The Awkward Stumble of Progress
Commercial break!
~~~~
The Awkward Stumble of Progress
"So," said Frederick, steepling his fingers. "Taxes."
Forgemaster Britton nodded gravely. "I understand completely."
They stared at each other, two men burdened by the weight of leadership.
The governor sighed. Internal politics was a lot simpler when enforced with a bolter. "The Mechanicus may be a sovereign state, but it is still subject to trade tariffs and oversights on non-standard goods and services. Frankly, your requisitions are getting out of hand."
The Archmagos heaved a mathematically perfect sigh. "I am glad to say my efforts in reformatting the ancient dogma to a more user-friendly code have been successful. However, the hunger for knowledge, once roused, cannot be so easily seduced to slumber."
~~~
Tranth beheld the shard of necrodermis with all seven of his eyes. The chunk of grey metalloid floated in a double-shell gravitation sphere, isolated by a vacuum layer. Repeated incalcination cycles over the years had neutralised the subatom field configuration irreparably; restoration capabilities were measured in hours, not microseconds, and self-replication was completely defunct.
Tranth ran a tight cruiser. There would be no apocalypses on this planet.
"Open thread," he said. All nearby adepts snapped to attention. "Material exhibits ultradensity in all physical stress tests: impact, sonics, thermal conduction. Counterpoint: cursory examination reveals only a heavy-element ion-intercalated carbon lattice. Please see here for diagram. We will be conducting analysis using the method of the ancestors: 'the science'. Thread now open for replies."
Adept One immediately injected, "First."
Tranth clicked his dendrite. Adept Two promptly smacked One over the head.
Adept Three brushed the hair from her eyes. "Observation methods insufficient and/or obfuscated. Request deep-structure analysis."
He uploaded an eight-year-old report to the datanet. "In summary: aside from abnormal field dynamics, sample is identical."
"Behaviour under gravity?" asked Adept One.
"Metric distortion characteristic of hyperdensity."
"Hypothesis," said Adept Four. All eyes turned to him. "Necron technology beyond beauteous light of the STC. Recommend immediate destruction."
Adept One smacked Adept Four.
"Hypothesis," said Two, the voice of reason. One day, Tranth would deign to learn her name. "Gravitational interaction: space-time distortion. Possible extra-dimensional extrusion in higher dimensions, containing anomalous mass."
"Hypothesis," said Tranth, expectations deftly limboed. "Only one of you bothered to learn what 'hypothesis' means." He tossed the necroball up and down. "That is, being correct all the time, forever. Necrodermis micromachinery extends beyond standard dimensions. See phase technology for other uses of manipulating subjective presence within the materium. We will now begin the next phase: testing."
Without warning, he extended his primary weapon armature, three plasma jets spinning up. "Commencing science in three, two, one—"
~~~
THE LOGOS OF RECLAMATION HEREBY SUBMITS TO THE STATE OF AVERNUS FOR APPROVAL A REQUISITION OF MATERIAL:
8000L OF STANDARD LD-40 HEXAMINE PROMETHIUM
actual intelligent acolytes
REASONS STATED:
SCIENCE
~~~
THE STATE OF AVERNUS CONCERNING YOUR MISSIVE HEREBY DICTATES THE FOLLOWING:
Denied.
~~~
Saren clicked his vox-scribe three times, and ran a voice-clearing algorithm. The vidfeed spooled up, edited by the giggly acolytes of the Vision Order, who insisted on this strange endeavour after hearing him speak. An auspicious melody resounded as the footage began.
"Welcome back to ABC's The Life of Animals. In the eastern savannah prowls the mighty alpha hammerhead thundabeast, patrolling around the herd to defend against packs of tigers. The razorweed lashes across its thick hide, but centuries of scar tissue have made it impervious to nature's wrath. It crushes it underfoot, clearing a path for the young and destroying any hiding places for enterprising predators.
Metres away, a pack of raptors stalks the herd, waiting to strike at the weak and hungry. It's been slim pickings, and they are starving. A full-grown raptor can go for several weeks without food by subsisting entirely on conductive minerals. But a diet heavy in complex elements will cause mutations in the gem-molars of the raptor's laserbolt, and may result in premature detonation.
The thundabeast, patrol complete, goes for a snack. The alpha raptor, sensing an opportunity, commands an omega of the pack to flank the prey."
Saren paused to sip from his canteen, scrolling forward through the boring bits, switching to feeds from different surveillance cameras.
"The omega in position, the alpha raptor begins his assault." He pulled some razorwire from a compartment in his wrist, and twanged it. It made a sharp tone into the microphone. As the raptor made its way closer, he shortened the wire, making the tone higher and higher.
"The raptor makes its attack." Snap! The wire zipped back into the compartment, crushing a bit of his flesh thumb. Saren flailed his hand, shutting off the nerves. "The thundabeast's hide cannot withstand the onslaught of energy. The microwave spectrum of the raptor boils its insides, but it lets out one last roar.
Though their vision is impeded by their massive horns, each thundabeast knows exactly where it is in the herd. Through a combination of subsonic vibrations and psykic meshing, information on threats rapidly spreads. The raptors may have won the battle, but they have lost the war. The herd is now aware of their presence, and there is nothing left but to take their spoils and leave, lest they attract a charge."
He dialled down the brightness on the laser-amputation frames, sucking on his thumb.
~~~
THE LOGOS OF BEASTIOLOGY HEREBY SUBMITS TO THE STATE OF AVERNUS FOR APPROVAL A REQUISITION OF MATERIAL:
67 litres of Dangerous Dan's Kiss in a Can Rawberry flavour carbonated liquid emulsion conglomerate king of the juice.
A guitar.
REASONS STATED:
Narration exhausting. Require beverage of everyman to better sympathise with audience.
~~~
THE STATE OF AVERNUS CONCERNING YOUR MISSIVE HEREBY DICTATES THE FOLLOWING:
You're still not actually in our media department, you realise? Denied.
~~~
"How foolish," muttered Britton, the archaeo-fable running on such low resolution he had to simulate a flesh eye to perceive it. Champion Surt had been kind enough to volunteer genuine Age of Terra data preserved by the Muspelheim Archives, in all its mess. "Why do they simply not scan the enemy's alt-modes? At least pick a flight-capable vehicle." On another screen, a two-page view of Orange Lantern, Issue #334 flipped along for his dendritic eye to read.
The ancient humans were incredibly optimistic about alien life, like they were about everything else. One only had to look at the happy ending of the vessel Event Horizon.
Britton turned to the hapless acolyte he'd volunteered to test out the movement algorithms for the new iteration of power armour. He'd integrated some replicated samples of Black Crystal, but the reproductions were laughably inferior to the real thing. There was some effect in the warp, but that was likely just symbolic bleedthrough. Maybe it would grant the augmentation effect of the original, or an increased resistance to Chaos and chaotic influences. Maybe it granted a supernatural capacity for perfect soufflés every time.
To be honest, he was just throwing technology at a wall to see what stuck.
The harness on the acolyte was squeaking in time with his jogging. Britton grabbed a can of WD-M40 and sprayed the offending axle to silence.
"Going strong," he said mildly.
The acolyte wheezed painfully. Britton dialled up the speed, and reclined back in his chair. He stopped the datastream of the classic Metroid: Cybertron. It was simply too upbeat for his liking.
Perhaps one of the more interactive mediums? There were some titles produced by the ancient Mechanicus tributaries, long dead corporyats and memjuntae that eventually merged to form the Martian senate. Given that the requisite consoles had long since evaporated into silicon dust, Britton had rigged up an imitation controller, a brick of steel and wires that was able to simulate all pre-M25 input controllers, to better achieve the authentic experience.
He lifted it up, and paused, before turning to the bloated inbox of work to be done. His pinpoint laser-gaze flipped between game and work in a rapid blur, before he put down the controller with a sigh.
He stomped over to the terminal and stuck his finger in the socket interface. After three seconds of furious computation, the inbox was empty.
The forgemaster loaded up the emulation, and plugged in the controller after performing the Rite of Exhalation for good luck. This was a particularly honoured datafile, having been touched by one of the ancient saints. Surt himself had, after some fits of mad laughter, recommended it.
The lights dimmed as the title screen loaded.
.
.
.
OmnionEMU Version 2.9.4.62.1
Loading file: ps9-gbe.rom
.
.
.
FROM Software presents
.
In cooperation with Nintendo-Pixar Co. Ltd
.
.
Tsutomu Nihei's
BLAME!
~~~
FROM THE OFFICE OF THE FABRICATOR-GENERAL, RIGHTEOUS AMONG THE LOGI, TO THE OFFICE OF THE GOVERNOR:
Apologies for my absence at the yearly meeting. Concerning my availability, I'm afraid our infrastructure efforts are still taking up much of my time, and I foresee no possibility of taking on an extra project this year.
Frederick stared at the email.
~~~
THE OFFICE OF THE GOVERNOR, WITH RESPECT TO YOUR PREVIOUS MISSIVE, SUBMITS THE FOLLOWING:
You can recover your MEM by absorbing your corpse.
~~~
FROM THE OFFICE OF THE FABRICATOR-GENERAL, GLORIED BY THE OMNISSIAH, TO THE OFFICE OF THE GOVERNOR:
I knew that.
~~~
AN: Back to your regularly scheduled siege.
~~~~
The Awkward Stumble of Progress
"So," said Frederick, steepling his fingers. "Taxes."
Forgemaster Britton nodded gravely. "I understand completely."
They stared at each other, two men burdened by the weight of leadership.
The governor sighed. Internal politics was a lot simpler when enforced with a bolter. "The Mechanicus may be a sovereign state, but it is still subject to trade tariffs and oversights on non-standard goods and services. Frankly, your requisitions are getting out of hand."
The Archmagos heaved a mathematically perfect sigh. "I am glad to say my efforts in reformatting the ancient dogma to a more user-friendly code have been successful. However, the hunger for knowledge, once roused, cannot be so easily seduced to slumber."
~~~
Tranth beheld the shard of necrodermis with all seven of his eyes. The chunk of grey metalloid floated in a double-shell gravitation sphere, isolated by a vacuum layer. Repeated incalcination cycles over the years had neutralised the subatom field configuration irreparably; restoration capabilities were measured in hours, not microseconds, and self-replication was completely defunct.
Tranth ran a tight cruiser. There would be no apocalypses on this planet.
"Open thread," he said. All nearby adepts snapped to attention. "Material exhibits ultradensity in all physical stress tests: impact, sonics, thermal conduction. Counterpoint: cursory examination reveals only a heavy-element ion-intercalated carbon lattice. Please see here for diagram. We will be conducting analysis using the method of the ancestors: 'the science'. Thread now open for replies."
Adept One immediately injected, "First."
Tranth clicked his dendrite. Adept Two promptly smacked One over the head.
Adept Three brushed the hair from her eyes. "Observation methods insufficient and/or obfuscated. Request deep-structure analysis."
He uploaded an eight-year-old report to the datanet. "In summary: aside from abnormal field dynamics, sample is identical."
"Behaviour under gravity?" asked Adept One.
"Metric distortion characteristic of hyperdensity."
"Hypothesis," said Adept Four. All eyes turned to him. "Necron technology beyond beauteous light of the STC. Recommend immediate destruction."
Adept One smacked Adept Four.
"Hypothesis," said Two, the voice of reason. One day, Tranth would deign to learn her name. "Gravitational interaction: space-time distortion. Possible extra-dimensional extrusion in higher dimensions, containing anomalous mass."
"Hypothesis," said Tranth, expectations deftly limboed. "Only one of you bothered to learn what 'hypothesis' means." He tossed the necroball up and down. "That is, being correct all the time, forever. Necrodermis micromachinery extends beyond standard dimensions. See phase technology for other uses of manipulating subjective presence within the materium. We will now begin the next phase: testing."
Without warning, he extended his primary weapon armature, three plasma jets spinning up. "Commencing science in three, two, one—"
~~~
THE LOGOS OF RECLAMATION HEREBY SUBMITS TO THE STATE OF AVERNUS FOR APPROVAL A REQUISITION OF MATERIAL:
8000L OF STANDARD LD-40 HEXAMINE PROMETHIUM
actual intelligent acolytes
REASONS STATED:
SCIENCE
~~~
THE STATE OF AVERNUS CONCERNING YOUR MISSIVE HEREBY DICTATES THE FOLLOWING:
Denied.
~~~
Saren clicked his vox-scribe three times, and ran a voice-clearing algorithm. The vidfeed spooled up, edited by the giggly acolytes of the Vision Order, who insisted on this strange endeavour after hearing him speak. An auspicious melody resounded as the footage began.
"Welcome back to ABC's The Life of Animals. In the eastern savannah prowls the mighty alpha hammerhead thundabeast, patrolling around the herd to defend against packs of tigers. The razorweed lashes across its thick hide, but centuries of scar tissue have made it impervious to nature's wrath. It crushes it underfoot, clearing a path for the young and destroying any hiding places for enterprising predators.
Metres away, a pack of raptors stalks the herd, waiting to strike at the weak and hungry. It's been slim pickings, and they are starving. A full-grown raptor can go for several weeks without food by subsisting entirely on conductive minerals. But a diet heavy in complex elements will cause mutations in the gem-molars of the raptor's laserbolt, and may result in premature detonation.
The thundabeast, patrol complete, goes for a snack. The alpha raptor, sensing an opportunity, commands an omega of the pack to flank the prey."
Saren paused to sip from his canteen, scrolling forward through the boring bits, switching to feeds from different surveillance cameras.
"The omega in position, the alpha raptor begins his assault." He pulled some razorwire from a compartment in his wrist, and twanged it. It made a sharp tone into the microphone. As the raptor made its way closer, he shortened the wire, making the tone higher and higher.
"The raptor makes its attack." Snap! The wire zipped back into the compartment, crushing a bit of his flesh thumb. Saren flailed his hand, shutting off the nerves. "The thundabeast's hide cannot withstand the onslaught of energy. The microwave spectrum of the raptor boils its insides, but it lets out one last roar.
Though their vision is impeded by their massive horns, each thundabeast knows exactly where it is in the herd. Through a combination of subsonic vibrations and psykic meshing, information on threats rapidly spreads. The raptors may have won the battle, but they have lost the war. The herd is now aware of their presence, and there is nothing left but to take their spoils and leave, lest they attract a charge."
He dialled down the brightness on the laser-amputation frames, sucking on his thumb.
~~~
THE LOGOS OF BEASTIOLOGY HEREBY SUBMITS TO THE STATE OF AVERNUS FOR APPROVAL A REQUISITION OF MATERIAL:
67 litres of Dangerous Dan's Kiss in a Can Rawberry flavour carbonated liquid emulsion conglomerate king of the juice.
A guitar.
REASONS STATED:
Narration exhausting. Require beverage of everyman to better sympathise with audience.
~~~
THE STATE OF AVERNUS CONCERNING YOUR MISSIVE HEREBY DICTATES THE FOLLOWING:
You're still not actually in our media department, you realise? Denied.
~~~
"How foolish," muttered Britton, the archaeo-fable running on such low resolution he had to simulate a flesh eye to perceive it. Champion Surt had been kind enough to volunteer genuine Age of Terra data preserved by the Muspelheim Archives, in all its mess. "Why do they simply not scan the enemy's alt-modes? At least pick a flight-capable vehicle." On another screen, a two-page view of Orange Lantern, Issue #334 flipped along for his dendritic eye to read.
The ancient humans were incredibly optimistic about alien life, like they were about everything else. One only had to look at the happy ending of the vessel Event Horizon.
Britton turned to the hapless acolyte he'd volunteered to test out the movement algorithms for the new iteration of power armour. He'd integrated some replicated samples of Black Crystal, but the reproductions were laughably inferior to the real thing. There was some effect in the warp, but that was likely just symbolic bleedthrough. Maybe it would grant the augmentation effect of the original, or an increased resistance to Chaos and chaotic influences. Maybe it granted a supernatural capacity for perfect soufflés every time.
To be honest, he was just throwing technology at a wall to see what stuck.
The harness on the acolyte was squeaking in time with his jogging. Britton grabbed a can of WD-M40 and sprayed the offending axle to silence.
"Going strong," he said mildly.
The acolyte wheezed painfully. Britton dialled up the speed, and reclined back in his chair. He stopped the datastream of the classic Metroid: Cybertron. It was simply too upbeat for his liking.
Perhaps one of the more interactive mediums? There were some titles produced by the ancient Mechanicus tributaries, long dead corporyats and memjuntae that eventually merged to form the Martian senate. Given that the requisite consoles had long since evaporated into silicon dust, Britton had rigged up an imitation controller, a brick of steel and wires that was able to simulate all pre-M25 input controllers, to better achieve the authentic experience.
He lifted it up, and paused, before turning to the bloated inbox of work to be done. His pinpoint laser-gaze flipped between game and work in a rapid blur, before he put down the controller with a sigh.
He stomped over to the terminal and stuck his finger in the socket interface. After three seconds of furious computation, the inbox was empty.
The forgemaster loaded up the emulation, and plugged in the controller after performing the Rite of Exhalation for good luck. This was a particularly honoured datafile, having been touched by one of the ancient saints. Surt himself had, after some fits of mad laughter, recommended it.
The lights dimmed as the title screen loaded.
.
.
.
OmnionEMU Version 2.9.4.62.1
Loading file: ps9-gbe.rom
.
.
.
FROM Software presents
.
In cooperation with Nintendo-Pixar Co. Ltd
.
.
Tsutomu Nihei's
BLAME!
~~~
FROM THE OFFICE OF THE FABRICATOR-GENERAL, RIGHTEOUS AMONG THE LOGI, TO THE OFFICE OF THE GOVERNOR:
Apologies for my absence at the yearly meeting. Concerning my availability, I'm afraid our infrastructure efforts are still taking up much of my time, and I foresee no possibility of taking on an extra project this year.
Frederick stared at the email.
~~~
THE OFFICE OF THE GOVERNOR, WITH RESPECT TO YOUR PREVIOUS MISSIVE, SUBMITS THE FOLLOWING:
You can recover your MEM by absorbing your corpse.
~~~
FROM THE OFFICE OF THE FABRICATOR-GENERAL, GLORIED BY THE OMNISSIAH, TO THE OFFICE OF THE GOVERNOR:
I knew that.
~~~
AN: Back to your regularly scheduled siege.
Last edited:
The DE general is getting afraid of sending his troops against our fortifications. 
