POV: Nicole

  I exit the Comet in full biohazard protection over my sealed power armour and glance around the hangar. It's worn with battle damage, age, and signs of latent corruption.

  "Pride, status?" I inquire as he approaches. The hangar I chose to land in was the main one currently bereft of any atmosphere.

  "Anathema… I am fully functional. No life signs remain aboard this vessel," Pride replies. He seems to be in a far better mood than he was when he left.

  "What's the status of the ship in your opinion? Is it salvageable?" I ask as I pull out a sprayer, "Prepare for decontamination."

  Pride rolls his eyes but spreads all four of his arms out. "Negative. I recommend termination. Preferably, a violent and explosive termination. While the viral strain I released was designed to self-terminate, the risk remains. Additionally, the leftover biological soup in the lower decks are showing signs of rapid corruption."

  "Did you intentionally or otherwise preserve any of the virus in, on, or around your chassis?" I ask firmly.

  "Negative," he replies. "The idea was tempting, however, I deemed it beneath me."

  Knowing that Pride cannot lie to me, that information is a big relief. I hose him down with the sterilizing foam anyway, just to be sure. "Alright, after the foam, you're getting irradiated, then it's back into your pod… I hope you had fun," I tell him politely.

  "This little distraction proved entertaining enough. The only point of disappointment was when all the barely adequate prey began to flee from me," he says wistfully.

  I spray myself with the sterilizing foam and then grab the large portable irradiator wand. I turn it to its highest setting and aim it at Pride; the beam is so strong that it would kill most individuals, and it even manages to ionize a few spots on the floor around Pride.

  "Right. Well. Let's get out of here so we can blow this cruiser up. We don't need to deal with another Greater Daemon today." I say, shaking my head as I turn off the chemical sprayer.

  "Another?" Pride asks, his chassis now looking utterly pristine.

  "Stupid bird broke through the ship's wards for a few minutes. We are still trying to figure out why since they didn't accomplish much aside from taking a few people of minimal importance," I admit with a shrug.

  "Ah, one of those Change Lords. They tend to be… troublesome. I much prefer Bloodthirsters or the Secret Keepers. Much more enjoyable combatants," Pride admits as he follows me back into the Comet.

  "The less said about the unclean, the better," I grumble as the hatch closes behind me.

  "On that we are agreed, those who would tarnish my magnificent frame are to be avoided at all costs," Pride says as he returns his polearm to its case before priming his stasis chamber.

  "Pride, we likely won't talk again for some time. Given that you are a horrible abomination in the eyes of the Mechanicus, I do not think having you active in one of the largest Forge worlds in the segmentum is prudent."

  Pride scoffs, but his chassis radiates mocking amusement, "You don't say Anathema? Very well." He shifts several plates, popping off some of the larger armour segments and storing them away as he prepares for long-term storage. Before the field activates, however, he asks, "I do hope you do not intend to trade my chassis to some upjumped neanderthal for dissection."

  I look at him and point a finger firmly at him. "No. Mine." He gives me a dumbfounded look, and then the field activates, making me cackle as his face is now frozen in that expression.

  "This is Cavalerio. Strike Cruiser is heavily tainted. Recommend termination," I Vox in as the Comet departs from the empty hangar.

  I watch from my seat in the cockpit as the first few lance strikes are fired the moment we clear a safe distance with the Strike Cruiser. With the Void Shields down, the lance strikes sear straight through her armour layers and deep into her hull. Fire isn't just coming from the Argent Drake; each ship in the fleet takes a turn blasting the Strike Cruiser.

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

  POV: Vander's Landing, Major General Dorian Veldt, Mordian 404th

  Major General Dorian Veldt stood on the starport's primary landing pad staring upwards in full dress uniform, his best men arrayed behind him in full Mordian Iron Guard regalia. The sky was oddly cooperative, with not a cloud in sight. The clear verdant skies allowed him to stare up at the presumably friendly fleet that had slapped away not only the hostile but worse - heretic fleet and taken orbital supremacy around Vander's Landing.

  Dorian thought for the briefest moment that if this was some elaborate ruse by the Archenemy, then he had been played. The losses inflicted on the enemy fleet overall were minor if you accounted for the substantial siege fleet around Mordian herself. Still, roughly a third of the fleet of vessels sent to harass Vander's Landing had failed to escape the alleged Rogue Trader's wrath. The biggest loss was undoubtedly the Strike Cruiser that had since been reduced to a cloud of debris – but only after they had retrieved something from the vessel.

  Dorian had made sure to inform his incoming guests that they still had Night Lords planetside, and he had been candid and upfront regarding their recent issues with assassinations.

  He watched as a small swarm of dots left the Grand Cruiser and entered the planet's atmosphere. In a matter of minutes, they closed on his position. Three distinct shuttles of different patterns and a full fighter escort. The first to land was an ornate gilded shuttle bearing the Rogue Trader's sigil. The second transport was a blue Astartes Storm Bird bearing the Star Dragon's heraldry. The third was the most unusual, another Storm Bird, a variant he had never seen, its hull was a solid reflective silver with minimal iconography. It took him a minute to finally spot the Mechanicus icons embossed on the wings.

  The three transports landed in tandem, their ramps lowered as one. The first to emerge were House Guard in power armour, they had hellguns and some manner of bolt rifle. They reminded Dorian of the Inquisitorial Tempestus Scions or the Karskin Guard as they scanned the landing platform before calling out an all clear and falling into formation, flanking both sides of the Rogue Trader's shuttle.

  The Rogue Trader walked confidently down the ramp flanked by what Dorian assumed to be his retinue. An elderly but poised Seneschal stood behind him with a well-dressed woman. A man in a military-style house guard uniform, his Arch-Militant, gave Dorian a nod of acknowledgement.

  The light power armour the Trader wore was subtle, tasteful, and was nearly mistaken for normal attire. He wore no helmet, there was an ornate blade with a worn but well cared for handle resting at his side, an ancient pistol on the other hip. The man was just as impressive as he had been over the pict feed.

  The sound of heavy boots drew Dorian to the Astartes vessel as over forty Star Dragons emerged, the lead unit wearing that strange terminator plate with the massive pauldrons. One of his archivists had identified it as Saturnine-pattern armour.

  A squad of Skitarii emerged first from the silver transport, followed by the large scuttling, almost spiderlike form of the Archmagos. However, what followed left Dorian confused.

  A small form of a child, or perhaps a very small adult - it was hard to tell without seeing the person's face, in ornate Mechanicus robes, was after the Archmagos. That figure was followed by some of the scariest-looking Skitarii and automata he had ever seen, all led by a large individual unit with an entirely different make from the six others. Then a woman in black, ancient-looking, strange armour – followed by a full squad of Sororitas – emerged, followed by another Star Dragon Astartes, and then the huge form of a Star Dragon Dreadnought followed after. Lastly, a group of Magi and some additional Tech Priests emerged.

  Why had they not come on the other Storm Bird?

  Dorian hid his confusion and made the sign of the Imperial Aquila. "Welcome to Vander's Landing. I apologize for the lack of a proper reception – The planet is without a Governor at present, and things are spread thin."

  Lord Drakios gave him a warm smile. "That's alright, Major General Veldt. We understand you've had a rough go of things. With your permission, we have arranged for hunter teams to pursue your Night Lord infestation."

  "Please provide their last known locations," The Astartes Captain said. Even at a distance, his presence felt like it was looming over them.

  "Of course. Lord Astartes, you shall have it," He nodded politely as he shifted to parade rest, giving a wave to a nearby aide.

  "Excellent. Now, shall we head inside to discuss what my fleet needs and what we are willing to provide you in these trying times?" Lord Drakios asked, yet brokered no alternative.

  "We have prepared the lounge in the central spire for our negotiations," Dorian replied with some relief. He turned and motioned for the Rogue Trader to follow him, yet he was interrupted mid-movement as the small Mechanicus figure spoke up in binaric.

  The Archmagos stepped closer. "My apprentice has noted your second orbital gun is offline. She will rectify this." He gestured, and a swarm of servo skulls shoot off into the city. "I, meanwhile, will identify the optimal location for the Defense Laser emplacement." His gaze turned from Dorian to the local Magos in charge of the port and the city, who started visibly trembling under the Archmagos' scrutiny.

  The little figure spoke up, in perfect high-pitched High Gothic, though the subtle accent was strange, old. "Lael, perhaps you should head to the main cathedral to offer to lead the planet in some prayers? Given the amount of corruption in the system, even a minor blessing from a saint could help protect the planet." The Soriritas all visibly perked up at that suggestion.

  Saint!? Dorian only barely managed to keep a neutral face.

  The word echoed in Dorian's skull far louder than it had any right to. Not shouted, not proclaimed, but spoken casually, as if one might remark upon the weather or the time of day. A saint, here? On his landing pad? He had attended enough events, sat through enough Ecclesiarchal addresses, and overseen enough morale sermons to know that saints did not simply travel with fleets, let alone emerge quietly from Mechanicus transports and give logistical suggestions.

  He felt the brief, instinctive urge to look for confirmation – some visible sign, some impossible radiance, a hush falling over the assembled Guardsmen. There was nothing. The landing pad remained solid ferrocrete beneath his boots, the air smelled of promethium exhaust and ozone, and his men stood as rigid and disciplined as ever. If this was a miracle, it was an exceedingly subtle one.

  Dorian locked his expression into something suitably neutral, schooling every flicker of shock from his face. Mordian officers were trained from youth to master themselves, and he leaned hard on that training now. Saints were the purview of the Ecclesiarchy, not generals, and certainly not his concern. Still, the implications gnawed at him.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the Sororitas' reaction: the way their posture sharpened, helms turning ever so slightly toward the small Mechanicus figure, they seemed keen on the idea suggested and made no move to discount the claim. Faith, he reflected grimly, was often faster than reason.

  The woman in ancient black armour accepted the suggestion without hesitation, bowing her head with a reverence that sent a quiet chill through him. No argument. No clarification. Only obedience. "Alright, my Lady. I will do so."

  Dorian forced himself to breathe evenly. Whatever this "saint" truly was – living relic, political fiction, or something far stranger – it had arrived with allies powerful enough that questioning it openly would serve no one. Least of all Vander's Landing.

  If the Emperor had chosen this moment to intervene, Dorian would acknowledge it in the proper forms, sign the appropriate reports, and keep his defenses intact.

  The Sisters of Battle and the woman accompanied the local Ecclesiarch. While the Dreadnought, the strange Skitarii, and the squad of automata all followed the small figure.

  Lord Captain Bolaar must have noticed his confusion in his microexpressions as he answered his unvoiced question, "Major General, Venerable Baldos has attached himself to Lady Cavalerio's security detail, that is all you need to know."

  Dorian looked over, spotting the massive symbol on the back of the little figure's robes. The icon of the Titanicus is on full display. "I… see, thank you, Lord Bolaar," he said, though his confusion had only grown.

  Dorian quickly checked his dataslate, pulling up the profile he had been given from the list of VIPs. That little girl was the Archmagos's apprentice. It also stated that she was a Princeps and a multi-disciplinary Magos.

  Dorian closed that tab and shook his head. Not his problem. If the Archmagos thought she could fix the gun, she could fix the gun, and he was not stupid enough to stop her.

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

  Dorian had managed to secure a few hours to prepare for negotiations with Lord Drakios while the Rogue Trader toured the facilities. All while the Star Dragons combed the port and city for the Night Lords.

  "Can anyone here tell me anything I should know about our guests?" He asked as he swept his gaze around the room.

  His lead Enginseer, Magos Torq-2, leaned hard on his Omnissian Axe, "That… was Archmagos Akellonon Doll of the Great Lathes." Seeing the confused looks on Dorian and the other officers, he hissed: "He has a reputation. His faction, the Levelists, are infamous… populist, egalitarian, they are radical progressives. The Archmagos himself is a renowned artisan. His having an apprentice is… a new development."

  "Can we trust the apprentice to repair the orbital gun? She was wearing Titanicus robes," Dorian asked, tapping a finger on his desk.

  Torq-2, normally a serious, stoic, and professional individual, cackled nigh maniacally. "Omnissiah, forgive me. If that… child can't fix it, no one can." Then he whispered, "You can't see it. You can't feel her presence in the Noosphere. Read her titles and accolades."

  Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright then. Let her fix it. What about Lord Drakios or this… Saint?"

  The local Cardinal spoke up, "Saint Lael is scheduled to lead a mass prayer and blessing in the Imperial chapel this evening. The Order of the Silver Lily has thoroughly documented her and the nature of her blessings. The only point of contention is that the Saint seems to insist she continues to serve this… Lady Cavalerio." He shot Torq-2 a confused look.

  The Magos stared back flatly and shook his head. "It is a Mechanicus matter above me. I can only say their haste to reach Cypra Mundi is genuine and warranted."

  "What? Did they find an STC or something?" One of his officers joked, only for Torq-2 to slowly turn his head and stare at the man.

  "Attempting to petition that they delay their departure is most unwise," Torq-2 replied coldly.

  After a long moment of silence, as everyone considered that statement and what was left unspoken, Dorian cleared his throat. "Right. I will adjust my requests then. Do we have anything on Lord Trader Drakios?"

  One of the Administratum adepts shuffled forward. "Lord Arken Drakios, the current patriarch of the Drakios Dynasty. They have near-total control over the Subsector of the same name, with only two Astartes-owned systems as outliers, within the Ixaniad Sector. His records spoke of an extensive combat history that portrayed the man as an exceptional and experienced naval combatant as well as a tactical and cunning troop commander, against traitor and Xenos forces alike. One who favored precision strikes or, when situations allowed for it, overwhelming force. His daughter, the heir apparent, was not on the manifest; his granddaughter is, but she remains in orbit for now. They were recently in Ur-Haven, where they encountered a Lord Inquisitor and repelled a Chaos invasion. Much of those documents are redacted. However, in the gap between there and here, the assets in their fleet have changed drastically. This is based on what documents they were willing and able to disclose to us. The Emergency Repairs III, the Cry Havoc, and the Cobalt Coatl are all marked as recent salvage." The adept wiped at his brow with a kerchief.

  "I recognize the first two as the Mechanicus and Titanicus vessels, respectively. What's that third?" Dorian asked.

  "They politely but sternly told me not to ask when I inquired, Major General. All we know is that the ship is a destroyer. They have a standing order to shoot anyone who attempts to board it without explicit permission from either the Archmagos himself or his disciple. I withdrew my inquiry afterwards." The adept admitted.

  Dorian blinked slowly. "I don't need anyone to pry into their secrets. I just need to know if I can expect a generous or ruthless negotiator."

  "Observation puts the Rogue Trader in high spirits. They've already started shipping down entire landers full of high-grade munitions. We would lean towards generous, but… they are a Rogue Trader, Sir." The adept reminded Dorian nervously.

  Dorian nodded, "Right. I will proceed cautiously. They stated they required a restock of their food supplies. We have plenty of that, thank the Emperor."

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

  Dorian strode into the meeting precisely on time, his dress blues pressed, medals gleaming.

  Lord Drakios was already inside and turned to study Dorian for a long moment before he stroked his beard. "Major General, you strike me as a man who enjoys a good bourbon or rum." He waved a hand as one of the staff brought over a clear crystal bottle of light brown liquid.

  Dorian nodded politely. "You have a good eye, Lord Drakios."

  Drakios smiled, poured two glasses, and handed one to Dorian. "At ease, General. I understand you're the only one left on the planet to handle this. Lucky for you, my request is simple: We need a full restock of food for my entire fleet. We have the exact tonnage figures. In exchange, we're prepared to provide an obscene amount of bolt ammunition, an orbital defense laser, and other assorted arms and munitions."

  Dorian held the glass as he considered the request. It was very simple and straightforward. "That seems rather generous of you, Lord Drakios." Dorian's voice held a hint of suspicion that he couldn't quite mask.

  Drakios smirked, "It is. I'm feeling quite generous." Then his smile fell briefly. "I'm sorry to say this, General, but we can't loiter. We need to get to Cypra Mundi as soon as possible. We'll take word of the situation here to Cypra Mundi and give the blockade a bother on our way out."

  Dorian nodded. "I understand, delivering the STC takes precedence," he said, fishing for a reaction.

  Drakios's eyes narrowed for a brief moment before he laughed. "A good guess!" He held up his glass and clinked it against Dorian's before he downed it. "We may make a negotiator out of you yet, General, but it's deliveries, plural," Drakios corrected him with a smug twinkle in his eye.

  Dorian bought himself a moment by downing his own glass. It burned on the way down, just the way he liked it. "I see. Vander's Landing is happy to provide all the supplies you require; we have plenty. We thank you for your patronage and generosity. Lord Drakios," Dorian said with a bow.

  Drakios waved off the praise. "We estimate it'll take a few weeks to get everything loaded. We'll be here till then, helping shore up and fix your defenses. We're also in the market for skilled sailors and voidsmen in case you have any stranded here," he added pointedly.

  Dorian nodded. "We can indeed help with that. I'll get you a full list of men within the week."

  "Excellent!" Drakios seemed pleased as he stood and clapped his hands together before gesturing at the drink. "Then I won't keep you. You can keep the bottle. You've earned it, soldier. Not many have the spine to stare down an Astares even over the Vox."

  Dorian was surprised but responded on reflex with a crisp salute. "We're Mordian. It's expected of us, the Iron Guard, we always follow our orders. Sir."

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

  POV: Nicole

  I am not sure what I expected from visiting my first Agri World, but overall, it feels quite mundane, albeit obnoxiously green, endless rows of tended fields stretch past the horizon in every direction. The air is of surprisingly good quality, though there's a pervasive and constant smell of fertilizers in the air.

  The planet seems to have a lack of high-ranking Mechanicus. No Archmagos, and the absolute minimum of Magi of any kind. What Mechanicus personnel are present consist mostly of Tech Adepts, Tech Priests, and Enginseers, all from the local minor Forge World of Rho-Delpha.

  That Forge World had already fallen to the machinations of the Archenemy. Given the reports on how swiftly that planet was taken, it seems extremely likely that one of the upper-ranking Archmagi, if not the Fabricator General himself, fell to temptation and corruption offered by the daemons of Tzeentch and compromised the planet.

  The size and nature of my retinue cause the locals to avoid me if possible. I can admit it might be a little intimidating, and a large number of the people we pass stop to gape or bow to Baldos. We could have taken the Comet, but I wanted to take the train, so we're taking the train.

  The Planetary Defense cannon I plan to fix is a squat thing that sits within one of the Planetary Defense bases, just like its fully functioning twin on the other side of the main Hive. It's a hefty Macro Cannon weapon, not Plasma or Laser like the additional one Master Doll is going to install.

  The digital report on how the cannon is malfunctioning is rather lacking. It's not even signed by a Tech Priest, which is most unusual.

  The Planetary Defense Forces manning the base were forewarned of my arrival. One of the Mordian Guard officers is waiting for me in his crisp dress uniform. Even so, as we disembark the train, we draw eyes. There is a distinct lack of red robes.

  "Ma'am!" He salutes. "Welcome to Installation VL-G1. If I may, Ma'am, how may I address you?"

  "First Lieutenant Gulf, you may address me as Princeps Senioris, Magos Cavalerio, or Lady Cavalerio. Where is the Tech Priest in charge of the installation?" I ask while sweeping the area with AME's Auspex. "It is imperative I speak with them immediately."

  "Thank you, Magos Cavalerio. I am afraid that request cannot be completed. As I have recently discovered, according to local records, the Tech Priest in charge of this installation is deceased and has been for nine years. The request for a replacement from Rho-Delpha Forge is still pending."

  I pause for a brief moment to process that nugget of information. "Lieutenant Gulf, am I to understand that in this entire facility, there is not a single Mechanicus individual above the Minoris ranks? No Tech Priest, not even an Enginseer on loan from the Guard? Not one!? And not only is there no one of that rank here, but no one of that rank has bothered to come ascertain and document the nature of the failure of the defense cannon or even attempt repairs?"

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  I look closely at the facility, and the signs are there. Despite the presence of the crews, this facility was likely abandoned before the system was attacked; the men here are recent arrivals. There's too much hastily swept dust, rust, and neglect. They're here to sell the illusion of a working cannon.

  If the First Lieutenant is at all bothered by my slowly building fury, he hides it well. "That is correct, Ma'am."

  "Do you know what I like more than bluffs, Lieutenant?" I ask calmly.

  "Ma'am?" Lieutenant Gulf looks confused, so I clarify.

  "Working infrastructure," I huff out. I know it's not the fault of the soldiers, but there are no suitable outlets for my ire at this neglected facility.

  "Gather every Mechanic, Technician, and Tech-Acolyte in this facility. Have them assemble in one of the training fields. Before I conduct the repairs, I need to make certain things clear." I say, my voice perfectly even. "They have until I return from my initial inspection of the cannon."

  Lieutenant Gulf departs immediately, barking orders at the nearby soldiers.

  I walk into the primary facility, and several massive ancient shells stand upright, ready to be loaded. AME continues to scan the facility as I make my way towards the control center. I frown, critical parts are missing from the assembly, and the spirit of the gun is slumbering so deeply it may require reconstitution.

  I dig deep into the archives of his place. Compiling the various spools of data and analyzing them deeply. The data tells a story of why this facility has been avoided by the Tech Priests.

  The previous Tech Priest, before his untimely crushing while replacing the primary gear mechanism for the traversing barrel mount, served this post for nearly a century with no elevation. The same could be said of the previous adepts. A dead-end position with little to no upward mobility. One might think working on a giant cannon might entice some, but when you are only allowed to work on the giant cannon, it becomes far less appealing.

  Despite the neglect, it is well within my abilities to repair with conventional replacement parts and a bit of Technomancy.

  I pull out the operational data within the central cogitator and compare it to the operational manuals available. Several major discrepancies have not been properly documented and require key adjustments to the various rites and rituals required for operation.

  Nearly all the people working at this location are locals from Vander's Landing, Lieutenant Gulf is a trueborn Mordian, and a few migrated from other planets in the system. They are by no means the well-educated Drakios crew or Levelists from the Argent Drake. The words Grim and Derp come to mind before I banish the thought. I need to cram months of learning into a scant few weeks. These are simple people who respect power and live in fear.

  "Whelp. Time to go play scary Magos and whip these fools into shape." I say aloud.

  Baldos rumbles in approval, "Good, Littlest one, good."

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

  POV: Tech Acolyte Hale-9

  Adept Hale scanned the parade grounds as they were made to gather by the local PDF garrison for the facility.

  It had only been three years since she had been assigned here. A position the Mechanicus regarded as a dead-end assignment with minimal advancement prospects. With their lead Tech Priest dead and no replacement in sight that could repair the weapon that was proving to be prophetic.

  Still, she had done her work, as one of the few adepts with a full suite of Mechanicus implants, she stood above the other menials. In that time, she had honed an odd skill. She didn't share it much, but she had gotten quite keen at reading body language and faces.

  The PDF forces were moving with haste. Like someone had lit a fire under their asses. She spotted the crisp blue of a Mordian officer overseeing the gathering. Even he looked tense.

  When it started to get crowded, it sank in. They had gathered absolutely everyone who worked in VL-G1.

  A friend and coworker of hers, Burt, grumbled, "What is this farce about?"

  "Burt… Take my advice today and keep your mouth shut. Something's going on. The Mordian Guard is here, and their officer is sweating bullets," she whispered.

  Her attention was drawn to the raised platform that overlooked the grounds. Hale had seen Skitarii before, in all shapes and sizes, during her stint at the Forge. The squad of Skitarii that walked up and took positions around the edge stage was like absolutely nothing she had seen before. Then a quartet of automata took up positions in a square in the middle of the stage.

  The lead unit stalked across the stage with inhuman grace, its taloned feet clicking softly against the steel deck. Optics and augur-sensors swept the assembled personnel in a single, clinical pass, dismissing them all as irrelevant.

  Hale pinged its noospheric tag.

  DELTA-A3-RAPTOR. House Cavalerio Master of Skitarii

  "Area secure." The strange Skitarii stepped back into formation.

  Tink.

  The sound of metal touching metal echoed across the hall.

  Tink.

  Hale's breath caught as a red hood crested the edge of the stage. She straightened instinctively. Platinum trim. Not brass. Not copper. Not gold. Platinum.

  Around her, the PDF and Imperial Guard snapped to attention as one.

  The figure beneath the hood was petite, almost delicate – but the source of the steady tinking was the base of an exquisitely wrought Omnissian axe, its haft striking the deck with measured intent. Skitarii and automata formed a perfect square around her, a moving sanctum of steel and silence.

  The hooded figure stood at the center of the stage and regarded them all. A soft, feminine voice emerged from beneath the hood in impeccable High Gothic before shifting to Low Gothic – calm, precise, utterly unyielding. "It has come to my attention that this facility's primary weapon has been rendered inoperable." She paused. "For years."

  Hale felt the words settle like a weight.

  "This condition persists due to compounded failures within the Mechanicus and the Administratum. You are responsible for the operation of this installation. You were not provided the knowledge or guidance necessary to restore it."

  Another pause. Deliberate.

  "My presence here will be brief. During that time, I will enact the required repairs. I will also ensure that each of you is capable of operating and maintaining the cannon to my standards." The hood tilted slightly. "Prepare yourselves. You. Will. Learn." She turned and walked from the stage. The Skitarii and automata moved with her, vanishing as silently as they had arrived.

  Hale caught sight of the sigil on the back of the Magos' robes and very nearly fainted.

  "Thank you, Magos Cavalerio," the Mordian officer announced, voice steady with effort. His gaze turned to the crowd, his eyes hard. "You will prepare for remedial instruction over the next week. Let me be absolutely clear – her presence here is a privilege and a gift."

  He let his gaze sweep the hall.

  "As far as this installation is concerned, the word of Magos Cavalerio is law. Only two individuals on this planet outrank her: her master, the visiting Archmagos of the Lathes, and the Rogue Trader Lord Admiral currently loitering in orbit."

  A beat of silence.

  "You will conduct yourselves as proper Mordians. I will also remind you that, in addition to her Skitarii and personal guard, two of the holy Emperor's Adeptus Astartes have been assigned as her escort." The implication needed no explanation. "You are dismissed."

  As the hall began to empty, Hale attempted – foolishly – to glimpse at the Magos through the noosphere. The digital presence that answered nearly overwhelmed her. Data burned across her augments, layered titles and sigils cascading faster than her cortex could parse. Pain flared, sharp and immediate, like staring into the heart of a fusion reactor.

  Her systems stuttered, then retreated, displaying only what her clearance allowed.

  MATRIARCH CAVALERIO.

  PRINCEPS SENIORIS.

  MAGOS.

  "Hale…" another acolyte whispered, pale and tight-voiced. "How bad is this? They don't really expect the cannon to be operational in a week, do they?"

  Hale swallowed, her mouth dry. "You'd better brush up on your rites, Burt," she said quietly. "I think the Magos is serious."

  —--------

  Hale soon found out for herself that the Mordian officer had somehow drastically understated the nature of the individuals guarding the Magos.

  She tried not to gawk like some backwater yokel at the Astartes Dreadnought looming behind the petite Magos, along with another Astartes in blue armour with heraldry matching the Dreadnought.

  "So, you twelve are the highest-ranked acolytes among the menials and Adepts Inferior?" The Magos looked at them all, and Hale could tell she wasn't impressed.

  "I've compiled a list of the rites and rituals from all the cogitators and records in this facility. I also took the opportunity to amend them after discussing with the local Machine spirits. I've uploaded the instructions to the main databanks and your personal dataslates. I expect you to follow them precisely," The Magos explained with a wave of her hand.

  Hale looked down at her biometrically locked and encrypted dataslate and the new file within. She stared at the file with a mix of awe and horror.

  The Magos paused and slowly looked up. "Delta, Silverwalker, Baldos… we have a rat in the attic."

  "How many?" The Dreadnought rumbled.

  "Just the one," The Magos replied casually.

  "Bah." The Dreadnought didn't even bother moving, electing to leave the chase to the other two.

  A rat? Hale barely had time to blink before the Astartes and the Skitarii leapt into motion, their figures blurring as they vanished into the labyrinth of machinery.

  "Now then. Baldos, if you're staying here, want to help lift the gear assembly into place? It should be within the maximum tolerances for your chassis," The Magos asked, and Hale got to watch as the massive replacement part was hoisted into place without any of the normally required machinery, all thanks to the efforts of the Lord Dreadnought. Then it struck Hale how casually the Magos addressed the ancient, the ancient did not punish her for the audacity of performing labor?!

  Hale didn't have long to mull over the sight, however, as the Magos singled her out, "Acolyte Hale, tell me what you know of the Lores and Mysteries of the Mechanicus?"

  Hale was unable to stifle a small whimper. "Very little, Magos. My education is lacking. I believe one of the Lores is 'The Omnissiah knows all, comprehends all?'"

  The Magos clicked her tongue. "That is one of the sixteen lores. Specifically, that is one of the Mysteries. The Lores are divided into the Mysteries and Warnings. But do you know what any of them mean?" She asked, and Hale could only shake her head.

  What followed was one of the most educational lectures on the tenets of the Mechanicus Hale had ever heard. She wasn't the only one; a glance confirmed the other Acolytes were all hanging off the Magos's every word.

  The hours were long, but they were all used to working such shifts, it was the mental strain from all the learning and new information she and a majority of her fellows struggled with. The Magos seemed to never tire, that initial ridiculous repair schedule was getting closer to completion by the hour.

  Hale heard from one of the Crew Chiefs during dinner that, apparently, the rat that the Astartes and Skitarii had hunted down had been an enemy Astartes assassin. Given that the two had returned and the Chief was complaining about the bloody mess in the rafters, the assassin had been dealt with.

  Despite being present for a majority of the repairs, Hale was still dumbfounded when, less than forty-eight hours later, they were nearly ready for a test firing.

  Hale found herself going through the detailed list of procedures and rituals provided on her dataslate along with her compiled notes from the Magos's impromptu lectures. She had the distinct impression that a vast majority of this new information was well above what she should have as a Tech Acolyte.

  Hale even found the spine to bring up this issue to the Magos.

  "Acolyte Hale, you are entirely correct. The information I have provided is above your current rank but still within the level of the Novitiates. You can and should use it to reach the rank of Initiate, Technographer, or Tech Priest at the very least. That you even raised this issue with me shows your respect for the knowledge within." She had politely smiled at Hale as she finished, her voice gentle as she shattered Hale's worldview. "My reason for distributing this information is that I simply do not care: I want this facility to meet my standards, and sharing this information expedited things well enough. The highest-ranking Mechanicus individual present on this planet is my Master, Archmagos Doll, who already knows what I'm doing here and heartily approves. Thus, there is no one on this planet to stop me from disseminating the proper teachings of the Mechanicus to you, lowly Acolytes. Every member of my staff, from my Skitarii to my Legio's lowest Acolytes, has access to similar information and more. This is my bare minimum. In my eyes, most of those working under you are barely better than Servitors or Tech Thralls."

  Hale had wisely shut her mouth and continued her studies after that little chat.

  —----

  "Acolyte Hale-9, Acolyte Burt-11, Acolyte Roal-2, I am placing you in charge of the main firing mechanism and targeting. The Machine spirits of the cannon and primary systems tolerate you three the most. Your roles all overlap with each other. At least one of you is expected to be on site at all times. I have highlighted individuals who may suffice as trainees for your positions, it is up to you to train them. All other Acolytes will be distributed between loading, ammunition storage, the primary reactor, and Auspex maintenance," the Magos decreed with a dismissive air.

  Hale was elated at the assignment. It was a highly sought-after position within the facility. She was still coming to terms with the fact that Machine spirits were quite real and the Magos seemed to be able to commune with them at will.

  "Magos, already? It's only been a week," one of the other Acolytes asked nervously.

  "Afirmative. The Cannon is operational. You have reached a passable level of familiarity with your duties and communion with the Holy machines. Practice and time will polish what skills you have been given. Thus, my little dalliance here is concluded." The Magos stretched and flexed her mechadendrite suite, the silvery limbs moving just a little too quickly for Hale to feel comfortable.

  Hale stood and bowed while making the sign of the cog. "Thank you for your instruction, Magos Cavalerio!" She had gotten over how youthful the Magos looked after the first series of lessons, beat it into them just how far out of their league she was.

  The rest of the Acolytes quickly followed suit.

  Hale caught a brief and slight look of surprise from the Magos in the corner of her eyes.

  "... You are welcome… With the entire planet focused on replenishing our fleet, the stores should be nearing full. We have pressing matters to attend to on Cypra Mundi. May the Machine God's hand guide your efforts as it does mine. Farewell." The Magos turned and left without a single glance back.

  Hale turned back to her colleagues, "Right… So… who wants first shift?"

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

  POV: Lord of Change, M'Kachen, Lord of the Changehost

  M'Katchen was in the midst of experiencing an unusual emotion, one he did not suffer often, vexation.

  His arm still tingled from the recent exertion of extracting the minions desired by Skra'kalichaust. The retrieval of which required far more of his attention and finesse than it should have given the factors involved in his favor. Finding a way through that unusual and clever warding scheme with the tether had been a delightful little distraction. While the energy expended and resources that he had lost were unfortunate, there was little the Rogue Trader fleet could do to impact the ongoing siege meaningfully. Thus, he had ignored them, unwilling to squander the resources required to deal with them outright, as it would set back his careful and cunning plans for Mordian by months.

  None of that was the source of his vexation.

  He knew Skra'kalichaust must have a scheme in mind for the particular individuals he had recovered. Before handing them over, he needed to know what exactly. He had scanned their bodies and scoured their minds – gently but thoroughly, for the information, and yet he had found nothing of any value.

  He had gone over them all nine times, divined their fates, and still he had been left wanting!

  The painter, bearing the tether, was barely mildly interesting. A soul from the past, with familial ties and loyalties to the late Warmaster. Their diminutive tie of fate to the peculiar Anomaly had been severed. The efforts of his art while under the sway of Skra'kalichaust were… passable. His mate and the rest of the cultists were less than interesting. No secret abilities, no powerful psychic souls, no hidden artifacts, no grand fates in their future, no forbidden knowledge nestled within.

  Where was the change? The sorcery? The touch of destiny?

  M'Katchen, for the merest of moments, considered that Skra'kalichaust, the Deceiver, may have been forthcoming and truthful with his initial request. He discarded that notion immediately. The mere idea itself was absurd. The Deceiver telling him the naked truth, that would go against the essence of his being, yet would not that be the ultimate deception?

  However, the effort of prying into Skra'kalichaust's scheme was detracting from his efforts on Mordian and was taking precious focus away from maintaining his vessel in the prime material that was required for coordinating the Changehost.

  M'Katchen seethed; he was enacting their Master's will, bringing change to this system, and playing the Great Game well. Skra'kalichaust's move did not fit the board – not part of the game at all. Whatever web of fate Skra'kalichaust had woven these few lowly pawns into eluded him, and that was unacceptable.

  A grand deception? To what end? No, Skra'kalichaust was traversing the Emperyian to come collect them from him personally. Why? Why?! Why!?

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

  POV: Rogue Trader Lord Admiral Arken Drakios

  Arken Drakios took no small pleasure in watching the shuttles cycle through the starport – descending in disciplined arcs, bellies yawning open, then lifting once more under the weight of his fleet's needs. The rhythm of it all, an entire planet bending its logistics toward his will, stirred an old and very fond memory. There had been a time when such displays of authority had felt new. Now, they simply felt right.

  The past two weeks had unfolded with gratifying efficiency. Whatever enemy forces had been stranded planetside after the fleet's arrival had vanished almost immediately – scattering into the slums once the first Night Lord assassins crossed paths with the hunter teams. Fear, it seemed, was still the most reliable counterinsurgency tool in the galaxy.

  Every cargo pallet of foodstuffs was scanned, inspected, sanctified, and logged, once on loading, and once on unloading. Excessive, perhaps. But absolutely necessary.

  It amused him greatly that both he and Archmagos Doll had independently assigned personnel to 'keep an eye' on Nicole, only for her to spend most of her time sequestered in an orbital weapons platform, elbow-deep in repairs. Doll himself was nearly finished installing the new defense laser, and Arken had taken the opportunity to rest – if only slightly – and review the latest sector reports.

  They made for grim reading.

  Multiple sub-sectors were under active siege, and several others had gone ominously silent. The silver lining of the situation was that the Chaos fleets were ignoring Vander's Landing entirely, though worryingly, their attention in this System was fixed squarely on Mordian. There was little Arken could do about that – at least directly – but preparations were already underway. Encrypted data packets would be sent ahead, informing Mordian of the situation and, more importantly, assuring them that Cypra Mundi would not be left ignorant.

  Drakios felt his thoughts drifting off topic and shook his head to refocus on the task at hand and their immediate concerns. In particular, the planet he was currently standing upon.

  Vander's Landing was a simple Agri world. Honest, even. No bloated aristocracies, no ancient rivalries layered atop one another like sedimentary rock. Cypra Mundi, on the other hand, was an entirely different beast.

  The extensive preparations for their next destination had consumed most of his retinue's time and patience. Cypra Mundi would involve replenishing massive swaths of crew, materials, and the transfer of the numerous artifacts and of course most importantly, the STC fragments and the ceramics STC. They would have the entire fleet undergo maintenance; it would be neglectful to waste the chance while visiting what could be argued was the segmentum's greatest shipyard. He required a full account of his current resources and then anticipated value for a number of items along with all the proper documentation for the finds. There would undoubtedly be questions. Luckily Doll had provided him with the official account of what happened in the Processional.

  He had permitted Arianwyn to visit the surface only after the capital city of Vander's Landing had been fully secured. Now, with matters well in hand, he was en route to a quieter obligation: lunch with his beloved grandchild.

  He made his way to the prepared luncheon spot, his guards trailing discreetly behind him as he made his way through the palace.

  Drakios saw his granddaughter sitting before a wide observation window overlooking the starport, her gaze tracking a departing lander as it clawed its way skyward.

  "Grandfather!" she greeted brightly when she noticed him.

  Arken smiled and settled into the seat opposite her. "Ari. How's the tea?"

  "Passable," she admitted, dropping another sugar cube into the cup with practiced defiance. "Their planet-specific blend is a bit bitter." She paused, studying him. "So. What did you need from me, Grandfather?"

  He inclined his head. Straight to the point. Good.

  "We need to talk; It's overdue. You've never been to Cypra Mundi, and even if you had… this visit will not resemble any journey we've taken before. You'll need to conduct yourself accordingly."

  Her posture straightened slightly.

  "While Archmagos Doll and Nicole will absorb most of the Mechanicus' attention," he continued, "we will be required to make our own arrangements. I want to be very clear about something: you are not to follow Nicole's lead." His gaze locked with hers. "Do you understand why?"

  Arianwyn winced, then nodded. "Nicole has her own priorities. Chief among them is acquiring her Engine. If Cypra Mundi has it – if it's intact, complete, and functional – it will color every interaction she has with them."

  "Good," Arken said softly. "And in either extreme?"

  "Well…" Ari hesitated, thinking it through. "If it's there and operational, she'll be cooperative. Generous, even. We already have multiple STCs and relics of interest, her restricted Titanicus data, stellar spectrographic records from the recovered probe—not to mention her own services as leverage."

  She exhaled. "If it isn't there… things get complicated. I don't think she'll be particularly forgiving."

  Arken's finger tapped once against the tabletop. "Precisely. Nicole and Doll will manage the Mechanicus politics. Once our payment for the STC is established, we will negotiate with the Imperial Navy and… other interested parties."

  His smile turned faintly predatory. "It would not surprise me in the slightest if our fleet doubles in size once they fully grasp what Nicole represents and what we have extracted from the Processional."

  Arianwyn groaned quietly. "Which means we'll have to deal with the local nobility."

  "Indeed," Arken replied with a dry chuckle. "When the scent of profit reaches the spires, everyone will come sniffing. Such is the nature of good fortune."

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

  POV: Vander's Landing, Major General Dorian Veldt, Mordian 404th

  Dorian watched as the last lander loaded with food shot upwards and vanished into the clouds. It meant the comforting presence of the Rogue Trader's fleet in orbit was at an end. The loss of the fleet and the Astartes would primarily be felt in morale.

  With the second orbital cannon online and the main array for the defense laser installed, the spaceport was more than ready to keep another ship at bay. In a few months, the defense laser would be fully online, and they'd be even better defended. Though if the enemy was truly committed and devoted a fraction of the forces invested in the siege of Mordian, there was little he could do to dissuade them from taking the planet.

  The Rogue Trader had been more than amicable and fair in their exchange, generous even. Their fleet could not loiter; even his level of clearance had only gotten him the barest glimpse at their substantial cargo manifest.

  The Navigators had all confirmed that the well-mapped route to Cypra Mundi looked surprisingly stable and intact, especially so when compared to the Warp Storm partially obscuring the system.

  He had faith that Mordian could hold out for some time. Which meant they merely needed to hold on for a few months and wait for Cypra Mundi to send a proper fleet to break the siege and retake the system. Mordian was too valuable for any other response.

  He glanced back at the pile of reports from the rest of the guests. The visiting Archmagos, as it turned out, was somewhat of a radical within the Mechanicus. Sharing knowledge far more openly than Dorian was used to. His apprentice had similar views; she was an enigma who had somehow trained up the new orbital gun team to well above standards in just two weeks. The more he had peeked at her, the less he had wanted to know. Every member of his team, especially Torq-2, had stressed that the girl was a Mechanicus matter and any unusual observations were to be ignored with prejudice.

  The blessing from the Saint had worked; that alone had been quite the sight to behold. Dorian had been forced to personally remind the local Ministorum that the Saint was a guest who doubled as the personal bodyguard for the little Magos. One armed with a large number of very protective Sororitas with current orbital superiority. They had half coaxed, half bribed, and begged a few more sermons from the Saint.

  Thankfully, they had found a candidate for their replacement Planetary Governor during the lull in hostilities. They would be inducted next week and take some of the administrative burdens away from him, which was a very welcome change.

  Dorian made his way toward the main landing pad. A brief glance at his reflection in a polished plasteel panel, followed by a final inspection from one of his aides, confirmed that his full dress uniform was immaculate.

  As it should be.

  Dorian stepped out onto the landing pad as the Rogue Trader's transport made preparations to depart. The craft was ostentatious even by voidborn standards – sleek lines, gilt trim, and a prow marked with heraldry. A reminder that wealth, in the Imperium, could still buy individuality, but even so, it was hard to say which was more striking, that ornate craft, the rugged practical but well-kept Astartes Storm Bird, or the strange shining, sleek silver cousin of the Storm Bird owned apparently by the little Lady Princeps.

  Dorian came to attention as he spotted the Lord Trader, boots snapping together, and rendered a crisp salute. "Lord-Captain. Vander's Landing stands in your debt."

  The Rogue Trader returned the gesture with a more casual inclination of the head, a faint smile touching their lips. "Major General, you have my thanks for your hospitality and my respect."

  "Experience has taught us the value of preparation, Sir," Dorian replied evenly.

  A brief pause followed, the kind laden with unspoken assessments. The Rogue Trader's gaze drifted momentarily toward the orbital cannon towers rising beyond the spaceport's perimeter, then to the sky above.

  "You will hold," the Rogue Trader said at last. Not a promise – an appraisal.

  "We intend to," Dorian answered confidently.

  "Mordian will not stand alone for long. We will carry the good word to Cypra Mundi and the Navy while the Navigators proclaim the path is clear," Lord Drakios said as he offered his hand.

  As Dorian took the offered hand and shook it, he spotted the two hulking figures of Lord Bolaar and the Archmagos.

  Dorian inclined his head. "May the Emperor grant you safe passage, Lord-Captain. Lord-Astartes. Archmagos." The pair gave him nods of acknowledgement before they moved to board. He saw in his peripheral vision the small red-robed figure of the apprentice wave briefly at him as she boarded her craft.

  The transports sealed and lifted moments later, engines roaring as they rose to join the waiting fleet beyond the atmosphere. Dorian remained at attention until the craft vanished from sight, only then allowing himself to exhale.

  Dorian held his salute for several seconds longer than regulation demanded, then lowered his arm. The air felt colder without the fleet above, the sky suddenly vast and indifferent.

  He turned back toward the command spire, the weight of the coming months settling firmly into place.

  Vander's Landing would stand – or it would burn – but it would do so without borrowed strength.

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

  POV: Rogue Trader Arken Drakios

  Arken looked out the drudge viewport as the fleet made its transition across the Mordian system.

  They were giving Mordian and the siege fleet a fairly wide berth as they headed for the Mandeville Point that would let them head for Cypra Mundi. Despite that, he had expected something from the enemy, but they remained unusually focused.

  The Argent Drake had already sent several encrypted burst transmissions, relayed through one of the small satellites scattered throughout the system to Mordian. They would be intercepted, of course, but decryption would take time, and none of the information relayed was critical.

  A main concern was further daemonic interference, but Lily had confirmed that the horrific presence responsible for briefly breaching their psychic protections was… distracted?

  Arken had a choice. His gunnery officers had calculated various firing arcs over the past few days. The ideal window for harassment was dwindling. Even if said harassment wouldn't reach the enemy till they were nearly gone. He hummed loudly in contemplation

  "My Lord?" Major Milo of his House Guard inquired deferentially.

  "I have made my decision. Reserve Lady Cavalerio's planet crackers," Drakios decreed.

  "Yes, Sir, what about the rest?" Milo asked in a controlled but curious tone.

  "My Grandfather always encouraged us to replace our torpedo stock every few decades. An old Navy superstition, that the Machine spirits for the more basic warheads can grow slothful from disuse, like overfed hunting dogs." Arken considered where they were headed and the resources he anticipated would be available to him. "All of them," he whispered as he decided.

  "Sir?" Milo asked as he leaned forward.

  "All. Of. Them. I'm feeling… spiteful, Milo." His voice echoed through the bridge as the officers froze for a moment. "Inform the torpedo crews they'll be getting additional hazard pay for the trouble," he said with a contented smile as he heard men barking orders and watched the first salvo of plasma torpedoes sail off into the void.

  — —

  "Lord Drakios, that was the last of them aside from the reserved warheads and the boarding torpedoes." The gunnery officer announced several hours later. "All tubes will arrive at the edge of the siege fleet in three days, seven hours, forty-six minutes, with a margin of error of forty seconds."

  "Forty?" Arken asked, raising an eyebrow as he turned away from the viewport.

  "There was a minor error in the weight calculations for a portion of the melta warheads, a different pattern than the rest of the stock. It will not happen again, My Lord," the officer explained, head bowed.

  Arken chuckled, "Forty is acceptable given the circumstances and distances involved. It is, however, a shame we won't get to see if they appreciate our parting gifts." He leaned into the Vox transmitter "All ships maintain formation and make best speed to the Mandeville Point."