a rather distinct spade shape when viewed from above or below.

Its armour was barely warship-grade; it couldn’t be any higher due to the immense surface area. The engines were already oversized. It had three reactors, three! And it still would barely keep pace with a Goliath-class Factory-ship.

It still needed ten-thousand normal crew and two-hundred-thousand servitors. Specifically cloned voidsman servitors of the highest quality, of which I was getting enough for every ship under my command, and an excess amount to be frozen in storage. The Slab could carry well over half a million heavy troops with all their supplies and equipment – which did solve my transport issue.

My only solace was that Archmagos Croft was going to totally refit the ship with as many bells and whistles as she could stuff inside. The design was modular and compartmentalized, something the designer got right, so that would make the full refit manageable. With the spacedock piers, it was essentially a portable space station.

Unfortunately, no amount of refit could make its three macrocannon slots any better than the armament of a Light Cruiser. Shield and point-defense upgrades were absolutely going to happen, though none of them would be Archeotech grade.

“I should have just bought a mobile space station,” I mutter, shaking my head.

“That was what Archmagos Croft had in mind for her second offer, but it would be far more ponderous and less useful as an invasion ship. I am sure it will prove satisfactory after Archmagos Croft has her way with it,” Master Doll says, gently patting me on the head.

“She threw in a fuel transport too. I’m going to need it. I might need to look at possibly acquiring a second one,” I admit, cringing at the idea of adding more ships to my already ballooning fleet.

“I am looking forward to what she can parse from the data you sold her. Perhaps something useful will pop up before our eventual departure from Cypra Mundi,” Master Doll muses. “What will you do now?”

“I will probably head planetside again; I want to be present in person when my loaned Titans depart, and if the fighting dies down enough, perhaps I will take a trip to the Orbitalis graveyard?” I reply with a small shrug. “My last attempt at reading the Tarot was inconclusive, but I’ll do another before I head down.”

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POV: Lord High Admiral Spire

He glanced back and forth between the projections of Fabricator Locum, Rhydan Korr, and Explorator-General Luminous Bulbor.

“Fabricator Locum, the Seeker of First Principles, would be honored to serve as the hammer of judgment,” Bulbor said politely.

Spire glanced out the viewport where he could barely see in the distance the looming shape of the Explorator-General’s personal Ark Mechanicus as it slowly moved into its new position: nose down in high orbit, directly over Ferrus-9.

Spire had heard the plan, but they needed to hash out the particulars.

“The Imperial Navy stands ready to aid your endeavor; we have numerous assets that could be utilized for the follow-up lance strikes.” Spire pulled up a list of the available vessels.

Bulbor and Korr skimmed the list as they continued speaking. “Here is a firing plan to minimize collateral damage and aim for maximum penetration.” He offered the Fabricator Locum.

Korr shook his head. “Bulbor, you misunderstand. There will be no Ferrus-9. This is not a surgical bombardment; this is a saturation bombardment.” Korr highlighted five vessels from the listing.

Apocalypse-class Battleship: Dawn of Extinction

Overlord-class Battlecruiser: Unquestioned Authority

Overlord-class Battlecruiser: Steel Sovereign

Gothic-class Cruiser: Piercing Truth

Mk.II Vanguard-class Light Cruiser: Bedrock

“These five will work with the selected Mechanicus vessels; their lance armaments and gunnery scores make them ideal for this task,” Korr explained as he pulled up the vessels in question.

Retribution-class Battleship: Omnissian Reckoning

Mechanicus Cruiser: Binary Verdict

Mechanicus Cruiser: Crimson Calculus

Spire thought including the one Astartes vessel was a good choice. They had been major participants in the purges so far, and it was only right they take part. The Fabricator Locum was giving the Imperial Navy a lot of face by including so many of their forces. He was well aware of the considerable number of voidship assets they had in the system.

“Using the Reservoir as the ground-based focal point and the Seeker of First Principles as the center point of the formation, these eight vessels will pair up and form an octagon. Each vessel will maximize the number of lances and synchronize their firing with their pair on the opposite side of the octagon, battleship with battleship, battlecruiser with battlecruiser, cruiser with cruiser, and so on, maintaining a thirty-three-degree firing angle on the target. The formation will stagger its firing so that the lance strikes are continuous,” Korr explained with unsettling calm.

“Each ship will have to burn through far more material at that angle to reach the target, Fabricator Locum,” Spire observed critically.

“Yes,” Korr replied. “After the thermonuclear fusion warhead from Seeker of First Principles’ Nova Cannon impacts the city, the Lance saturation bombardment will vaporize and liquefy the remaining material and burn their way down layer by layer towards the target.”

Spire stared for a long moment before he finally understood. “By the Throne,” he whispered, slumping back in his chair.

The avatar of the Exploritor General looked equal parts horrified and reverent as he studied the simulated outcome.

“Lord High Admiral, could you enlighten the rest of us? Just what is this going to do?” One of the Imperial Generals asked politely.

“Korr is planning to liquefy the foundations of the Forge city and use the molten remains to flood the tunnels that have been stymieing the advance of the ground troops while, at the same time, digging and clearing the way towards the objective,” Spire explained, watching the man who had asked go pale.

“The end goal is the reservoir; should we fail to breach that deeply, the bare minimum is the bottom of layer three, upper portion of layer four, where the Genestealers have their largest tunnel. The Lance strikes will continue until our minimum objectives are met regardless. Should they succeed and raise a voidshield… well… those city shields tend to hold up poorly against millions of tons of molten slag,” Korr stated calmly.

“My Lords, won’t that destabilize the continental shelf and cause massive tectonic issues or even volcanism?” One of the Admirals familiar with orbital bombardments asked with a frown.

“Yes, it will. That outcome is regrettable, but we have ways to mitigate its effects on the rest of the region and isolate that continental plate in particular; it has shifted numerous times before in the past, each time a layer sank. If the Omnissiah favors our mission, perhaps a few of the deep crust mineral deposits will shift closer to the surface.” Korr mused.

“The blast radius is going to be titanic. How will the surface troops know they are clear?” Someone pointed out.

“I have asked the Titanicus Legios to assemble their southern maniples along the lines marking the minimal safe distance. If they can’t see a Titan’s back, they’re too close,” Magos Dominus Ryex-Epsilon replied. “Our Skitarii will endeavor to keep the enemy fighting underground to ensure the salvage teams remain unmolested and start an organized retreat as late as possible within our allocated operational window. Heavier mechanized units have already begun pulling back and are reorganizing for the follow-up assault.”

Spire turned to the tactical plot, where an absurd number of servitors and Mechanicus personnel flooded south from the more stable areas of Cypra Mundi to strip Ferrus-9 and the surrounding area of everything of value that they could within the Fabricator Locum’s time limit.

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POV: Elite Skitarii Vanguard, Caustica Mortis, Terminus-6

Terminus-6 checked his internal chrono against the operational countdown: twenty-six hours, thirteen minutes, and twelve seconds. Orders had come down from the Fabricator Locum himself. Ferrus-9 would be purged in its entirety; all forces would retreat from the front lines after extracting any salvageable resources, while lower-grade combat servitors held the line during their retreat. The seconds ticked down on his heads-up display with plenty of time remaining.

They had an objective near the end of this sector; it was imperative they cleared this last section so a team of Magi could extract an ancient generator from his housing.

Keeping the Genestealers in the dark and minimizing the time the enemy had to react to what awaited them was critical. Caustica Mortis would continue their extermination until the final hours.

“Halt,” Terminus-1, the Alpha of his unit, called. He swept the area ahead of them with his Omnispex while feeding the entire unit tactical information through his enhanced data-tether.

“Possible bioform ahead. Load the new combat protocols,” Terminus-1 ordered.

Terminus-6 and the rest of the squad obeyed, instantly pulling up the combat engram that had been disseminated along with the cache of data distributed by the Ordo Xenos.

Terminal Protocols: Online. Combat Engrams: Engaged.

As the team entered the next junction, a shot rang out from a cultist sniper, a shot that would have struck Terminus-7 in the head, deflected off his Integrated Refraction Emitter. Terminus-7 immediately returned fire with his Phosphor Blaster; the shot went straight through the scope assembly of the sniper and into the man’s eye, the back of his head exploding as the round detonated within his ocular cavity, painting the wall behind him red and grey with the former contents of his skull.

Terminus-8, forewarned through their data tether to Terminus-1’s Auspex readings, gracefully stepped back behind his towering shield as a heavy stubber opened up on his position from a hidden bunker.

Terminus-6 raised his rifle and filled the firing port with a stream of pyrophoric chemicals, selectively muting his audio receptors to ignore the brief screams of those within the fortification.

Terminus-9, alerted by tremors beneath his chassis, pulled out and set a shaped charge between his feet. Timing it perfectly, he leapt while detonating the charge just as the enemy neared the surface, the explosive eviscerating the Xenos while simultaneously using the fragmented remains of metal, chitin and bone as shrapnel for the creatures behind the lead unit. Killing the next two and wounding several others.

Terminus-6 meanwhile stepped forward as Terminus-9 stepped aside; he aimed his rifle down and filled the hole with cleansing chemical fire.

“Terminus formation, fighting strength: full. Ammunition reserves at sixty-five percent,” Terminus-1 called out. “Moving to engage the Extremis-level enemy.”

The squad formed a staggered firing line in front of the large marked door. The rear line held their rifles at the ready, while the front held their shields and close-combat weapons. A servo skull floated over Terminus-6's shoulder as it approached the door’s console.

The aged door lurched open as the mechanism yielded to their will and opened with the grinding of old gears, revealing the dark metal chamber within, its walls covered in scratches and deep gouges.

Terminus-2 called out, “Contact.” His senses highlighted and pinpointed the coiled creature on the ceiling.

Terminus-1 buzzed, “Ravener: Crusher variant: confirmed. Terminate.”

Terminal-6 held his fire as the monster leapt down, adjusting his aim to where the creature would land. His HUD highlighted weak points from the new combat protocols: joints, eyes, and a portion of the underbelly where two plates intersected.

The Phosphor weapons fired first. Salvos of bright azure rounds cracked chitinous plates and punched bloody holes through the creature’s weaker points, drawing an ear-splitting shriek from the Ravener.

Terminus-2 was the first target; it landed practically on top of him. Terminus-2 blocked one of the massive claws with his shield and the other with his Shock Maul. His feet dug into the floor, but he was being pushed back by the Xeno’s strength. His cybernetics screamed warnings as he strained against the Ravener.

Warning: Servos failing. Stress exceeding physical tolerances. Damage: accumulating.

Terminus-2’s Shock Maul sputtered out and died as the weapon bent under the strain. His shield buckled under the weight and strength of the Xeno, before a thrumming blade slashed down precisely at the joint behind one of its claws. Terminus-1’s Transonic Blade cleaved through the chitin like a thermal lance through plasteel.

The severed claw and Terminus-2’s twisted Shock Maul fell to the floor with a heavy thunk. The Ravener recoiled, releasing another shriek as it entered a frenzied state.

“Terminus-2, fall back. Terminus-3, Terminus-4, to the fore. Terminus-5, Terminus-6, hold fire. All other units fire at will,” Terminus-1 instructed as they stepped back behind the line.

The mace-like tail of the Ravener swung down and dented Terminus-4’s shield and broke both bone and servos of the arm holding the shield. The Skitarii held his position as the strike cost the creature dearly as Terminus-3 struck it with a Power Sword, cleaving a deep gash across its side that spewed green viscera, all while the rest of the squad pumped shot after shot of Phosphor and Rad rounds into the thrashing Ravener.

Terminus-3 had his leg broken by one of the Ravener’s secondary limbs while protecting Terminus-4 from its remaining primary claw. Neither Skitarii retreated, both continuing to hold the furious beast’s attention despite their injuries.

The monster disengaged, coiling in on itself before launching into its next movement. It moved precisely as predicted by the combat protocols' predictive algorithms.

Terminus-1 raised their Serpenta and fired at one of the creature’s bulbous eyes, which exploded in viscera and gore. As the Ravener recoiled, Terminus-3 and Terminus-4 stepped back, giving the rest of their team direct line-of-sight, and finally, Terminus-6 was given the order they had been waiting for.

“Fire,” Terminus-1 ordered.

Terminus-6, along with Terminus-5, opened up with their chemical throwers, coating the front of the Xeno in a layer of acidic, burning chemical death. Dark smoke rose as chitin bubbled, cracked, and warped; the tender flesh beneath boiled and charred as the Ravener thrashed and spasmed in pain.

Terminus-6 held down the trigger, twin streams of burning liquid casting the squad’s twisted, flickering shadows across the walls. The Ravener was quickly engulfed in the Fabricator Locum’s custom-formulated napalm, its writhing silhouette reflected in the crimson glow of Terminus squad’s optical lenses. Thankfully, their sealed masks spared them the creature’s foul stench.

“Cease fire,” Terminus-1 ordered. Terminus-6 obeyed, the barrel of his sprayer glowing a lovely cherry-red as the accumulated excess heat radiated into the surrounding air. Terminus-1 waited until the Ravener stopped thrashing. Even as the creature continued to burn, he put three additional rounds into its skull to ensure it was dead. “Terminus squad reporting minor damage to three units. Ravener terminated. Sector secure. Recovery operations may proceed.”

Terminus-6 felt the familiar swell of reverent pride; his cortex pinged as his implants worked to balance the flood of hormones that he received after performing the blessed task assigned to him by the Omnissiah: purging the enemies of the Machine God and the Omnissiah. He thanked his fortunes, he thanked the Omnissiah, and he spared a moment of appreciation for the data provided by the Inquisition and the late Skitarii unit it was named after.

“Affirmative, Terminus squad, return to forward operating depot ten for repairs. Well done,” the binaric message from their Marshal was forwarded to Terminus-1 and disseminated to the entire squad as they returned to formation and began their march back.

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POV: Mechanicus Adept Worlo-8

Worlo thought his saviors had been his salvation; his time below had finally come to an end.

He had been wrong.

“Adept designation: Worlo-8, you stand accused of gross negligence for failing to maintain the purity of the sacred machines tasked to you and allowing Xenos corruption to fester without warning the proper authorities. This has been confirmed by data pulled from your implants and by your own testimony. By the Grace of the Omnissiah, you bear none of the Xenos taint and thus are entitled to choose your punishment: Servitorization or Penance,” declared the striking red-armoured form of a Venatorii Magos who had not deigned to give Worlo-8 his designation.

Worlo swallowed stiffly before nervously wheezing, “Penance, Lord Magos?”

The Venatorii Magos looked amused. “Your penance is servitude, Worlo-8.” He raised a hand and gestured to the towering forms behind him. “This Cybernetica maniple and pair of Techmarines are tasked with the recovery of a holy Archeotech cache. You shall lead them to it. Should you survive, you will do it again and again.”

“A sacred cache, My Lord? Where?” Worlo-8 asked nervously.

“The lower part of level three, under smelting plant 43-G.” The Venatorii Magos gestured, and two servitors lumbered forward, flanking Worlo-8, a pair of arms raised, and with a heavy click, a bomb collar settled around Worlo-8’s neck. “If you stray more than a kilometer from your handler, your collar will explode; if you take hostile action against your handler, you will explode.”

“Primary handler designation: Mech Lord Dominus Thamuz-9. Secondary handler designation: Techmarine Khalon of the Deathwatch.”

Worlo-8’s mind spun; the front line was barely at the boundary between levels 2 and 3. That meant he would be leading their team into enemy-controlled territory.

“Acknowledged,” he replied, resigned to his fate.

The Venatorii Magos departed without another word.

A Tech Adept stepped forward and pushed a dataslate with a single map program, a las-pistol, and a spare power pack into Worlo-8’s hands. He looked down at the weapon for a long moment and rubbed his thumb across the receiver; it was a simple Palatine-pattern Compact Laspistol. He tucked the weapon and the power pack away with trembling hands, and clutched the dataslate with white knuckles.

Mech-Lord Dominus Thamuz-9 stood amidst his Automata maniple, accompanied by several members of the Mechanicus. His vocalizer emitted a steady stream of binaric cant as he conversed with a fellow red-robed Magos and an Enginseer.

At the front of the formation stood a pair of massive Kataphron Breacher battle servitors. Behind them was a pair of holy Kastelan Robots along with a quartet of what his cybernetic eye registered as Arlatax Class Automata and a pair of Vultarax Stratos-Automata along with two dozen heavy technical servitors, and double that in combat servitors and a swarm of at least a dozen servo skulls.

The two Techmarines towered over the squad of heavy-flamer-armed gun servitors, standing head and shoulders above all but the Dominus and some of the Automata.

Khalon looked up and spoke. “Worlo-8, you are familiar with the lower levels; plot us the fastest route to our target capable of fitting our strike team. Time is limited if we are to reach all three archeotech sites before the orbital lance bombardment. Prioritize speed over safety.”

“Yes, Lord Khalon,” he said, bowing low as he connected to the dataslate and began plotting a route down.

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POV: Mech Lord Dominus Thamuz-9

Thamuz-9 was feeling wistful and melancholic – an emotional response he had not felt in a long, long time. He allowed his remaining biological components to fully embrace the sensations as their team made their way down.

The penance-guide had proven himself surprisingly useful. The strike team had only encountered three pockets of resistance, and while a few combat servitors had been lost, none of the automata or volunteer adepts had fallen yet.

Readers may note that the author posts this chapter on ; this version was copied without consent, and reading there supports them.

Thamuz-9 had crunched the numbers; he and the Astartes were likely to make it through, but everyone else joining them was at significant risk. He had personal reasons for going on this near suicide mission.

“You know, the vault we seek was placed here on Cypra Mundi by the mentor of my mentor,” he mused aloud as he walked, “My mentor took me there only once and afterwards gave me the codes required for access, and told me that only in times of great need should I seek it out. I find it ironic that it is I that must save the contents of the vault and not the other way around.”

“What lies within, Mech Lord Thamuz?” Magos 5-D inquired respectfully.

“Ancient machines, wondrous ones; some are still functional. His efforts to learn from and repair them laid the foundation for my grand-mentor’s rise within the Mechanicus, and that foundation of sacred knowledge was then passed on to my mentor and from them onto me. I will save as many as I can, and they will aid us with our secondary and tertiary targets. Anything that I cannot command or carry with my servitors I will abandon. All of you will be free to take what you can. Anything that remains will not survive what is coming.” He sighed reverently.

“We thank you for your generosity, Mech Lord Thamuz,” Magos 5-D said as they adjusted their handheld Auspex scanner.

He barked out a static-filled laugh. “Do not thank me; this mission is quite perilous; my participation is personal, and the Astartes seek their own interests with the second location. Your survival and any relics you recover will be your own.”

With a simple mental command, one of his Kataphron Breachers rolled forward; the lumbering servitor used its heavy arc rifle to clear the tunnel ahead of the few cultists that tried to impede them.

“How much further, Worlo?” Techmarine Khalon asked.

“Less than five hundred meters, my Lord,” Worlo-8 replied.

Thamuz continued forward until he finally paused before a wall. “We are here.” Resting a hand against the wall, he let out a burst of ancient code. The outer layer, a holographic illusion, vanished, revealing the true vault. A seamless shell of blackened metal, its surface etched with circuitry patterns that predated the surrounding construction by at least a millennium. At the center of the shell was the sole opening, a titanic iris of dark adamantium, its surface bearing the faded insignia of the Legio Cybernetica.

He directed the automata and combat servitors to set up a defensive perimeter. “I will begin the rites required to unlock the vault. Interruptions will not be tolerated,” he said firmly as his glowing red eyes swept across the strike team.

He worked silently for over half an hour before the iris finally slid open, revealing the dark, expansive chamber within. “It is done,” he announced and strode forward, aged lumen strips flicking to life as he crossed the vault’s threshold.

The interior filled him with nostalgia; it was a fairly large open circular space with high ceilings and rows upon rows of shelves and massive racks holding parts, equipment, or even whole automata. The parts and equipment were well organized by type; the automata were clustered by type but stood wherever they had room, and he let out a small sigh as he reached out to run a hand over the nearest automata; his metal fingers drew lines through the fine layer of dust.

“By the Cog,” one Adept gaped, seeing the sheer size of the vault and the diverse suite of robots within.

“My grand-mentor was a collector of rare automata. I will activate the two Sanctioner-pattern units, Colossus-class, and ah! The Galvanic Servohaulter! We will be needing that for the third task.” He turned back towards the group. “Adepts, in the back corner are a slew of Psioli constructs. If you can awaken them, take them. Magos, Enginseer, the Scyllax I promised each of you is over here.” He gestured for them to follow as he led them deeper inside.

He directed his swarm of industrial servitors to gather the rarest and most valuable parts while he activated the ancient units he intended to take with him.

He stopped before a massive robot that was missing an arm. “Thanatar Cynis-class… I think my Master would never forgive me if I left you behind.” He chuckled to himself as he went about the precise task of swapping out the main battery for the unit.

A notification pinged that filled him with mild incredulity. Adept Worlo-8 had somehow managed to awaken the one functional Saberjaw unit. He shook his head ruefully; clearly the Omnissiah was testing him.

He received more notifications as the various Psioli units were awakened and bound. The Techmarines awakened and claimed a Cyber Altered Task and a Fire Wasp. He was not surprised when the Magos managed to awaken the Calixian-pattern Grapplehawk, but another of the Adepts surprised him by awakening the old Warrior-class robot.

“Lord Thamuz, regarding the armory?” One Tech Priest inquired.

“I do not like repeating myself,” he cut the Tech Priest off. “Take whatever you wish; my servitors have already taken what I wanted. Whatever remains is better off in the hands of loyal members of the Mechanicus than lost forever, or worse, in the hands of the enemy. We do not have time or the capacity to take everything – I knew that coming here. Just know that what you chose to burden yourself with is your responsibility.” He glanced over the whole group with a conflicted expression. “Time is short; we shall rest here for another two hours before we depart for the second vault location.”

“Do we need to close the vault behind us?” Techmarine Khalon inquired.

“No… there is no need,” Thamuz said as he began a large-scale Rite of Awakening. The ceiling of the vault lit up with red mechanical eyes, bathing the chamber in crimson as thousands of spherical, spider-like Bombots awakened simultaneously. “After we depart, nothing will remain of this vault.”

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POV: Mechanicus Adept Worlo-8

Worlo-8 was panicking. He had merely attempted to mimic the rites of other adepts as they attempted to, and mostly succeeded in awakening the Psioli and Echindax units, but he hadn’t awakened one of those units. Instead, the large, terrifying feline-shaped robot was now following him around the vault! The thing was big enough for someone to ride! It even had a saddle and some kind of strange lance strapped to it.

Worlo-8 had picked up a dataslate that had been left dangling under the neck of the Saberjaw from a datatether and was rapidly trying to read through the instructions on how to properly issue commands.

Now the other Adepts were giving him sidelong looks as they waited for Mech Lord Thamuz to pass through the next section of the vault, taking what he deigned to before letting them pick through what remained after he recovered all the archeotech and unique items. Thankfully, Lord Thamuz had been explicit: infighting would not be tolerated, and he had claimed anything they managed to awaken and bond with was a matter of fate and the will of the Machine God.

Most of the Adepts had three or four automata under their control, while Worlo-8 only had the Saberjaw. Even a basic Servo Skull had rejected his attempt to link with and bond after awakening; instead, it flitted off to serve someone else each time he made the attempt.

He followed the other Adepts through the armoury, bringing up the rear after everyone else had passed through. Clad in little more than his filthy, tattered robes, he was hoping to find some spare armour or, failing that, something more suitable to wear.

He found something inside a crate; it looked like metal armour, but when he lifted it out to inspect the item, it flexed under his fingers. The suit wasn’t a perfect fit, but it was close enough that he elected to put it on right away; a bit of padding helped it sit properly on his body. Reading the tag on the item, he was not entirely sure what Flexteel was, but he could wear it under his robes, and that was sufficient. The suit had nothing to protect his head, however, so he kept an eye out for a helmet.

He hesitated outside of the weapons section; his compact las-pistol had saved his life twice on the way down. It packed enough of a punch to take down the poorly armed cultists that had tried to ambush them, but he hadn’t fought armoured foes or the larger monstrous Genestealers.

The Saberjaw had saddlebags so he could afford to pack heavier ammo for anything he picked up, but the question remained: did he want to? He could handle a pistol, but rifles or heavier weapons were not in his skill set.

In the end, he picked up three weapons, a chain knife, a Web pistol, and a Puritan-14, a dual-barreled autopistol with an integral single shotgun cartridge chamber, with a box of fancy-looking ammunition for both barrels.

He watched as another Adept hefted a full-sized plasma gun, packing a few spare flasks of plasma into a bandolier.

“Has anyone seen a helmet?” He asked the other Adepts.

“Haven’t seen any besides the few with the powered or carapace suits that were taken. I saw some ceramite combat shields in that crate over there.” The Adept pointed him in the direction of the crate.

“I saw a shelf with some gas masks and eye protection. Given where we’re going, I would recommend grabbing a set for anyone without cybernetic lungs.” Another Adept said hopefully.

“I’ll do that. Thank you,” Worlo-8 bowed his head.

The Adept with the plasma gun laughed, “We should be thanking you. Lord Thamuz openly admitted he anticipated losing roughly a third of us and most of the basic combat servitors on the first leg. You got us here with only five combat servitors being destroyed, and now we’ve all been blessed with automata.”

“The true trials have yet to come,” another Adept said solemnly as he racked the slide on some manner of a Combi-Bolter.

“All units form up and prepare to depart!” came the order from Thamuz, and they all shuffled towards the entrance.

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POV: Techmarine Khalon of the Deathwatch

Whatever levity and optimism the strike team had after plundering the Mech Lord Thamuz’s vault lasted barely an hour into the second leg of their journey.

Worlo-8 led them well, but their next encounter was not cultist chaff and fourth-generation hybrids; rather, it was a full-on unit of purestrain genestealers that had absolutely ravaged their way through half of their combat servitors. They lost one of the Kataphron Breachers, and one of the Adepts who thought his new automata would protect him had learned the hard way why the mission had been volunteers only.

After the initial ambush, they had to slog through waves of mutants, Xenos, heretics, and other enemies of the Imperium for nearly two hours.

Worlo-8 had more close calls than Khalon cared to count, but his new pistol with a bit more stopping power, some armour he had procured from the vault, and the feline automaton following his every move saved him repeatedly.

“We’re nearly there, Lord Khalon,” Worlo-8 rasped as he gulped down water from his canteen before slipping his filter mask back on; his armour informed him that the air within their current tunnel was quite unpleasant for those with exposed skin.

“Good. This will not take long. Dominus Thamuz is the only other individual permitted inside with me; the rest of you will defend the position.” Thamuz had a small case strapped to his lower back underneath his power armour’s backpack unit.

Khalon had called the destination a vault, but in reality it was a secure Ordo Xenos lab. The entrance was nondescript, and aside from the high ceiling and large doors, it looked utterly unassuming. Khalon snaked a dendrite into the terminal and uploaded the access codes to disarm the door’s many traps.

“Remain here. Dominus Thamuz, please aid us in disconnecting the cogitator banks and preparing the specimens for recovery,” He said as he walked inside and finally removed the case from his back. He cracked it open, revealing a dozen specialized teleport homers.

“Oh my,” Thamuz remarked, seeing the central tank where the full body of some strange Xenos creature lay in suspended animation. “What is that?” He inquired, circling the stasis vault. What looked like a bizarre swarm of maggots was contorted into a humanoid shape.

“Slaugth. We cannot allow it to escape or fall into the hands of the Genestealers.” Khalon slapped the first beacon onto the tank's exterior. “I will ensure the dual backup power supplies are functional before disconnecting this unit last. Prepare the marked cogitators for transport.”

Thamuz visibly recoiled from the tube. “What an absolutely vile abomination,” he said as he shuffled off towards the racks of cogitators. He began the rites of disconnection as he masterfully coaxed the machines into a placid, dormant state.

Eight cogitators and four specimens were tagged with the specialized teleport homers. The other three specimens included a pair of Drukhari, a Grotesque and a Succubus, along with what appeared to be some strange aquatic variant of the Squig; the noospheric tag called it a Squigshark.

Khalon unhooked the last cable from the Slaugth container. “We’re done here. Once the bombardment breaches the level three void shield, these assets will immediately be retrieved by Ordo Xenos voidships.”

Thamuz was more than happy to distance himself from the Xenos specimens, and as soon as he exited the facility, he clapped his hands together. “Fantastic, this just leaves us with our final target. The Archeotech cogitator responsible for regulating load balancing and peak flow distribution across the level. Worlo-8, our route to the cogitator needs to be passable by the Servo Hauler. Protect the Servo Hauler!”

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------

POV: Mechanicus Adept Worlo-8

Worlo-8 sagged with relief as they reached their final destination. By the grace of the Omnissiah, he was alive, and that was more than could be said for many of the other Adepts.

A majority of Thamuz’s Automata had various levels of damage; most of the regular combat servitors had been terminated along with half of the servo skulls. Even his new Saberjaw Automata, whose designation he had finally identified as 9U-55-Y C4T, sported several concerning injuries.

Worlo-8 had gone through a concerning amount of his ammo, and he had packed extra in 9U-55-Y C4T’s saddlebags.

Many of his senior Adepts were now forced to weigh the pros and cons of lugging around heavy, empty weapons or abandoning them. The consideration which should have been unthinkable for many of them had turned into a matter of life and death.

Worlo-8 noted that none of the senior Magi or the Techmarines said anything to those that kept their weapons or those that abandoned them.

“You look troubled, Adept,” Mech Lord Thamuz said as he stepped up beside Worlo-8, who panned his Auspex over the others. “Ahh, your records indicate this is your first time on a battlefield. So this is your first time seeing your peers measure the weight of a sacred machine against their own lives. Did you notice a majority of those who fell were those who burdened themselves most? Others just got unlucky, but that is the nature of our mission; only by the grace of the Omnissiah and your own effort and your own sweat, blood, and oil will you make it out of this alive.”

Worlo-8 swallowed dryly. “Lord Thamuz… how long… once the cogitator is removed? How long before we feel the destabilization effects?”

“An hour,” Thamuz declared bluntly.

“But… we’re at least two hours from the bottom of level two.” Worlo-8 somehow still knew exactly where they were and was already considering routes back to the surface.

“I know.” Thamuz slithered a Mechadendrite over and latched it onto Worlo-8’s bomb collar. A moment later the collar unlatched. “You won’t be needing this, and we need it to blow open the primary power panel; it's rusted shut, and the servitor carrying my spare breaching charges fell off the bridge three kilometers back.”

The horror and panic Worlo-8 felt at that confirmation, even with the collar being removed, was visible on Worlo-8’s face, and Thamuz let out a buzzing chortle. His mechadendrite ripped out the explosive core and tossed the shredded remains of the collar aside.

“The cogitator is our primary objective. As long as it, myself, and the two Techmarines return, the mission will be considered a success. Even the loss of all my war materiel and every single volunteer was deemed acceptable. We needed the Galvanic Servo Hauler to move the cogitator; I brought as much as was feasible from my vault.” He chuckled ruefully. “I let you all take as much as you want because there is still a chance some of you will make it back alive with your spoils.”

Thamuz leaned over Worlo-8, his red glowing augmetic eyes peering down into Worlo-8’s eyes as he whispered: “Plot our route well, Worlo-8; your life and those of everyone else in the strike team depend on it. You have guided us well thus far, and if the cantankerous C4T likes you, then perhaps there is hope for you yet, Adept.”

Thamuz turned and walked into the massive chamber containing the cogitator, and once he was out of sight, Worlo-8’s legs gave out, and he slumped to the floor. “By the grace of the cog,” he whispered to himself.

—-----

Over the next few hours, Worlo-8 watched from the sidelines as the Galvanic Servo Hauler was maneuvered into place, the Magi, Techmarines and Adepts working in tandem to strip away the numerous layers of protective casing and reveal the immense ancient machinery within.

Worlo-8 had two escape routes plotted; one followed a main transit artery up through the level. It was a sure thing; it was also slow. The second was half the time, but the terrain was worse and relied on a recent opening in a drainage line from when the Mechanicus attempted to flush mines, probes, and servitors down towards the reservoir. All had been intercepted by the Genestealers or the processing stations along the way.

The cartographic data for the area was lacking; they only had a pair of scattered reports that confirmed the pipe was fully exposed.

“Worlo-8, do you have our extraction route?” Thamuz sounded different from the melancholic Magi he had been hours before; his voice was cold and hard as he prepared himself for this final trial.

“I have two plotted, sir, based on the available data,” he said with far more certainty than he felt.

“Show me; I will confirm the route is viable. How quickly can we get to level two with each route?” Thamuz inquired as he arranged his Automata into a new formation.

“Four or two hours, respectively, but sir…” He was immediately cut off.

“We take the two-hour route. Distribute it to everyone,” Thamuz ordered, and Worlo-8 forwarded the data from his dataslate.

Thamuz turned and addressed everyone present: “As soon as we disconnect the cogitator and the alarm sounds, we will begin our retreat. We have one hour before the stabilizer system experiences a total cascade failure. After which the level will experience various tectonic events and disturbances of escalating severity. No one is sure of the full effects this will have across level three; the variables are innumerable, and the estimated effects are based on data from a partial failure of level five’s stabilization system experienced several millennia ago. Every minute you spend within level three here after the hour expires decreases your statistical survivability by one point three percent… cumulatively. May the Omnissiah’s light guide us to salvation and may the Machine God have mercy on the machines soon to be lost.” He made the sign of the cog.

The entire section went dark as the main power line was disconnected; red and yellow warning lights began flashing as the alarm blared angrily.

As the Servo Hauler rolled out of the chamber, the massive cogitator block suspended within its huge claw, Thamuz pointed and gave them a simple directive. “We are behind schedule. Hold nothing back,” he stated as he began moving with the Servo Hauler. “Run.”

—------------

The Servo Hauler set the strike team’s pace, and that pace was breakneck. Thamuz controlled the ancient machine, and it did not stop for anything. Genestealers they met were killed or ignored; all the Adepts had to sprint to keep up with the marching machines.

Worlo-8 felt himself start to flag, and after he nearly missed a step, something stung his neck. The Adept beside him depressed an injector, and a stimulant flooded his system, giving him a much-needed boost.

“Thank you,” he gasped as he resumed running.

The Adept merely nodded and continued to distribute what he could from his limited stores.

He repaid the favor not long after. He used his limited amount of web pistol ammunition to hinder their pursuers, plugging certain smaller side tunnels with the sticky filaments, which worked surprisingly well at buying them precious time and distance.

Just before the hour mark, they reached the pipeline; the massive hole was there, but there was also a large gap separating the pipe from them. Thamuz did not hesitate to sacrifice the remaining Kataphron Breacher, having the huge servitor act as a living bridge, which they drove the Servo Hauler up into the shallow waterway.

Thamuz commanded the last of the general combat servitors to stay behind and hold the natural choke point behind them while the battered army of Automata continued with them.

At the one-hour mark, exactly Worlo-8 felt the first tremble beneath his boots. The ground groaned, and over the sound of their splashing boots and the rumble of the Servo Hauler’s tracks, he heard the screaming of distant steel and the crumbling of rock.

“Move! Move! Move!” yelled Techmarine Khalon.

The destabilization was a gradual thing; stress spread throughout the level as the systems designed to minimize it stopped making adjustments and lost feedback from the central node. Some emergency systems kicked in, keeping sections locked in place, but that caused disharmony with the sections without such systems. The primary anchors connecting level three to level four were the first to shear, and once they did, level three was left free-standing on a pad of graphite and stone.

The shaking only got worse as the minutes ticked by; the pipeline Worlo-8 had chosen was reinforced, but the sound of metal and stone impacting the exterior still echoed from behind them.

They were ten minutes from the exit when their luck finally ran out, and the section ahead of them collapsed. A massive slab of metal crashed through the ceiling, blocking their path and sending dust and chunks of ferrocrete into their ranks.

Worlo-8 didn’t know what hit him; one moment he was in full sprint, the next he was on the ground pinned in place. His left arm and both legs were in agony, and he could barely breathe. His vision swam, but when he looked over to see his limbs, all he could see was rock.

“Melta charges! Plasma cutters! Cut through! Cut Through!” Worlo-8 heard Techmarine Khalon scream, the marine's voice distant and muffled.

Khalon paused for just a moment as he stepped next to Worlo-8. The Astartes hefted his power axe, and without hesitation severed Worlo’s arm at the elbow and both legs above the knees. The massive blade passed through his armour like it wasn’t even there.

Worlo-8 screamed as Khalon held the blade flat against the limbs to cauterize them before tossing him onto the back of C4T. He wrapped his remaining arm into one of the saddle straps, clenched his teeth so hard that he tasted copper as they bled.

“9U-55-Y C4T. Priority command: Follow,” was all he managed to get out before he passed out from shock.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------

POV: Princeps Senioris Venerat Khouri

Within his amniotic casket, Khouri beheld the horizon through the sensoria of the Magna Mundi.

“Moderatii full stop. Confirm our coordinates. Spread the maniple along the edge here in parallel with me and contact the Clypeus Obscurus maniple in Tempestus engines to the west; they can join us for our vigil. Shields to full. Maintain a hundred meters between Engines,” he ordered calmly as he watched various vehicles flee the area en masse as the final wave of stragglers and recovery teams trickled out; blocks of Skitarii scurried around his feet like ants.

“Position triple confirmed, my Princeps. We are at the very edge of the blast radius minimal safety zone. Void shields integrity: one hundred percent.”

In his mind, the digital chrono ticked down. He cast his attention upward through the atmosphere to the distant shape of the Ark Mechanicus looming above. He felt the spirit of Magna Mundi regard the ship with intense wariness, the way one regards a distant predator. Khouri sent a pulse of empathy as he reassured his Engine that the vessel was an ally.

His Vox link crackled to life, “Hail, Senioris Khouri and the Magna Mundi of Orbitalis. This is Princeps Orsini Zheng of Clypeus Obscurus operating the Reaver Lupus Dominus; I lead a Corsair Battleline maniple.”

“This is Princeps Sandra Dune of Clypeus Obscurus operating the Reaver Eternal Howl. Well met, Magna Mundi.”

“This is Princeps Lia Zheng of Clypeus Obscurus operating the Reaver Lupus Velox. I greet you, Senioris Khouri.”

Khorui watched the three Reavers approach from his flank, their presences clear through the manifold. Orsini was strong and steady, guiding his Reaver well; Sandra and Lia were younger; they had the presence required to pilot their respective Reavers but not the experience to operate them nearly as finely. “I see you, Clypeus Obscurus, or perhaps I should say Tempestus?” He asked with a small smirk. “Vespasian has certainly made a choice. Time will tell us if it was worth it. Tell me, how are your Engines?”

“They walk well, Senioris Khouri; their spirits are eager, awakening after so long,” Orsini responded respectfully.

“Fel-1P3-300, have you stabilized the fluctuations in the reactor yet? No, we’re not firing the blaster just so you can measure the power draw!” Sandra spoke over the open Vox channel accidentally.

“Sandra, my Princeps, wrong channel.” Helena pointed out the issue to before apologizing, “Our apologies.”

The young lady immediately yelped and apologized, drawing a chuckle out of him. “It’s fine, just be sure you raise your shields to full and get into position. It’s almost time.”

“So all the Engines were called here just to bear witness?” Orsini asked, his confusion evident.

“In part, we will bear witness, but we are also the breakwater for the blastwave and debris; where we stand represents the distance the retreating troops must reach to exit the blast radius,” Khouri explained as his Auspex picked up a distant vehicle; a rather large wheeled Land Train bearing the sigil of the Legio Cybernetica was riding heavy, a quick estimate of their current speed confirmed his fears. “They won’t make it in time.”

Khouri narrowed his eyes. “All Engines remain in place. Moderatii ahead, full stride! Hail that land train; They need to shelter behind my lead leg! Tell them to go under when I step forward.” Magna Mundi moved with surprising speed for such a titanic machine; still, by his estimation, they would be cutting it close.

“If that vehicle isn’t within our voidshield envelope, they are dead.” He purposefully took a large, exaggerated step, lifting the leg over the vehicle as it rolled under and then slammed on its brakes. Magna Mundi leaned forward and braced itself. “Close all external hatches! All power to shields!”

Khouri looked into the distance and broadcast to every Engine in range. “All Engines brace for impact!”

Khouri settled himself within his casket. The head of Magna Mundi angled towards the sky as he watched the power spike form in the prow of the Arc Mechanicus. “We are the Titanicus, the iron fist of the Omnissiah; we are a manifestation of the Machine God's wrath upon the battlefield. Today you bear witness to another power. The wrath and conviction of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Today we watch a forge city die.”

Even with his senses primed, he nearly missed it. It was a mere fraction of a second from the Nova Cannon firing to the massive thermonuclear fusion warhead impacting Ferrus-9, where it sank over a kilometer into the ground before it detonated spectacularly. His Auspex could trace the hole in the cloud layer from the surface all the way back to the voidship.

Khouri exhaled slowly and watched as a star bloomed on the surface of Cypra Mundi. There was a blinding flash that heralded the arrival of the formation of a massive fireball. The roiling plasma reached out to nearly ten kilometers in diameter, vaporizing all matter within that radius. The explosion was wider than it was tall, only burrowing three kilometers down before it impacted the city-grade void shield protecting layer three. Despite the destabilization of the layer, the shield was still operational.

The explosion spread out from the fireball into a ring of absolute destruction. Radiation flash burned everything within a hundred kilometers before the blast’s shockwave flattened every standing structure and further leveled the terrain.

The Magna Mundi was within that hundred-kilometer zone of death. Khouri felt himself grin as the shockwave raced towards him. He leaned forward with his Engine just before impact, and his shield flared brightly but held as they were pelted with chunks of debris; the concussive force alone slid his Engine back several meters and nearly destabilized his footing. The wind outside howled and screamed like a wounded animal.

The shockwave continued past him, striking the arrayed Engines who weathered the blows on their shields, the massive machines protecting the more vulnerable vehicles and troops behind them from harm.

An absolutely titanic plume of dust, smoke and vapour spread into the sky as the mushroom cloud formed in the aftermath of the fusion detonation.

Khouri blared his warhorn as he began to laugh, Magna Mundi standing tall in the face of such absolute destruction.

Just as everyone was recovering from the initial detonation, the sky lit up once more, as the rain of Lances began. The deluge of energy attacks converged from multiple angles on the crater where Ferrus-9 once stood, and once the bombardment began, it did not stop.