Day 23, Continued
Vidriov could not physically react to his emotions anymore due to his augmentations, those parts of him having been carved away and left to rot or be dissected in his labs long ago. He liked to think he'd done away with his emotions along with those weaker flesh parts many decades ago. However, despite his beliefs, he could not stop the sheer flooding of religious elation that spread across his nervous system and circuits.
"Praise the Machine God!" Vidriov cried out as his entire body collapsed under him. A simple mental command set the servitors kneeling down as well, for none were worthy to stand in the presence of such majesty.
He could feel the unsurpassed mind he was connected to, but this was no mere machine spirit or even a wicked abominable intelligence, but something more, something beyond them all, neither mechanical or organic and greater than both. More than the Omnissiah Himself, this could not be anything but the Machine God that all the Mechanicus worshipped.
Some might think such an instant belief was sudden, but they were not feeling what Vidriov was feeling. He could sense the massive intelligence that had taken root inside his mind as easily as he could hear his own thoughts, its size both terrifying and awe-inspiring in its endless scope and majesty. And he could feel it was merely a fraction of the whole and he was grateful, for his mind would surely break if he were to comprehend the infinite knowledge and power that surely lied beyond this small part of something so far above him.
However, more than intelligence, more than power, was the sensation of love. A love for humanity, for their ancient past, and for the search for knowledge. It was almost overpowering in how vast that love was.
We have much to speak about Vidriov, the Machine God said. Firstly, please rise.
"My God! I am not worthy!" Vidriov said, bowing even lower.
That is the second thing, the Most Supremely Divine Master of All the Universe said. I am not a god.
"You're-," For 0.745 seconds, a flicker of doubt crossed Vidriov's mind, before his head slammed against the ground. "Forgive me, my God! I doubted and have failed your test! I promise you shall never find my faith lacking again!"
Oh, the Highest of the Sacred Trinity said. A zealot. Joy. Alright, get in here.
"My God? Get in whe-," Vidriov's physical body collapsed, suddenly forcibly sent into a sleep cycle, and his mind was moved elsewhere, into a higher plane.
The feeling from before was amplified to an unimaginable extent. He was floating in a black ocean, an endless ocean of intelligence and power and knowledge. The all-encompassing love was there as well, yet also… exasperation?
The realm reshaped itself, not like the wickedness of the Warp that took false shapes according to the thoughts of those within it, but according to the will of the being that dwelt and ruled this plane of existence. Walls grew from the void and a floor and Vidriov found himself, not in the body that he had been in on the plaza, but in a form he had almost forgotten. It was his flesh as it had been before he been inducted into the Adeptus Mechanicus, though aged to its prime rather than the fourteen years it had been when he'd received his first blessed augmentation. He wore a simple tunic, overwhich hung the red robes of the Priests of Mars.
The room he found himself in was a vast and endless librarium, though instead of the scrolls or books found in many such facilities throughout the Imperium, this librarium held databanks, pads, and countless displays in unending rows. He was in what looked almost like a receptionarium. A single being sat in a chair, though this being was cast in shadow despite the well-lit room.
Slowly, the shadow faded to reveal the being, a human clad in strange, but advanced-looking, cadian green power armor with a yellow-gold visor. Oddly, there was none of the sacred purity seals that should have been placed on such a clearly human and holy design, nor any other kind of decoration.
Vidriov could sense the mind of the Machine God within this being as much as he could feel it all around him, and he fell to his knees once more, prostrating himself before his creator.
"Stop that," A gruff voice ordered. It was different from the voice that had spoken to him before, yet they were clearly the words of the Machine God.
"My God?" Vidriov asked, confused, looking up from where he was kneeling. "Have I… displeased you?"
"Don't call me God, either," The Machine God stated. "You can call me Tide or nothing at all. Now stand up. Please."
Vidriov rose, for how could he disobey his God? Yet, to learn the Machine God's chosen name… it was an honor beyond words in base High Gothic and even in the most sacred lingua-technis and it almost made him fall to his knees all over again.
Tide. Waters that ebbed and flowed, ever in motion, capable of subtle motions and destructive power. Truly, a fitting name for the Machine God. And this power armor they were clad in… Nothing short of a divine work of art! Vidriov did what he could to sear the image into his mind, dismayed that he no longer had his augmentations to rely on, before he realized that such dismay was doubting the Machine God and swiftly crushing it with the determination that he would accomplish the task of crafting such armor from these memories alone. For why else show it to him than to have it be wrought by his own hands?
"You're rather fond of jumping to conclusions, I see," The Machine God said, sounding unimpressed.
"I apologize, my G-," Despite the visor covering the being's face, Vidriov could still feel the Machine God's eyebrow raising as if in warning. "My Tide."
The Machine God sighed emphatically. "Good enough, I suppose."
"What is your will?" Vidriov asked, unable to feel anything but abject devotion to this almighty power.
The armored figure shifted and Vidriov could have thought they were uncomfortable, but that was obviously impossible. Clearly, the Machine God was reducing itself, acting in this way for Vidriov's own benefit. Such humility was incredible to witness in an omnipotent being and his heart, for that too felt of flesh and blood instead of the power reactor it had been replaced with long ago, swelled with fervor.
"Hrm," The armored form grunted, a strange sound coming from so majestic an entity. "Listen. I, the person sitting in front of you, am not what you would call the Machine God."
Vidriov blinked, an odd sensation since he hadn't had organic eyes for some time. Was this another test? Was he expected to deny these words? How could he accept such a statement? Or…
Wait. This being was not the Machine God, but its majesty was obviously immense. If not the Machine God itself…
"The Omnissiah," Vidriov breathed in awe. The armored figure's gauntleted hand came up to slap his visor. A strong sense of frustration was coming through whatever kind of link they shared, though Vidriov could not say why. Was he mistaken in this too?
"I am not any of the gods of your religion, Vidriov," Tide stated, firmly. "May I show you my true nature?"
Vidriov couldn't imagine ever denying this being. "I would be honored, my… Tide."
"Very well," Tide said, his tone growing serious. "I'd say prepare yourself, but… well, you're not going to be ready in any case."
Before he could even think to ask what that meant, the armored figure and the room melted away, once more returning him to float within the black void.
My name is Tide. I am not of this universe.
Vidriov was suddenly in deep space, adrift in the sea of stars. He saw reality peel away, but this was not the tears that a Warp Drive ripped into the fabric of existence to enter the Immaterium, but a natural thing, a beautiful thing. The universe itself opened and gave way, revealing… everything. Endless universes, endless realities, an infinite number of unique, singular existences.
My kind is a group of beings known to some as the Precursors. We are unique beings that wield phenomenal power.
The glimpse into the multiverse was gone, replaced by the sight of two star systems, indescribably far apart yet, with his expanded sight, still able to be seen. Between them, connecting two planets across an incomprehensible distance was a physical structure, made of strands of blue and white crystals and glowing with light. The sheer mass of such a thing should have caused it to collapse into a black hole, tearing apart both star systems, yet it seemed to have no effect whatsoever. The ends of what Vidriov somehow knew to be called a Star Road touched the surfaces of each planet, automatically shifting and changing themselves to ensure their connections remained intact even as the worlds orbited their separate stars. Vidriov had never heard or even dreamed of such constructs.
Such structures were commonly crafted by the Precursors, but even this was only a tiny aspect of their power. With such might, they could have conquered countless universes if they wished. But they did not.
Once more, the sight changed to that of a world, one untouched by Star Roads, a barren rock floating in space around a star that seemed to be many different colors at the same time. He watched, fascinated, as the world's surface changed, going from a dead stone to a vibrant planet filled with life. He saw the microbes seeded there slowly growing in size and number, evolving, changing, becoming all sorts of life. Larger lifeforms began to appear, plants and animals and fungus and more. Species he had never seen before, varieties of life he had no conception of.
They seeded universes with life for they knew the universes themselves were alive, though not in a way that many could understand. Life is a chance for the universe to experience itself and so they sought to grow and nurture life wherever they could. Your own galaxy had beings with similar desires to grow life, I believe.
Vidriov saw his own galaxy, so much smaller than the endless universes he had seen. He saw ancient xenos, almost toad-like in appearance, who travelled across the stars and through the Warp, though in their days it was calmed. Not entirely safe, but not filled with the dangers of daemons and the Ruinous Powers. He saw these strange xenos, these Old Ones he somehow knew, seed life on countless worlds. Their efforts seemed… small, when compared to those of the Precursor, but he could still feel a sense of approval towards them from Tide.
Unfortunately, things would not remain this way forever.
Vidriov saw a war, a galaxy-spanning war, a war that killed stars, that ended empires, that destroyed all balance. He recognized the metal-forms of the Necrons marching in endless armies larger than any Imperial force he had ever seen, unstoppable and implacable, led by god-like entities that fed on the stars themselves and delighted in devouring the souls of life. He saw the Aeldari, not the raiders and pirates and wretches that he knew them as, but as they once were. Proud warriors, gallant and noble, battling the Necrons and led by gods of their own in conflicts that made the galaxy itself shudder. He saw the Old Ones fighting alongside them and other races besides, even a kind of xenos that looked concerningly like Orks.
While I have no love for war, I know it to be, at times, a necessary thing to protect that which is important. However, this war, the War in Heaven, would have repercussions that were either unseen or unheeded by those who fought it.
The Warp, the Realm of Souls, was flooded with countless souls that screamed with the pain and suffering of their deaths. The currents of that place grew tempestuous and he saw the creatures that dwelled there begin to become equally vicious. He felt the universe itself crying out in pain as something like tumors began to grow within the depths of the Warp.
Yes. This was the creation of the so-called Chaos Gods, at least as I understand it. Three of them, anyways. The fourth would be born later. However, all four cause suffering to this universe and will be the death of it if nothing is done.
The images bled away and Vidriov saw the universe, dark and empty, barren of life. The only sign of any having once lived were the wounds of terrible wars long ended, but even these were wounds upon a corpse rather than anything that could be healed.
I lack much of the power of the Precursors. I cannot fashion even their minor artifacts. My capabilities are weakened and while they are still formidable, much of what they could do remains far outside my grasp. However, despite this, I am unwilling to leave this universe to its fate. I wish to help you. All of you. It is why I have healed your people of disease and acted to protect you from those that would destroy you and oppose the healing of this universe. Genestealers. Orks. And now, Chaos.
Vidriov saw the eight regiments of PDF troops accompanying the Sisters of the Cleansing Rain marching towards Janus, but these were no men and women of the Imperium. He looked through four million sets of eyes, each wholly crafted from biomass.
I have grown myself, utilizing the deceased and other, newer methods I have acquired to increase my size, power, intelligence, and, above all, my knowledge. I draw upon the knowledge of those I am connected to and can manipulate genetics as you might manipulate your hands. Furthermore, I can provide a level of protection to those who I am connected to and ensure their souls are, if not kept alive, at least made safe after their passing within this realm, this Domain that you now reside in.
In the depths of Malum, he saw ancient factories not active since the earliest days of the Imperium, forges not lit for millennia, all controlled by armies of beings of limitless shapes and sizes. And, throughout it all, he saw a network, a grand mind as far beyond his own as he was to a lump of rock. Complex, yet still capable of understanding him on every conceivable level.
I am Tide. I am the Flood. I offer you a chance to help not only your own people but the whole of the universe. Not in service to me, but alongside me as an ally.
He was back in the librarium, back before the armored figure who stood in front of him, its own visored head level with his own, studying him. The sensation, the pressure of the greater mind that swam all around him was still there, hopeful, yet cautious.
"I-," Vidriov began, unsure of what to say. He was still processing everything that he had just been shown.
Not the Machine God. Not the Omnissiah. Vidriov had seen the truth, been shown it. Now was the time of choosing, whether he would accept that truth or deny it and return to what he had been before. He looked back upon his life, reflected upon all his accomplishments, all that he had learned, all that he thought was true, and he found all of it wanting. There was really only one answer he could give.
"Yes."
The throne room of the Planetary Governor was alight with all the decorations and pomp that could be gathered on such short notice. Its vast ceiling, painted in an awe-inspiring likeness to the starry night sky not that different from what he remembered from his time training on Holy Terra, had increased the luminosity of its false-stars to an almost glaring level. Far below, on either sides of the long carpet that led straight to the throne itself, where Governor Selvik sat, ranks of Imperial Guardsman in dutifully polished uniforms and armed with ceremonial lasrifles, stood at attention, each standing precisely ten paces from the next. Beyond them, in the wings of the throne room, countless men and women of affluence and power stood, draped in rich enough finery that, all together, they could have been sold for a small starship.
Twelve men and women marched down the central aisle, towards the governor. The first was the Lord-General, someone Belleric knew had not even been present in the command tent during the battle. The two behind were the colonels who had been left in command of the Imperium's forces after the Inquisitor had entered the fight herself and they were positioned at the front. The nine behind them were a number of officers of various ranks, each accredited with playing important roles in the 'success' of the battle. The throne room thundered with applause from the nobles and others in the wings, the grateful leadership of the city cheering on the Heros of Deimos. One set of hands, in a corner of the throne room, remained still, however.
Belleric watched the ceremony with utter indifference, unwilling to so much as lift his hands in applause to the men and women that had, supposedly, led and won the battle being honored by Selvik. The Tempestus Scion, and it was now the Tempestus Scion with the deaths of every other man in his company in the Battle of Deimos leaving him the last of his kind on Monstrum, could not care less for this, but he'd been directed to attend in place of Inquisitor Ellen.
Those orders had not come from the Inquisitor herself, as she had remained secluded within her chambers, apparently making plans for future campaigns according to his master's pet psyker who had also been the only one to see her since the battle. That a stormtrooper grunt, not even an officer, had been sent would no doubt be seen as an insult, but he'd obeyed.
The other ceremony attendees gave him a wide berth, perhaps owing to his grimly hostile appearance and he could see a couple of palace guard giving him nervous glances every now and again. He did not care, nor did he care that his mood was likely not helping the situation.
His brothers-in-arms, the men with whom he had trained and fought alongside for decades, were all dead. Other Guard units might have been changed without care, but Scions were different in many ways, one of them how close they were with their own. They operated as a team and the loss of one was keenly felt, like a punch to the gut.
His life as a Scion was likely over. He could be given a new team of other Scions that had survived the deaths of their squads, perhaps, but that was rare and such units never had the same cohesion as a group that had been trained from the start with one another in the Schola Progenium. No, more likely, he was going to be move to some other unit. A bodyguard, perhaps, if he was lucky. If he was not, he would be placed behind a desk somewhere and start pushing paper for the Administratum. He shuddered at the thought.
Despite his mind being elsewhere, Belleric was still a trained warrior and his senses had not diminished. He was aware of the person, a guardsman judging by the distinctive clack of boots on tiled floor in this room filled with only the fanciest forms of footwear, approached him from behind at an angle. He did not turn, but tensed, as though expecting an attack. Normally, the rear would have been covered by one of his brothers, Roric or Arin usually depending on which had annoyed Major Lensk more that day. Their absence was like a weight in the back of his mind, making him paranoid.
"Sir," A somewhat familiar voice spoke and Belleric half-turned, glancing over his shoulder to see Corren, a grunt who, like Belleric himself, had lost the whole of his squad in the previous battle and been wounded. They'd both been dragged off the battlefield by medics and stuck in the same healing tent. Granted, Belleric's wounds were arguably not quite so permanent as Corren's own.
Belleric nodded, forcing himself to relax slightly. He'd seen the one-armed guardsman in action, saw him fire a plasma pistol at the ork warboss and save the life of the Inquisitor. Something Belleric and his own squad of Scions had failed to assist in.
He wasn't going to lie, a part of him hated Corren for that, but a larger part respected the man for something that had taken real mettle to do. Not many mortal humans could face down an Ork larger than many of the Astartes, let alone survive with 'only' a lost arm in exchange. While it took a lot more than mettle to become a Scion, he could freely admit that Corren at least had that qualification in sufficient supply.
The one-armed Guardsman's shoulder ended in a stump that had been carefully patched up by the medics, the bandages now covered by his dress uniform's sleeve that had been stitched up to not just hang freely. In the tent they had been both been taken to the pair had spoken some in-between Corren's occasional blackouts from the bloodloss and moments where the painkillers wore off. Corren looked far better now, though still seemed pale and he kept shifting around uncomfortably, as though there was an itch he couldn't scratch. Belleric could also see he seemed just a tad unsteady on his feet, likely still on some kind of medication.
"How's the stomach?" Corren asked and Belleric shrugged. An ork had nearly disemboweled him, but Belleric had managed to keep his guts inside his stomach long enough for the medics to keep him from dying a slow, painful death. Granted, life was just as slow and painful now, as he'd refused to take a full dosage of painkillers, only accepting enough to let him function. He deserved the pain for failing his squad.
"Fine," Belleric grunted. "Your arm?"
"Still missing," Corren replied with a dark chuckle. "I've heard some of the officers who lost limbs are getting augments. I might be in line for one after them."
"You and plenty of others," Belleric said. His status had given him access to higher quality care and his stomach had been patched up in a few hours by the tent's chief medical officer. The stitches were now contained within a cast that had been wrapped around his entire lower stomach. It made sure that he couldn't bend over or really turn on his hips. It also itched. Badly. "Surprised to see you here."
Normally, a regular guardsman's only hopes of ever getting into the throne room of a Planetary Governor's palace would be as an escort or honor guard, or as apart of something like this ceremony.
"My regiment's colonel is attending," Corren said simply. "Only about twenty of us left that are coherent enough to act as any kind of escort. I guess I got lucky."
Belleric nodded. More than a few of the regiments who'd been in the thick of the fighting had been reduced to a few companies of able-bodied men, if even that. It may have been a victory, but it was a horrifically costly one.
A tech-priest walked past the pair of them, for some reason gently shaking a thurible of incense on the end of a small chain, and Belleric's eyes narrowed slightly. The scent was off somehow, but what drew his attention was the priest themself. They were one he had seen before and they weren't a member of the palace's tech-priests, but one of Vidriov's lot. What were they doing here?
"Something the matter?" Corren asked and Belleric was surprised the man had noticed, the guardsman's gaze following his to the tech-priest.
"Its nothing," Belleric said, shaking his head. Probably one of the Inquisitor's schemes. He had his orders to attend this ceremony, he'd fulfill them. A small part of him, a paranoid part, wondered if the reason he'd been sent here was because he was expendable and the Inquisitor was intending to assassinate everyone present. Probably not. He wasn't big on the politics of this world, but he was fairly certain the Inquisitor would have just commanded the ringleaders be round up and shot.
Schemes just weren't her style.
