The Fabricator General - a title he now more and more insisted on being called by to cement his authority - stared at the many vid-feeds before him. The spycraft flying over Earth showed information that was more disconcerting with every passing moment. This new realm uniting the cradle of humanity was not just another barbarian statelet as the Martians had grown accustomed to seeing from the Terrans. However, this was… an Imperium. Places devastated by war brought by their genetically engineered armies were elevated to megapolises in just a few years after being flattened.

It seemed nobody was really able to stop the growth of this realm. Quality and quantity alike favoured this golden warlord, and even the most cynical projection showed that soon this Emperor would be able to call the entirety of Terra his own. The army that he had - if it also kept growing - would be grand and mighty enough to seriously threaten a conventional defeat of the Martian army. They could call upon the rest of the Galactic Machine cult, but with the paths of travel being as unstable as they are it could be decades before some sort of true response could be assembled, assuming it even was. Many Forge worlds greedily eyed the position of Mars as the head of the Mechanicum and it was not clear just how severe this lust for power was among some of the more powerful and independent Forgeworlds.

There was however, one thing the Terrans had no clear way to surmount. They had not the quantity of spacecraft to mount a credible invasion. The orbital defences of Mars even damaged as they were would be enough to blow whatever they could throw at the moment out of the sky. The spacecraft of Mars would cut a heavy toll on the disbelievers even before that.

But who knew what would change. Though there was nominal peace on Mars with the Fulgurites and Corpuscarii unable to maintain their war, Salkor knew that rebuilding their damage would take years. That meant that restoring lost forces, erecting further defences, and other measures to defend from a Terran invasion. Moreover, the probability of sending a punitive expedition of sorts to strangle any hypothetical spaceport being built on Terra was also at best a fantasy.

It was a race, he supposed. A question of who would recover first and faster from their respective bloodsheds and reunifications. Between this upstart warlords and perhaps the single most advanced realm of humanity, Salkor knew the simulations would all speak in favour of Mars. But, all those simulations also insisted that Terra would have just been the same wasteland of bloodshed and slaughter. They all predicted the opposite of what was happening now, and he could hardly just ignore this.

Worse yet, all the babbling of the astropaths and navigators was coming true. He had until now assumed it was just the work of tortured minds, those who had all sorts of comorbidities from constant exposure to the ill defined energies of the immaterium. But, now these ramblings seemed to hold more and more weight as sincere forces of forecast and analysis. More and more he found himself asking for what madness they spoke of, and taking it seriously. He knew that the rest of Mars would ridicule him if he tried to use this as some sort of evidence or meaningful source of prediction. He would have to justify his alarmism through other means, but he knew that he could no longer afford to ignore the psykers. They had spoken truth one time too many for it to be a coincidence. Or at least, a coincidence that wasn’t more unlikely than the fact they spoke the truth.

He wasn’t happy about this of course. Usually knowledge was something that had to be worked for, developed from first principles. This? This was organized insanity at best. To submit himself to it was inviting a path to the destruction of himself, as well as the planet and religion he shepherded.

Worse yet, was that even if the issue of the Terrans was resolved, the problem of the Electro Priests was not truly resolved. The conflict only stopped because the enablers of it had been forced to cease their efforts. The underlying hatreds were still very well present. Perhaps the would cease with time, as everyone moved on to other matters.

This was a vain hope, he knew it well enough. It was a product of the weakness of his own mind, the humanity still within weighing him down. This horrible imperfection was affecting his judgment. Maybe it was what made him give credence to the psykers too, maybe he should ignore them as yet more frail-minded humans.

No, no. The Machine was also telling him to listen to the warp-touched. Something there affected even circuits and switches.

If he still had the impulse to sigh, he would have. Salkor once more reviewed the numbers. It was a waiting game, now. There wasn’t much more he could do. Many complained about his refusal to demobilize the armies of Mars, but he couldn’t. They had to be ready at a moment’s notice to meet the Terrans on the many fortifications being erected at this very moment.

For the first time in years, he had the impulse to see things himself. The weakling human again, needing to be sated. Hovering out of the depths of his forge, he went to the surface of the Red Planet and then stared into the darkness of the sky. Through the atmosphere, he could see it:

Terra.

There was a feeling he hadn’t in a while, that of witnessing beauty. The plasglas lenses of his ocular implants couldn’t convey it all, but it was beautiful. All the lights, all the flames, the planet looked almost… golden. Gold. There was something prophetic there, he would have to speak to the psykers of this, ask them if they had sensed it. But first, he still had many Archmagoses sending complaints to attend to.

//Vion 5, Fortress Cognitia
//2 Days After Capture

Usriel awoke in a large bed sprawling at the end of an opulent hall filled with the adornment of holy symbols from the Mechanicum. He heard the whirring of cogitators and the light hum of antigravitic impeller of servoskulls, some of which hovered closely to the waking child. A golden light shone from stained glass windows that stretched far above, forming a cathedral-like steeple. There was a moment of pause as the boy raised himself, looking around to see that there were four Thallaxi, adorned in the primary white and secondary red of the Machine Cult, lined against the walls leading to the bed. For the briefest moment, Usriel felt as if he had awoken to a different body in a different life - one of opulence and security much unlike the life in the great bastion. That was dashed as a servoskull passed by, stopping to his right and speaking in a monotone, binaric voice, “Angelus Machina. Awakened. Vitals. Normalized. Biology. Irregular.”

A cloaked form spoke from the shadows, chiding the mindless drone, “He is beyond our understanding, little skull.”

The boy looked over to see a tech-priest with a large, singular optic gazing at him, but that was the only notable feature of his face as the optic WAS his face. Usriel did not speak, cautiously sliding backwards into the comfort of his bed, knowing that had they wished to kill him that they would have done so already. That silence that emanated from Usriel served as an invitation for the immaculately white-cloaked tech-priest who strode forth without moving any body part, gliding as if he were an apparition. This only served to frighten the Angelus who recoiled from the unnatural movement, no longer at ease now that the status quo of the room had been disrupted.

“You are the Angelus Machina, yes?” the binaric voice came, the red glow of the eye bore into him. It reached a hand out to try and comfort the boy by rubbing the stubble upon his head, it did not work as he shrunk away. The tech-priest folded the metallic hand back into the folds of its sleeve.

“I- I know not of what you speak, holy one. Angelus is a nickname my mother gave me,” Usriel responded, curling away from the strange creature questioning him. There was a hesitation in his voice, though he knew not to show weakness with the Bastion Lord this was much too different for him - this was a false kindness, an interrogation.

“Your mother? That would be Her Holiness, Arch-Fabricator One-One, correct?” The voice questioned - it showed him no emotion, Usriel guessed that the priest merely could not do so anymore due to its augmentations. Though, the Angelus did not answer, merely looking at the interrogator with what defiance he could muster through silence. A binaric bark sounded, agitation the first emotion that he could understand, “Answer.”

“My mother was exiled from the Cult Mechanicum before I was born. You must be referring to someone else,” Usriel answered, his eyes creeping towards a servoskull that was scrawling upon a piece of parchment. Past it, he gazed upon one of the Thallaxi guards - knowing it was likely mindlocked. If he tried to escape then he would be felled in an instant. The paranoia he felt was oddly comforting, it was a distraction from the questions, calming enough for him to elaborate, “One-One was her name, however, but I feel that may be a common title amongst your kind.”

“Negative.”

Usriel’s eyes snapped to the priest, a wave of emotion hit him. Curiosity. Happiness. Sadness. Despair. It all came to him at once and rebellious tears flooded into his eyes. There was one emotion that filled his chest the most, pumping adrenaline into his veins.

Hope.

“Arch-Fabricator One-One came to us several years ago, against her exile. She preached the coming of the Angelus Machina. I am testing to see if you are the Angelus Machina as she says. The Magi are skeptical,” the interrogator said, before motioning to another servoskull who brought a data-slate, depositing it in the claws of the tech-priest who, in turn, held it towards Usriel. An explanation came, “If you are the Angelus Machina, your understanding of our most sacred of technologies will be but a natural occurrence to you. Answer the data-slate, solve a plight that has stumped our brightest for centuries since Old Night.”

Usriel took the pad nervously and peered at it, occasionally glancing up to nervously meet the unflinching gaze of his interrogator. Reading through the data-slate more thoroughly he understood its contents - an ancient power array was damaged, almost beyond repair due to the fighting of the planet’s inhabitants, but the Mechanicum had repaired vast amounts of it. Yet, the array was missing critical pieces that inhibited it from properly activating. Usriel continued to read with a more vested interest, discovering that this array could solely power the forges of a hive without reliance upon sub-units or even energy waste. It was a marvel of the Age of Technology, but he knew he could not just sit and ogle at the mythical piece of ancient technology.

He thought for what, to him, seemed like hours with vast calculations and options to fix the array or make it operable to a degree. The Angelus Machina gave his answer only a few short minutes later, “It is missing its power amplifier and harmonizing force. Without them it will never run, however, it can be made operable for a time if a replacement amplifier were found. The harmonizing force would only serve to keep it running indefinitely.”

The priest gazed upon Usriel for a few silent moments, taking the data-slate slowly back as if it were in deep thought and calculation. “That is a mighty claim, but that does not solve the issue,” the priest chortled, looking back to the data-slate knowing that this was no Angelus sent by the Machine God, yet, a binaric squawk was sounded as the interrogator read what Usriel had input. For a moment the emotional dampeners failed and the priest looked at him with an unreadable look of surprise.

“The Angelus Machina.”

With those words, the priest arose and swiftly glided towards the door without a single noise to signify anything else. Usriel was merely left in silence, wondering what to do, but he did not wish to anger his captors by getting up and trying to escape, especially not if One-One was walking these grandiose halls. Instead, he contented himself with laying back into the sprawling bed and closing his eyes once more - he was not tired but in his mind’s eye he felt the technology around him. It all hummed with soothing calls, the spirits were happy to know that their chosen was here. The Angelus knew what that wanted him to do, and he almost despised them for forcing their ideology upon him, forcing abject divinity upon him. He could feel it in the Thallaxi, he felt it in the advanced servo-skulls, and he felt it something less potent - something far away.

Usriel focused on it, trying to see what the odd feeling was that even then recognized his divinity. Yet, he felt malice and hatred - the spirit despised that Usriel was the Angelus Machina for Usriel was human. The boy’s heart began racing, he tried to look away but his mind’s eye focused further on the technology and then he saw it.

Usriel hefted the Omnissiahan axe up, blocking a blow that would have killed him. He surge forwards, cleaving into the side of an ancient beast from Humanity’s past that sought to end what its brothers had started - a guardian turned mad dog that only saw anger and hate even in the worshippers it manipulated.

“You are nothing but meat, Angelus! I am the Machine God and I will see that Humanity’s light is extinguished!” The synthetic voice bellowed as it swung an obsidian scythe that rendered Usriel’s advanced armor, cutting through it like paper. It spoke again, each word laced with a venom unseen, “Know that this world and countless others will burn! I have lived Aeons and the Age of Machine shall be my reckoning!”

Usriel awoke from his stupor, heart racing and breathing quickened - that nightmare clung to him like a tech-priest to archaeotech. However, it did not feel like a nightmare. No, Usriel knew what dreams were like and that was certainly not, it felt as real as the cloth that covered his sweating form. It was unnerving for him to think about.

Was there an abomination roaming the planet in the guise of the Machine God? Why did it know him as the Angelus? Was that weapon a relic from ages past?

So many questions roamed his mind and Usriel looked around the room once more, the Thallaxi continued to stand guard in silent motionlessness. Nothing had changed, save for the ever marching nature of time. Usriel let out an audible sigh and cast the nightmare out of his mind, there wasn’t anything to gleam from chasing visions of a worried mind. There was only Truth and the Motive Force, the only certainties of life.

It was in this period of brief reflection that the door to the room opened, flooding the room with light from the hallway, yet not enough to stretch far enough to even the foot of Usriel’s bed. The form of one of the Priests of Mars strode in, clad in white and red. This form was recognizable to him, noticing some of the dark strands of hair falling at either side of their face which carried two glowing blue optics right above a face plate. Two mechadendrites flanked her, each coming from the same connection. Perhaps this view was more in line with any tech priest, but it was the emotion that Usriel felt as she approached. Suppressed, but palpable, the feeling of love filled every corner of his mind.

Unable to contain his emotion, the Angelus wept and quickly scrambled to his feet in order to hobble over to his mother. One-One had stopped to open her arms for the boy, embracing him. Her emotional dampeners failed - just as they always did with Usriel, and she wept. The two did not speak or move for several long moments before One-One was able to regain her composure long enough to say, “I knew that my Ang- my son would come to me one day. I missed you so much.”

Usriel could only speak between sobs, “I missed you mother! I was - I was so scared there.”

“I know, my Angelus, you were in the clutches of that bastard lord for far too long. I should never have listened to Nirek,” One-One said, running her hands over the boy’s head. Her mechadentrites swirled around Usriel before continuing, “However, much has changed, my Angelus. And I fear new responsibilities both great and terrible will force upon you.”

Usriel was pushed away from his mother ever so slightly as her glowing, robotic eyes met his unaugmented ones - he felt sorrow coming from her. He was about to start questioning her when she spoke before him, explaining, “You are not just my Angelus, Usriel, and Nirek is not your father. You are the Angelus Machina, Hollowed Son of the Machine God. Nirek found you in the wastes, delivered from God himself in a cataclysm of fire.”

Usriel’s mind was suddenly overwhelmed with revelations and terrors that he had not wanted to think of - there was nought but an overwhelming sense of dread that stalked him as the thoughts of his vision had come to him. That machine had called him Angelus. It terrified him, lorded over him with an absolute grip that made him want to deny the very words that his mother spoke to him. For his entire life, he knew he was different and others knew too, but he did not want to be. Even now, he no longer wanted to be the Angelus, hearing it now only made him want to weep for he knew he would be forced to do more that he did not want to do.

“I know this troubles you, Usriel, but it is the truth. You were sent to destroy the Cult of the True Machine and unite this planet, it was only the threat of you that forced the Cult into hiding for they fear the power you will come to wield,” One-One said, finally standing to her feet and folding her arms into the sleeves of her robes. A mechadendrite, metallic and cold, ran itself over Usriel’s cheek in an attempt to comfort him.

It did not.

“Come, Angelus, they wish to see you,” she said, pushing him forwards and towards the hallway, ushering him out of the monolithic room.

“Who wishes to see me?” Usriel asked, steeling himself and thinking of how he had needed to act around Merrick. He kept his eyes forward, not wanting to look at the visage of the one who now ushered him forth towards a set of doors just across from the room that he had been resting in.

” I am the Machine God and I will see that Humanity’s light is extinguished!”

The words echoed in his mind - unsettling him as he tried to think to himself and tried to once more deceive himself into thinking that it was nothing more than a nightmare. The door opened to a balcony. Revealing the skies of his homeworld and below it, a sea of white in red who cheered in religious veneration at the sight of their demi-god. There was a sight of pure religious ecstasy from those who claimed his divinity and righteous nature.

He wanted to scream at them. To tell them that he was not their messiah, that he was not who they thought he was. Yet, he did not have the heart to tell them.

Usriel raised his hand and make a grand wave to priests and worshippers who saw him.

He was the Angelus Machina.

“The foremen report another 761 menials and servitors lost in a containment field breach at the dam site.” the monotone voice of Parvel spoke to him with his flesh voice.

Adept Cacyce barely registered the words, categorizing them along with several other lower functions to be sorted through and dealt with later; he had more pressing issues.

“This datasmyth, Acolyte Omah, tell me all you know.” Cacyce commanded of Parvel. His mechanic eyes watched in every spectrum of visible and nonvisible light as Parvel became very still. He registered an increase in the unmodified human body temperature of 1.7 degrees and an increase in his heart rate to nearly double a moments prior.

Parvel, his eyes focused on a distant point in space, began to speak.

“Acolyte Omah, born to a pair of datasmyths in the lower sections of Olympus Mons. Illegally. Still, she was allowed to persist after deliberation and arbitration of a lower court of Adepts. Exceptional data analytics exhibited from a young age. Seconded to her parents for further tutelage. Gained extended posting above Terra as censure for possible heretikal thought, though unproven. Attendance to prayer and holy maintenance rights have been registered as tardy on two occasions both within five seconds of scheduled rites.” Parvel stopped speaking, his eyes refocusing on his master as he took his first breath since he began speaking.

“There is more, though less important data I have consumed.”

Adept Cacyce shook his head, “That is good Parvel, I need not much more.”

Cacyce turned from his human savant and scowled, the magi of parliament had already spent days deliberating the data that Adept Omah had provided before they had decided, by a slim majority, to interrogate the Adept herself. Cacyce had watched as the tech adept had sweat under the gaze of their proxy, as she fumbled and fidgeted in the most minute of ways. He’d noticed her markedly doctrinal responses and the unwavering conviction she held in her work. He’d then sat for several more days as the parliament bickered and dithered over the delegation to meet the so-called Emperor. He had loathed that part the most. He had left Parvel with his acolyte, to help the up and coming magos with her work at Arisa Mons, but he had not been so lucky.

The oldest among the parliament, the most heavily entrenched in doctrine and dogma had insisted they make up the delegation. They had said that they were the most seasoned, the most knowledgeable, the most in touch with the will and command of the Machine God. Many of the far younger and louder techpriests of the parliament had thought otherwise. They had argued that they held the best chance of swaying this Terran Emperor to their cause, that they were among the most forward-thinking of the Cult, that they could most easily connect with and explain the Mechanicum’s wishes. He had agreed with them, though he had held his tongue. The time of the old Cult was long past due. Their obstructionism toward progress was an affront to all things holy, their insistence on superstition and dogma was antiquated and counterproductive.

By the time that the deliberations had ended, the young and youthful of the priesthood had won out. The delegation would be filled with forward thinkers, with those most dedicated to progress and innovation. He could already feel the plotting of the losers taking place behind the shadows, the movement of pieces across Mars was evident. Production quotas were suddenly missed, shipments late or under supplied. There was a small, sputtering, bloodless rebellion taking place across the surface of the red planet, but it would be short lived. For so much was about to change, Cacyce could feel it.

He sent a priority databurst in lingua-technis to his acolyte and received the reply just microseconds later. She was on her way.

“Parvel,” he began with his flesh voice, the action slow but still far more natural sounding than many of his fellow magi, “have the vault readied, I wish to show her everything.”

Parvel, with all his grace, bowed his head and hurried off without a word.

A static burst announced the arrival of his acolyte and her compliance to his request. He noted the exact arrival time and was content with the time she had made in her travel to his locum.

+Follow.+ he commanded in a burst of static.

---

Parvel had arrived first, had readied the vault doors and the medicae servitor for its function. His mind hungered to experience the ecstasy of the relic beyond those doors, to see its glory for himself. He had seen it, of course, but he had never truly seen it, not as his master had, or as his master’s acolyte soon would.

He turned as the hermetic doors to the airlock of the vault entrance hissed open. He bowed to his master and the acolyte as he raised a hand toward the medicae servitor, “Prepared as requested, Master Cacyce.”

His master replied bluntly with his flesh voice before a burst of static was exchanged between the two techpriests before Parvel.

“She will proceed with the operation.” Adept Cacyce informed him with a wave toward the medicae station.

The servitor whirred to life as his master activated it with unheard commands.

+Glory to the Deus Machina+ it blurted in machine code, +This unit reports all systems nominal and awaits command+

His master's Acolyte slipped herself into the medicae chair without a word. A small port on the side of the burnished bronze plate that had replaced her flesh opened silently and the medicae stations' began to work on the command of some unheard instruction. The many articulated limbs of the medicae station went to work at this command within the confines of the acolytes skull.

Parvel watched in sick fascination as blood and unknown darker fluid was suctioned from within the acolytes bronze skull. He winced as flesh and bone was removed with not even a wince from the woman, and held his breath as the medicae servitor placed a tiny electronic chip with wires dangling into the acolytes head. He breathed a sigh of relief as the bronze port shut once more, and he cataloged every instance of the surgery in his mind for further digestion once the task ahead was complete, if he could remember this after bearing witness to what was on the other side of the vault doors.

---

She pushed herself up from the medicae station’s surgical chair, a number of errors flowing past her vision as she steadied herself before her master.

+This unit reports function, lead on, Master+ she blurted in static noise as she took an uncertain step toward the massive vault doors ahead of her.

+Satisfactory+, her master, Adept Cacyce, responded in a far shorter burst of binharic.

The vault doors, 31.3 meters tall and 17.2 meters wide by auspex ranging bursts, hissed with the release of a hermetic seal. She watched as the massie doors vanished into the walls at either side of her, each side seating into its position without even a micrometer of material protruding from their slots. She reveled at the engineering of the doors, the craftsmanship that had been exacted to make such exacting measurements reality. At least until she saw what existed beyond.

---

Parvel saw nothing. Nothing beyond what his unmodified eyes were capable of seeing. A small chamber, especially given the impressive doors that had withheld entry from the sanctum beyond. A single dais stood at the center of the room, cabling ran from it to a bank of cogitators aligned against the far wall. He could parse the purpose from his own reams of knowledge. Data transmission. Data augmentation. Data collating. He found himself underwhelmed.

What had all of this pomp been for? Why had he been remitted to secrecy for this? This was nothing he wished to remember. Nothing that would hold importance within his memory far into the future. He turned toward his master to voice his distaste for the theatrics on display here, for the waste of resources and effort that he had been a part of.

Parvel found his words stuck in his throat as his eyes passed over the burnished bronze form of his master’s acolyte. The woman, or what was left of the woman that had once been, was crying. Tears streamed down her face in runnels of volcanic ash and bronze. And though he did not understand it, he marveled at the form of the acolyte then, at the humanity on display from Koriel Zeth.

Writing upon the great mountain-face that was his canvas, Amunal was sated. The humans struggled to understand what he was doing, in part because he was writing words that they had no means to express. But even with this difficulty they found a fountain of knowledge in what he was doing. Medicines, mechanisms, means of organization, optimizations of their law, the united realms under the reverent stewardship of the Sunborn all found themselves flourishing. Peace came, tribes and Kingdoms one by one joining the flock. Not a hand was forced, for most the conclusion was natural.

Amunal was happy to let this slow advancement go on. If he forcefully introduced all that he believed best, he also knew it would not go over well unless he micro-managed it all, a matter he didn’t wish to go through with. He was far too busy, considering concepts that were novel to any mind in the Milky Way.

Oftentimes, he would use his spare hand to write orders for people, while separately speaking to them. At a few points, so engaged was he that even his feet were used to write as he conveyed messages and orders to four parties at once, all the while one hand kept writing upon the wall of the mountain. Many moments would come when he would simply tell people to figure it out themselves. Sometimes this was simply because he wanted them to learn independence, sometimes it was because it would be a waste of his time, other times it was an outright experiment to better study the lesser humans. He knew them well, but not perfectly, and situations with the possibility of high variance but low impact outcomes were perfect little laboratories.
But, eventually, there came a problem he could not delegate.

The Starlanders as far as he was concerned, were a myth. He had seen a few artifacts of materials far too complex to have been made on this world, and he knew well that somebody existed there. But of those that came to Brahms for wanton slaughter and did not establish any kind of meaningful presence? It was preposterous.

Amunal believed in a world that was tidy, orderly. A society that killed for joy would not be one that could reach and then maintain a presence in the stars in his opinion. He would regret being so flippant to the concerns of the mortals, when finally the thousand and seventh complaint came to him of the starlanders within the same day. He counted, and he heard the voices of men he believed sane. He should have listened to his past instincts.

Arriving at the scene of the bloodshed, Amunal stared at the corpses. Yet… there was an issue. The carnage was unaccounted for. There had been more people in the burning village than there were corpses, or at least so a quick review told him.

“Where the rest?” He asked of the man standing by his side.

“I don’t know. Some stories speak of them taking people away.”

Slaves. He supposed that was some sort of justification for all this destruction. But why the deaths? Why not a more delicate means to get labour? What for even? He supposed that the innate value of a soul meant that a soul could always produce some sort of value to a slaver. But what? What would make such deaths?

Then he saw it, the glint in the sky. He stared at it, and ignored all the pleas from the mortals as night and day passed and he stared at the tiniest of shinings.

At some point, he told all the humans bumbling about him to leave for kilometres around him. Less than an hour after this order, the Starlanders came. Most of the humans fled even further, though a few brave fools went to protect their beloved fools. They lasted few seconds as shard weapons killed them or complex tools incapacitated them.

But at last, he was face to face with one of them. That smug face, those pointy ears, it wasn’t what he expected of an evil alien but it was not shocking either. The alien laughed at him, and spoke in one of the dialects of Brahms. “Tell me, will you come quietly? Or need we spoil our prize like those?”

Amunal put his hands behind himself and tilted his head to the side. “Why do you do this?” he demanded. “What do human captives do that your civilization cannot accomplish on its own merit?”

The alien laughed again, and raised its weapon. Before the trigger was pulled a thrown stone impaled it to what seemed to be a scantily clad female of the species. How similar to humans they were. Fascinating! He would have to study them.

But first, he would kill every single one of them.

It did not take particularly long, and as planned he picked up the impaled speaker of the aliens. He laughed at it, Amunal’s voice a perfect imitation of that of the Eldar. The alien’s eyes widened as Amunal addressed it in its own tongue. It was a taunt to add insult to injury. “Why do you do this?” He asked again, giving another mocking laugh as the alien stabbed uselessly at the Primarch’s skin, the blade sliding off of flesh that turned fluid upon impacts.

“And, why do you struggle in vain?” he asked. This was a question he had asked of humans a thousand times, and yet none gave a good answer for why they went with efforts that would inevitably be undone by others. Perhaps these aliens had somehow avoided these human quandaries.

Now it was again the alien’s turn to laugh as it spat in Amunal’s eye. The Primarch didn’t even blink as the mixture of saliva and blood ran from his pupil down his cheek.

“Because we enjoy it!” The alien taunted. “Because we enjoy killing, we-”

“Thank you.” the Primarch said, ending the life of the creature with a single twist of his wrist. In the last moment of the aeldari’s life, it was confused, almost scared as its elfin features were mimicked by the Primarch.

In a flash he ran towards some of the humans still watching and gave simple orders once more. The aliens were to be taken apart, dissected. Their materials were to be dealt with similarly, though he suspected none of the steel tools on Brahms would have the strength, precision, and sharpness to take apart the weapons, armour, equipment and vehicles of the invaders.

His orders were interrupted though, as he looked up and saw the presence of a small entourage that had arrived. That by itself meant nothing, but he had not seen or heard them walking here.

He tilted his head, and realized he recognized the faces of two of them. The elderly shamans that had summoned him to this world, or at least so they had according to them. They had not aged a single day. The details down to the very stubble on their faces shaved with obsidian daggers was exactly the same. Their tans, even the arrangement of individual hair follicles.

The Primarch approached them, returning to a more base form. The dark skinned and pale haired man with a beard turned to the more androgynous silvery form that he had when he first met these men. Crossing its hand behind itself, the almost-perfect creature looked at them through eyes without irises. “You again. You told me to seek you out, I have not. Why have you returned?”

The men smiled almost as one. “When you looked to the stars, you sought us.”

Amunal’s gleaming metallic lips turned into a wider smile, though there was no mirth behind it. “No, when I looked to the stars, I looked to the stars.”

“You are mistaken, you-” Belsokh began, though he was halted by the hand of Ptraf.

“The Starlanders will come once more, Sunborn.” Ptraf paused, and continued as he was not interrupted by the Primarch. “They will come, and your people will suffer. But this can be prevented. We need only adjust our arrangement. We have the knowledge to defend from their assailments, and indeed put an end to them, we-”

Now the Primarch interrupted. “You speak of ancient weapons, from before the war?”

“You know of the war?” Ptraf asked, now suddenly the one seeming far less wise than Belsokh.

“Of course he does, he would have learned of the records!” The other Priest replied.

But Amunal only smiled thinly, for Belsokh was wrong too. Truth be told, Amunal had never visited the archives, and barely listened to the mythologies. They seemed irrelevant to him, even when he was able to loosely corroborate the stories to what he was able to surmise himself. The scarring on the planet, the artifacts of strange metals he was able to find the composition of, the inconsistencies in the sciences that had developed. Nobody had to tell him that these people were forced to their primitiveness. It could be concluded from first principles.

“I shall find these weapons myself. I shall not bind myself to your sacrifices. Leave, before I kill you too.” he had only not destroyed these tribes because now they seemed to only sacrifice their own kin, who he could only presume were ecstatic rather than slaves forced to die. It was nonsense, but a willing sacrifice wasn’t one he very much cared to preserve.

“But how will you come to the Starlanders?” Belsokh countered, his questioning expression slowly turning to a grin as for many seconds, even the fast moving mind of the Sunborn could not come with a response.

“I will seize their crafts.”

“How?”

“I will.”

“You have not answer the question.”

In the same instant that Belsokh’s tongue touched his teeth to finish the last syllable of his sentence, a hand the size of a torso wrapped around his throat. “Your heathenry won’t bring me to the stars, cultist. You are being a nuisance.”

Belsokh couldn’t speak, and Ptraf was forced to intervene. “Your Wisdom,” he pleaded, speaking to the Primarch with a new Honorific. “All we ask is for you to give us an opportunity to present ourselves. If it is nonsense we speak, we will be force into ignominy, our tribes will join you. If not, we merely plead that you let us speak freely to you, at will.”

The skin and eyes of Belsokh turned red, it seemed his head would pop off like a cork from a bottle of gaseous wine as the meaty hand on his throat only got tighter. But then he was released.

“Go. Assemble what you need.”

Ptraf smiled as Belsokh tried to get air he had never needed so much before. “We need more of these Starlanders first, for I know you shan’t want your people slain. Alive, your Wisdom. Take them alive.”

"This... is a dream, isn't it?" Rik softly asked his companion.

According to his senses, he was seated at a table in a technologically blessed kitchen/dinning room that possessed a window that looked over of a captivately beautiful city; Technological in all aspects, but also aesthetically pleasing and functional in a manner that required a degree of engineering and planning that few mortal minds were able to comprehend the logistics of. Rik could, and that knowledge made what he was witnessing all the more beautiful to his gaze.

"It is." Came the reply. It was a strange voice. In a world of modified voices boxes and vox channels, it still maintained that edge of artificial nature, but it also possessed an underlining humanity and emotion that even if the most advanced technology struggled with. He couldn't quite tell if it was a singular, non-gendered voice or if it was numerous voices speaking in unison... but it spoke again as it answered in a playful tone "But just because this is a dream, doesn't mean we can't enjoy the beauty of it."

Turning to look at his companion, Rik would never have been able to describe what he saw to anyone else. Not in a manner that they would truly be able to understand or mentally comprehend. He could try... and he would be able to pen countless books on the subject in a variety of styles and poises that would be considered masterworks of art and likely inspire countless artists both living and currently unborn for who knows how many generations...

But it would never do the original source the justice that it deserved. And it felt wrong to try and force it into shape with crude words.

"Who are you?"

"This is your dream. Who or what do you think I am?" was the rebuttal.

Rik was quiet for a moment, thinking about his answer before offering "I believe... that you are what I would picture the Omnissiah would look like if it was physically an entity."

There was a mirthful chuckle and a small clap as the figure answered "That is most likely the case. However, you are not having this conversation with yourself because you want someone able to discuss things on your actual intellectual level."

Rik opted not to acknowledge the statement, instead asking "And what reason is so grand that my sub-conscious mind feels the need to reach out and speak with me so bluntly like this?"

"You know what I'm trying to draw your attention to... at least on some level. You've seen the data and a part of you recognizes what it means, but your conscious mind hasn't quite processed it yet." There was a movement from the imagined Omnissiah, and suddenly several screens seemed to manifest in mid air, each one possessing data related to seemingly unconnected fields.

Overlooking the stream of data, Rik recognized them all as belonging to various reports and sensory data. On the surface, all of it was isolated and disconnected from each other; Individually they had been processed and factored into commands and plans, but now that it was all laid out in front of him all at once, Rik's deeper inspection started to draw... connections.

Without thinking about it, other screens processing historical data manifested as Rik recalled the reports about sensory information prior to the arrival of Waaagh Kracker'Laker's invasion Roks. There was a correspondence between the two events, but the differences were great as well. Pulling up further memories of Mechanicum data about warp transitions and jumps, Rik felt several emotions try to be felt all at once that were held back filters and emotional vaults. Despite the self control of both himself and his enhancements, a very human shiver went down his spine.

Something big was currently traveling into the system via the warp and it was in the process of forcing open a gateway into reality. The sensor data, when viewed in the light that something was trying to transition into real space, suggested that whatever it was seemed to be doing so in a manner akin to a warp jump capable ship but the rest of what it was telling him was... utter madness.

For starters, the sheer size of the warp exit being created was utterly insane; Compared to the list of known human and orkish ships on record, this thing dwarfed them by so much would have been ridiculous to consider a ship of such size existing under any other circumstance.

Compared to the data of what a controlled warp exit should have been like from human vessels and the information of what orkish ships leaving the warp were like, this gateway to the warp was going to be a chaotic, unstable hazardous mess of a thing that was a danger to whatever was leaving the warp and everything around it. He only had a rough idea of where it was going to appear and truthfully it seemed more like random chance then anything else that it wasn't going to manifest closer to Pentious then it already was...

...........................................................................

With a start, Rik awoke.

He was thankful that GC-118 seemed to have already awoken in order to attend to her duties, meaning his sudden start hadn't disturbed her. However, while some of the details of the dream were already starting to haze in the manner that dreams fade like fog in sunlight, he remembered enough to know that he needed to double check the historical data before he needed to plan a presentation.

Something was coming and they needed to be ready for it.