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Chapter 9: The Dark Mechanicum
🕑 Added 2025-10-20 10:39:45 +0000 UTCChapter 9: The Dark Mechanicum
The Dark Mechanicum. That portion of the Cult of Mars which turned traitor during the Horus Heresy. Some of their Magi still claim it was the Imperium that first violated the Treaty of Olympia, and that the loyalist Mechanicum are the true traitors to the Omnissiah.
It no longer matters. History proved that the losing side is always the traitor.
In the millennia since their defeat, the Dark Mechanicum scattered. They fled from the purges of the Imperium and their former brothers, hiding in the Eye of Terror, in the dark voids of realspace, and some even beyond the galactic rim.
The greatest difference between the two Priesthoods is one of structure. The Adeptus Mechanicus, for all its divisions, still has a nominal leader in the Fabricator-General of Mars, whose words carry weight. The Dark Mechanicum is a fractured, scattered collective. While a few Dark Forge Worlds might form an alliance, or pledge service to a Chaos Legion, they are, as a whole, decentralized and serve only themselves.
In the reception chamber aboard The Ironclad, Petros, Antonius, and Phelon stood waiting.
To call it a "reception chamber" was generous. It was a giant, windowless cell of steel. The chairs and table were forged from bare, unpolished iron. There were no cushions, no leathers, and not a single goblet or plate on the table. The only decoration was a single, coarse-spun woolen tapestry bearing the Warband's new emblem: a silver kite-shield wreathed in crimson flame.
It was a cold, hard place. But it was, indeed, their reception chamber.
They were Astartes. Those beneath them had no right to be received. Those equal to them would not care for such trivialities as comfort.
The silence was broken by the hiss of the great hatch. First to enter was an Astartes in silver-grey Mark IV 'Maximus' power armor. His wargear was standard, save for the large, complex apparatus mounted to his right vambrace—a device bristling with a small chain-blade, an adamantium drill, and a high-intensity laser cutter. The tools of his trade. He was an Apothecary.
The Apothecary strode forward and extended his forearm. Petros mirrored the gesture, and the two Astartes clasped arms, ceramite grinding against ceramite in the warrior's greeting.
"Welcome home, Brother Dioscorides." Petros's face was a stone mask, but his voice held a trace of warmth. The last brother of the Forged Steel had returned.
"It is good to be among brothers, my Lord," the Apothecary replied. "I have brought Magos Morlock. He was my mentor."
A harsh, metallic scraping noise followed. A massive thing crawled into the chamber. It was covered in a rust-red cloak, its body nearly four meters long, propelled by fourteen centipede-like limbs that moved in a steady, unsettling rhythm. Mechanical arms and writhing steel tentacles emerged from its chassis. Its head had been replaced with a complex array of machinery, where eight spider-like red optics clicked and whirred, scanning the room. A metal faceplate covered what might have once been a face, leaving only cold, hard lines.
Petros stepped forward, inclining his head in a gesture of formal respect.
"Magos Biologis Morlock, you are welcome. I thank you for my brother's instruction."
The Magos's head-cluster twitched, his optics focusing and refocusing with audible clicks. A voice like grinding gears emanated from a vox-grille.
[Query: Lord of the Forged Steel. On behalf of Forge World Daedalos, I confirm delivery of the surgical equipment. The apprentice's training is complete. The down payment has been rendered.]
Magos Morlock activated his emotion-simulation subroutines, attempting to project "goodwill" to increase the probability of a successful transaction.
[We have demonstrated sincerity. I wish to inspect the merchandise.]
Morlock was alone, surrounded by four Astartes, but he showed no fear. His logic-circuits informed him that the probability of a successful trade was 66.36%. The probability of betrayal and attack by the Astartes was 0.043%. Of course, if they did attack, his probability of survival was 0%.
"Our arrangement was with the Fabricator-General himself, Magos. Do you carry that authority?" Petros knew the answer, but he asked anyway. A small probe for advantage.
[Lord of the Forged, I am the plenipotentiary representative of the Fabricator-General of Daedalos. I am authorized to deliver the payment and oversee this transaction in full. I have the right to inspect the merchandise.]
A single, thin tentacle snaked out from the Magos's chassis, its tip opening to reveal an interface port.
Petros glanced at Phelon. The Warpsmith produced a sealed plasteel case from his belt, pressed his thumb to the gene-scanner, and opened it. Inside, resting on velvet, was a wafer-thin, translucent data-chip.
A Standard Template Construct.
At the sight of it, Morlock lunged forward with a speed that belied his bulk, a pincer-like arm snapping out. Phelon, the Warpsmith, sidestepped the move with contemptuous ease.
Petros raised his own arm, blocking the Magos's path. "This STC fragment has been fully analyzed," he said, his voice unhurried. "It is for an 'IPX-676 Peerless Automated Bakery Unit.' It requires only flour, water, salt, and other base ingredients to produce... 'delicious baked sustenance' in approximately twenty minutes."
He knew his description was like the scent of fresh blood to a predator.
[Source?] Morlock's voice was sharp.
"I took it from a Magos Dominus I killed in the Sol System," Petros said bluntly.
The Magos's internal lie-detectors registered a 92.72% probability of truth. The data was, of course, purely for reference. The device was calibrated for mortals, not Astartes.
[It should have been... surrendered.] The gear-grinding sound was accusatory.
"And yet, it is in my hand."
[What is your price? We can offer warships. Power armor. Terminator plate. Any weapon or wargear you require.]
"I want none of those things."
[What?]
The Magos's logic-looms paused for a single nanosecond before arriving at the only other logical conclusion.
[You... refer to your new homeworld?]
"Yes. My price is the full support of Forge World Daedalos. You will develop this world's agriculture, industry, and mining. You will transform it from this... feudal state... into a functional, civilized world. And you will build a medium-sized starport in orbit, one capable of repairing and constructing small-to-medium class starships."
A harsh squeal of grinding metal came from Morlock's chassis.
[To industrialize a planet is a long-term project. Fifty years, at minimum. The payment... is rich. But the starport is impossible. A port of that class requires an orbital elevator. The dockyards alone... that is a century of work. Your STC fragment is not payment enough for both.]
Petros had expected this. The STC's value, great as it was, could not cover such a massive infrastructure project. He had made his opening demand. Now, the concession.
"Then build a small port first. But lay the foundation for a larger one. In the future, we may contract Daedalos to complete the orbital elevator and shipyards. A port that will one day possess orbital defenses and the capacity to build warships for us."
Squeal... grind... The Magos processed the new terms. After two full minutes of silence, he spoke.
[Done.]
"Pleasure doing business." Petros nodded. Phelon finally placed the STC into the Magos's waiting pincer.
Petros knew he had just secured a massive victory. He had traded a single, functionally useless STC for a 50-year commitment from a Forge World to industrialize his homeworld, complete with a starport.
In the future, this planet would produce its own food, its own weapons, its own armor. Tanks, artillery, fighters. Once the industrial base was built, everything else would follow.
Meanwhile, inside Magos Morlock's chassis, the grinding, squealing sounds of his internal mechanisms returned.
It was not calculation.
The Magos was laughing.
To help develop a planet? The work was tedious, but not difficult. It was labor for low-level tech-priests, not a Magos. He could send his least-promising acolytes here for "field experience."
And the starport? He had fobbed the Astartes off with a basic orbital platform. He had essentially sold the scaffolding as if it were the building itself.
This Astartes fool didn't understand the first thing about logistics. To transport the materials, equipment, and generators from the Forge World, they would have to build a basic orbital station first. It was a prerequisite. Since the Warband leader wanted the scaffolding, Morlock had simply "sold" it to him. It was cheaper to build it and abandon it than to tear it down and take it back.
For the low price of some basic industrial equipment and the "internship" of his worst priests—who would now be protected by Astartes—he had just acquired a priceless, holy STC fragment.
Grind... squeal...
How could such a good deal exist? These Astartes were utter, brainless fools.
Magos Morlock had won. Massively.
