Tech Guard Interlude 1
- Location
- United Kingdom
Tech Guard Interlude 1
Malik woke before dawn, donned his robes and buckled on his pistol. The caustic air stung his eyes and lungs till he had his mask on properly, then he stepped out into the world.
The sleeping quarters weren't properly sealed, he knew, that was why they needed the masks. All the adepts and Tech Guard like him needed them, while the Magi and Skitarii did without, or just made use of their own modifications and prostheses. Synthetic lungs or bionic filters installed in the neck were more than adequate to the conditions of the promethium manufactorum.
But people like Malik weren't worthy of such gifts. They did what was expected of them and the Celestial Lord would reward them, he knew.
His robes were off-white now, the stained cloth bearing Forge World Metallica's proud red hammer flapped, frayed around his ankles as he strode across the quadrant. The Reawakening of Binary Chants sounded softly through the speakers, summoning the menials to labour, and Malik hummed along as he walked, sidestepping half into the refuse trench occasionally as a hauler or a Cargo-Six rumbled along the packed dirt roads.
Magos Arfa-Mens' priorities were focused on promethium production at present, not on improvements to the surrounding infrastructure. It was wasteful, Malik knew as he saw the flares, already several dozen of them over the valley out below them. The miasma was growing, an orange-brown haze in the air where the wind on the mountains served only to trap the emissions in the same valley as they built and built. Within five years the rates of mutation and cancerous illness would grow high enough to impact production meaningfully, and Malik knew Magos Arfa-Mens didn't like to use Servitors. They'd have to change production in the mean time, or the Magos would anyway. Till then Malik would spend as much time as he could in the main Cogitation Conclave where the Magos Explorator held his briefings, for that building among all the others had a proper air purifier and adequate ventilation and filters of Holy Carbon. It wasn't specifically for the Magos' comfort, rather the true temple of the Omnissiah had to be kept pure.
One couldn't worship knee deep in sludge, after all, as some of the menials did.
The first step of the day was physical exercise. The respiratory system and muscles of the body were the circuitry of the human race, and Malik wouldn't be found wanting, not when the Insolens in the forest might spring from behind a tree and spear him at any moment!
Malik looked north for a moment, across the valley. There wasn't a single tree left in sight, not for a dozen kilometres at least. The defoliants had been very effective, but no one had bothered to use to remove certain stands of trees when they weren't in the way of the promethium equipment or the pipes leading up over mountains.
Up there Pteraxii Skystalkers and Archaeopters stooped and swooped across the mountains, looking for elves to kill. While the Insolens could shoot well with their bows, better than their should according to the calculations Malik had seen, a blast from the twin heavy stubbers would see to them quickly, for they hid poorly among the bare rocks.
Malik fingered the clasp on his laspistol, flipping the button open, then closing it again with a murmured prayer. He couldn't walk about with the holster open, it would set a bad example to the menials.
In truth, he couldn't see himself shooting at elves anytime soon. That was what the Skitarii were for. He'd just run away and get behind one of the cyborgs if he needed to.
Malik, or to use his designation in the Cult Mechanicus, Theta-Alpha-785, was merely a Tech Guard, a militiaman and second or even third line soldier. He held an administrative role in the military governance of the refinery, directly assisting Magos Explorator Arfa-Mens in his duties but never going into battle himself save in the direst circumstances.
The Cogitation Conclave, his workplace, approached. The building was the core of what would later become a proper temple to the Machine God. At the moment though it was a large platform on several mighty legs that would form a spire for the construction of a hive city many years down the line. Malik wouldn't live to see that, he suspected, but he'd seen the great majesty of Pharos, and one day hoped to see the beauty of Arx Acheron or the fortress, Atakora, of the Astrika Liontaria.
The ground under the platform was miraculously unstained. Malik thought it might be a miracle from the Celestial Lord, but he suspected it was probably just the backwash of the purifying engines in the platform's structure pushing the bad air away, or some similar mechanism.
He braved the blast of wind though, crushing him toward the ground, struggling through to the eye of the storm. There he knelt, removing his mask though keeping a firm hold on it lest it be blown from his hand. He stooped, reciting the older prayers now, thanking the Great Mother, Terra Invictrix, for his fortune.
Then he replaced the mask, staggered out of the shearzone and called the elevator servitor to bring him up to the platform to attend his master's Datastream Management of the events of the night.
Magi didn't sleep, at least their human sides didn't in the true way, and their machines cogitators and binaric implants were as untiring and certain as steel.
Malik did sleep though, even if he coughed during the night because of the poor ventilation in the adept's hab-block.
He walked the perimeter of the platform, looking out at the far away fires and streaks of munitions as the Legiones Skitarii and the Omnissian Taghmata lay siege to the elf city away in the forest. They were growing closer, these past days. They'd had a Valkyrie crash a few miles away last week and Malik had supervised the wreck's swift recovery before more elves could rush at them. Every day the airforce ran bombing runs against the Heart of the Jungle, dropping loads of rockets and defoliant charges from extreme range. Malik didn't think it was worth it personally, but the weather was queer around the elf city and strange creatures would attack through the clouds, with the elf king riding a great flying beast which swatted at the heavy bombers.
Personally, Malik would have called upon the Astartes years ago, but for now it was a problem for the Adeptus Mechanicus, and he wouldn't shirk in his duty, any more than his far away brethren in the Skitarii would in their own battles.
Instead Malik carefully checked the activity logs of the watch-servitors overnight, directing patrols to the relevant sectors to confirm reports or drive off beasts. He'd heard that in other sectors the forest itself had come alive, with trees marching to some psychic devilry. Magos Arfa-Mens had scoffed at that though and Malik hadn't wanted to mention it again.
The Tech Guard checked his robes once again before he went into the Conclave itself. The Magos was a stickler for precision, though he compromised on some aspects of the Cult's activities in favour of accelerated production targets. That was his business, Malik supposed. He suspected he had it better than the Magos did, for he had fewer responsibilities and more resources to manage them than the Magos did.
"IDENTIFY!" roared the metallic construct as soon as Malik entered.
By now he was used to it, he stopped still, making the sign of the cog and skull with his hands and calling back his name, "Theta-Alpha-785, reporting for Knowledge Upload and Binary Contemplation."
He did this every morning, but that still didn't make him comfortable enough around the Kataphron Servitor to put a toe out of line before the machine-man permitted him to, he knew it would vaporise him if he did before the construct had been able to process his ident-code.
With a rasp the thing pulled back and Malik went on, almost pushing past it in his haste. He'd asked if the behaviours could be modified ages ago, but apparently the protocols were hardcoded into that particular Servitor and only a High Magos had the authority skill to dismiss the binary rites, which they'd hardly do just for Malik's convenience.
It was now, among other times, that the adept gave thanks to the Great Mother than he wasn't an actual member of the Cult Mechanicus. He'd grown up in Pharos, though his parents were from the Tusker tribes who'd flocked to the Astartes when they'd blessed Mallus with their presence. He didn't know a world where the planet wasn't ruled by the transhuman lords of the Celestial Lions, but he'd heard enough from his elders to know that between wandering undead, slaver tribes and monsters from the World's Edge Mountains, they were much better off among the spires of the Imperium. Some disagreed, they held to the old ways, lamented the destruction of the great Tusker beasts that had once walked the plains, or held contempt for the Arch-Factor and his Claws and their interference with all levels of government and life.
Not Malik though. To him the Imperium was a liminal engagemnet. He was Tech Guard, not Skitarii. He'd been inducted into a few of the secrets and lesser rites of the Mechanicus, he knew of the Motive Force and the nature of the Rite of the Periods which described all elements in their holy numbers, but at the end of the day he went back to his bunk and not into a regeneration alcove to have his bowels emptied by a tube or some similar horror.
"Theta!" called the Magos before he could even open the door. "See to your syncretistic superstitions in your own time, I have instructed you on this matter many a time!"
Malik didn't bother to retort on that point. He wasn't part of the Cult, and adepts were permitted more variance in their faith than the Magi themselves. Many he knew, followed the Cult Mechanicus closely, others worshipped the Emperor Oracular, the Celestial Lord and his Stary Servants, or the Pyro-cults of the Forges. He himself followed the faith of his parents and their tribe, which had been syncretised into that of an acceptable variation in faith by the Missonia Galaxia decades ago.
Apparently his parents had been ministered to by Saint Hermina herself. Malik had been very jealous when he'd heard that.
"It is 0842, my lord." he replied, "I am on time and have already reviewed the logs from last night."
The Magos' face was half metal, and Malik saw no twitch of annoyance or censure. He knew the Magos didn't really have a problem with it anyway, but like many on the Quest for Knowledge, he had little tolerance for superstition.
"Very well, let us to work then." said Afra-Mens, "We must increase production by 23%, the warfront have sent six requests for additional fuels and in particular our supplies of lifting gas for observation craft."
"Yes, my lord." Malik grunted, easing himself swiftly into a chair and touching the sacred rune to awaken his cogitator.
Malik woke before dawn, donned his robes and buckled on his pistol. The caustic air stung his eyes and lungs till he had his mask on properly, then he stepped out into the world.
The sleeping quarters weren't properly sealed, he knew, that was why they needed the masks. All the adepts and Tech Guard like him needed them, while the Magi and Skitarii did without, or just made use of their own modifications and prostheses. Synthetic lungs or bionic filters installed in the neck were more than adequate to the conditions of the promethium manufactorum.
But people like Malik weren't worthy of such gifts. They did what was expected of them and the Celestial Lord would reward them, he knew.
His robes were off-white now, the stained cloth bearing Forge World Metallica's proud red hammer flapped, frayed around his ankles as he strode across the quadrant. The Reawakening of Binary Chants sounded softly through the speakers, summoning the menials to labour, and Malik hummed along as he walked, sidestepping half into the refuse trench occasionally as a hauler or a Cargo-Six rumbled along the packed dirt roads.
Magos Arfa-Mens' priorities were focused on promethium production at present, not on improvements to the surrounding infrastructure. It was wasteful, Malik knew as he saw the flares, already several dozen of them over the valley out below them. The miasma was growing, an orange-brown haze in the air where the wind on the mountains served only to trap the emissions in the same valley as they built and built. Within five years the rates of mutation and cancerous illness would grow high enough to impact production meaningfully, and Malik knew Magos Arfa-Mens didn't like to use Servitors. They'd have to change production in the mean time, or the Magos would anyway. Till then Malik would spend as much time as he could in the main Cogitation Conclave where the Magos Explorator held his briefings, for that building among all the others had a proper air purifier and adequate ventilation and filters of Holy Carbon. It wasn't specifically for the Magos' comfort, rather the true temple of the Omnissiah had to be kept pure.
One couldn't worship knee deep in sludge, after all, as some of the menials did.
The first step of the day was physical exercise. The respiratory system and muscles of the body were the circuitry of the human race, and Malik wouldn't be found wanting, not when the Insolens in the forest might spring from behind a tree and spear him at any moment!
Malik looked north for a moment, across the valley. There wasn't a single tree left in sight, not for a dozen kilometres at least. The defoliants had been very effective, but no one had bothered to use to remove certain stands of trees when they weren't in the way of the promethium equipment or the pipes leading up over mountains.
Up there Pteraxii Skystalkers and Archaeopters stooped and swooped across the mountains, looking for elves to kill. While the Insolens could shoot well with their bows, better than their should according to the calculations Malik had seen, a blast from the twin heavy stubbers would see to them quickly, for they hid poorly among the bare rocks.
Malik fingered the clasp on his laspistol, flipping the button open, then closing it again with a murmured prayer. He couldn't walk about with the holster open, it would set a bad example to the menials.
In truth, he couldn't see himself shooting at elves anytime soon. That was what the Skitarii were for. He'd just run away and get behind one of the cyborgs if he needed to.
Malik, or to use his designation in the Cult Mechanicus, Theta-Alpha-785, was merely a Tech Guard, a militiaman and second or even third line soldier. He held an administrative role in the military governance of the refinery, directly assisting Magos Explorator Arfa-Mens in his duties but never going into battle himself save in the direst circumstances.
The Cogitation Conclave, his workplace, approached. The building was the core of what would later become a proper temple to the Machine God. At the moment though it was a large platform on several mighty legs that would form a spire for the construction of a hive city many years down the line. Malik wouldn't live to see that, he suspected, but he'd seen the great majesty of Pharos, and one day hoped to see the beauty of Arx Acheron or the fortress, Atakora, of the Astrika Liontaria.
The ground under the platform was miraculously unstained. Malik thought it might be a miracle from the Celestial Lord, but he suspected it was probably just the backwash of the purifying engines in the platform's structure pushing the bad air away, or some similar mechanism.
He braved the blast of wind though, crushing him toward the ground, struggling through to the eye of the storm. There he knelt, removing his mask though keeping a firm hold on it lest it be blown from his hand. He stooped, reciting the older prayers now, thanking the Great Mother, Terra Invictrix, for his fortune.
Then he replaced the mask, staggered out of the shearzone and called the elevator servitor to bring him up to the platform to attend his master's Datastream Management of the events of the night.
Magi didn't sleep, at least their human sides didn't in the true way, and their machines cogitators and binaric implants were as untiring and certain as steel.
Malik did sleep though, even if he coughed during the night because of the poor ventilation in the adept's hab-block.
He walked the perimeter of the platform, looking out at the far away fires and streaks of munitions as the Legiones Skitarii and the Omnissian Taghmata lay siege to the elf city away in the forest. They were growing closer, these past days. They'd had a Valkyrie crash a few miles away last week and Malik had supervised the wreck's swift recovery before more elves could rush at them. Every day the airforce ran bombing runs against the Heart of the Jungle, dropping loads of rockets and defoliant charges from extreme range. Malik didn't think it was worth it personally, but the weather was queer around the elf city and strange creatures would attack through the clouds, with the elf king riding a great flying beast which swatted at the heavy bombers.
Personally, Malik would have called upon the Astartes years ago, but for now it was a problem for the Adeptus Mechanicus, and he wouldn't shirk in his duty, any more than his far away brethren in the Skitarii would in their own battles.
Instead Malik carefully checked the activity logs of the watch-servitors overnight, directing patrols to the relevant sectors to confirm reports or drive off beasts. He'd heard that in other sectors the forest itself had come alive, with trees marching to some psychic devilry. Magos Arfa-Mens had scoffed at that though and Malik hadn't wanted to mention it again.
The Tech Guard checked his robes once again before he went into the Conclave itself. The Magos was a stickler for precision, though he compromised on some aspects of the Cult's activities in favour of accelerated production targets. That was his business, Malik supposed. He suspected he had it better than the Magos did, for he had fewer responsibilities and more resources to manage them than the Magos did.
"IDENTIFY!" roared the metallic construct as soon as Malik entered.
By now he was used to it, he stopped still, making the sign of the cog and skull with his hands and calling back his name, "Theta-Alpha-785, reporting for Knowledge Upload and Binary Contemplation."
He did this every morning, but that still didn't make him comfortable enough around the Kataphron Servitor to put a toe out of line before the machine-man permitted him to, he knew it would vaporise him if he did before the construct had been able to process his ident-code.
With a rasp the thing pulled back and Malik went on, almost pushing past it in his haste. He'd asked if the behaviours could be modified ages ago, but apparently the protocols were hardcoded into that particular Servitor and only a High Magos had the authority skill to dismiss the binary rites, which they'd hardly do just for Malik's convenience.
It was now, among other times, that the adept gave thanks to the Great Mother than he wasn't an actual member of the Cult Mechanicus. He'd grown up in Pharos, though his parents were from the Tusker tribes who'd flocked to the Astartes when they'd blessed Mallus with their presence. He didn't know a world where the planet wasn't ruled by the transhuman lords of the Celestial Lions, but he'd heard enough from his elders to know that between wandering undead, slaver tribes and monsters from the World's Edge Mountains, they were much better off among the spires of the Imperium. Some disagreed, they held to the old ways, lamented the destruction of the great Tusker beasts that had once walked the plains, or held contempt for the Arch-Factor and his Claws and their interference with all levels of government and life.
Not Malik though. To him the Imperium was a liminal engagemnet. He was Tech Guard, not Skitarii. He'd been inducted into a few of the secrets and lesser rites of the Mechanicus, he knew of the Motive Force and the nature of the Rite of the Periods which described all elements in their holy numbers, but at the end of the day he went back to his bunk and not into a regeneration alcove to have his bowels emptied by a tube or some similar horror.
"Theta!" called the Magos before he could even open the door. "See to your syncretistic superstitions in your own time, I have instructed you on this matter many a time!"
Malik didn't bother to retort on that point. He wasn't part of the Cult, and adepts were permitted more variance in their faith than the Magi themselves. Many he knew, followed the Cult Mechanicus closely, others worshipped the Emperor Oracular, the Celestial Lord and his Stary Servants, or the Pyro-cults of the Forges. He himself followed the faith of his parents and their tribe, which had been syncretised into that of an acceptable variation in faith by the Missonia Galaxia decades ago.
Apparently his parents had been ministered to by Saint Hermina herself. Malik had been very jealous when he'd heard that.
"It is 0842, my lord." he replied, "I am on time and have already reviewed the logs from last night."
The Magos' face was half metal, and Malik saw no twitch of annoyance or censure. He knew the Magos didn't really have a problem with it anyway, but like many on the Quest for Knowledge, he had little tolerance for superstition.
"Very well, let us to work then." said Afra-Mens, "We must increase production by 23%, the warfront have sent six requests for additional fuels and in particular our supplies of lifting gas for observation craft."
"Yes, my lord." Malik grunted, easing himself swiftly into a chair and touching the sacred rune to awaken his cogitator.
