PERFECTION by The Confessor

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EmailPERFECTION
by Laurence Sinclair
a.k.a. The Confessor
It was cold here, she knew that much. And dark, too. It was still
black, even when she opened her eyes. Aside from the cold and the dark,
the only other thing she could be certain of in this unknown place was the
pain.

It flowed through her veins, keeping her still. If she didn't move, she
could hardly feel it at all. But staying still wasn't going to help her
find out where she was. After a few minutes, she succeeded in her attempt
to sit up, although she was out of breath. And hurting. Even the
movement of her lungs to pass air ripped through her.
Hesperides could see stars above her. A good sign. At least she wasn't
locked up somewhere, a prisoner of the Imperium she had fought long and
hard for. She may have been writhing in a pit of permanant agony as a
punishment for her sins against the Emperor, but at least she was outside.
She was free.
Or at least she would be, if she could bring herself to stand up. She
wasn't sure if she was ready for such a commitment. But then, the
decision wasn't up to her. Somebody grabbed her roughly by the shoulder
and hauled her to her feet. Gaping silently at the agony, she struggled
to stay awake. But it was too much, and her body gave up, letting her
limbs fall loose and her eyelids fall as unconciousness took her once
more.

This was getting to be a bit of a habit.

***
When she came to again, the pain was gone. She found herself sitting in a
chair of some sort, inside a tent. It was much larger than her cell had
been aboard the Vengeful Mace, and was certainly better decorated. The
'walls' may still have been white, made of some form of plasticloth, but
all around her were benches, crammed with bizarre objects.
Intricately carved statuettes stood next to vases of ancient antiquity,
patterned with black wax. Busts of humans and aliens lay beside curious
metallic devices of unknown purpose. And yet more was hidden under dust
sheets. She knew that these things were the work of idolators and long
dead heathens, but none the less was caught by their beauty. Such care
had clearly been put into each example, almost the equal of the great
temples of Terra. She reached out a hand to touch the nearest artefact, a
bizarre hexagonal plate featuring a bull headed man in relief.
'Ah, you awake from your slumber at last! I had thought that maybe I'd
wasted my medical supplies!'
The voice was soft, and had the quavering quality of the aged. Hesperides
looked up, and saw that she had completely failed to notice the tent's
other occupant. He too was seated, on a simple stool of black wood, some
ten feet from her, in front of the tent flaps, which were fastened shut.
He was a short man, and possibly quite plump, depending on how thick the
layers of red robe that he was swathed in were. His face was smooth,
devoid of hair of any sort, although a scrub of grey was growing from his
scalp. Upon his stubby nose were seated a pair of spectacles whose arms,
rather than resting on the man's ears, were bolted into the side of his
head. They were tinted yellow, only slightly deeper than his lemon
complexion. He sighed, long and deep.

'Please don't touch that. It is the only example of Malaproprian dinner

ware that is left in the Imperium. I'm rather fond of it.'
She halted her hand, and hesitantly withdrew it, placing it in her lap
with its opposite number.
'Now, who are you, woman? I don't believe I've seen you around here
before, which is a pity.' A faint smile raised itself on his face at this
last comment.
'I am Materfamilias Hesperides of the Adepta Sororitas Order of the Argent
Shroud, and I would rather you gazed upon me more respectfully.' she told
him, staring at his glassed eyes. She was not going to endure this
behaviour from a mere antiques collector. She may not have had much left,
but her respect was valuable to her. It was what raised her above the
shameless populance.
His smile remained. It was joined by a short guffaw. 'Of course, and I
am Commissar Yarrick! Please do tell another!'

She was not used to this. In her few dealings with outsiders she had
always been treated with courtesy, maybe even been held in awe. Just one
look at her polished silver power armour -
She looked down at herself. She was not wearing her power armour. She
was still wearing the simple white robe that had been given to her by the
Hospitallers, and it had seen better days. It was tarnished and stained,
not only by dirt but by the blood of the Eldar she had slain. Yet it was
also torn, not reaching past her elbows or knees. She couldn't think how
this could have happened. But it did explain the man's reaction.
The man waved a hand dismissively. 'No matter. Call yourself what you
will, I don't care. I'm sure whatever distemper of the mind you are
suffering from is quite harmless. As for myself, I am Eschatologist
Prolixite. And this is my collection. You wouldn't believe how long it
took me to amass this, you know. See this, this Ogygian tooth remover?
Well, I found it on-'
Prolixite didn't seem to be talking to her. He seemed satisfied that
there was someone in the room with him while he was talking, and was
paying her no attention. As she watched (trying not to listen to his
meaningless blather) him caper around, pointing at each of his treasures
one at a time, she couldn't help but feel pity for him. Was there no one
else here, wherever here was, driving him to this obvious insanity? That
would mean that she was trapped with him, and she didn't exactly relish
such a possibilty. But she didn't have to listen to this.
She got to her feet, and prepared to clear her throat. But the tent flaps
opened at that moment, and the Eschatologist paused in his demonstration
of an interesting Nephelococcygian hearing aid.
'Who is it?' he demanded.
The figure that forced itself into the tent was definately not swathed in
robes. Its bare torso was covered in a layer of skin that was alternately

deathly pale and sunburnt red. With one outsized hand it held the flaps
open, the other-
The other wasn't even a hand. From its left shoulder sprouted a
mechanical contrivance, all pistons and wires. Various fluids of
different colours pumped their way through this network, and sparks jumped
from loose connections at the 'elbow'. The limb ended in an unpleasant
industrial tool, the use of which was unknown to Hesperides, although it
did conjure numerous images in her head.
The face was a similar blending of steel and flesh. Its eyes were blank
and unseeing, with large metal plates hammered onto the skull, covered in
numbers and alchymical symbols. Its jaw was broken in several places,
allowing the large transmitter to fit in its mouth with no difficulty. It
was from this orifice that the voice came.
Hesperides had heard an Astropath talk, communicating messages across the
vast distances of space, but the noise which left the mouth of this
servitor was less organic, even less natural. Flat, emotionless. Not
alive.

'eschatologist i will see our visitor now'

It wasn't even an order, it was a statement. But she had to admit that it
had an effect upon Prolixite.
'Yes, yes at once! Get along now, I will bring her presently!'
The cyborg stepped back into the darkness without. Hesperides sat back
down. So she and Prolixite weren't alone. That was a relief. But that
thing, that blasphemy, could mean only one thing.
The Adeptus Mechanicus.
Maybe being alone with Prolixite would have been preferable.
***
Forelir opened his eyes. That had definately been one of the less
pleasant webway journeys he had ever had, but, under the circumstances,
that was understandable. A dying farseer would find it hard to fix upon a
destination, yet alone the intervening distance. The pain was near
overwhelming, but he had learned to deal with with pain, to control it.
He had not become the foremost Striking Scorpion Exarch of Ulthwe through
giving in to pain.
So he got up with little more than a grunt.
It was dark here, but then that's why his helm had been fitted with night
vision. It didn't improve matters much. While it was worrying to see
that his mandiblasters were exhausted and that he was otherwise
weaponless, that did not matter. He was confident that he could handle
himself. What was disquieting was his total ignorance of exactly where he
was. He was inside somewhere, and his respirators told him that the air
was stale, unused. The walls, ceiling and floor were all devoid of
marking or insignia of any kind. He was standing at a crossroads of
corridors, which all looked the same.
And, worst of all, there was no sign of his prey. The mon-keigh who had
killed Nimuenir was nowhere to be seen. But then, he had always enjoyed
the chase. Picking a direction at random, he set off.
***
Hesperides followed Prolixite as he left the tent. He didn't seem to be
in any hurry to get where he was going, so she slowed her pace to keep up
with him. The cold sand beneath her bare feet made this much easier.
It was still dark outside, the stars easily visible against the night sky.
There was no moon. About a dozen tents, all of the same material as the
first, had been erected, bland and unimposing. There was a pen located
roughly in the centre of the small enclave. Strange sounds issued from
it, low moans and the movement of many feet. It was too dark to see
exactly what manner of creature the servitors were keeping there, but the
night could not cloak their stench.

She turned to look away, and spotted something that just managed to be
silhouetted against the sky. Something darker than the darkness. A
looming structure that dwarfed the already small tents. She didn't have
time to examine it further, as Prolixite came to the end of his journey.
'After you, my lady.' he mumbled, holding the tent flap open.
This one was slightly bigger than the others, but she still had to stoop
to get through the opening. She was about to turn to hold it open for her
guide, but found that Prolixite had let it close, showing no intention of
following her. She soon saw why.
The interior was well lit by a single lamp that hung from a hook at the
centre of the tent's 'ceiling'. A crude wooden bench lay against one
wall, upon it a bundle of wires and metallic plates that linked to a
polished screen, not unlike the STC database she had once seen. This
machine seemed to be turned off, though. At the back of the room was a
simple bed, made less simple by another complex device that was attatched
to the head so that it provided a grotesque canopy. A number of crates
and stools took up much of the rest of the available space, some open,
others in the process of being packed or unpacked, sawdust scattered
around them. A high backed chair sat beside the bench, its occupant
looking directly at her, his stare unblinking.
The fact that he was a tech priest was immediately apparant. His red
robes and white/black skull amulet confirmed it. A heavy belt held many
mysterious tools and implements as well as, she noted with a little
apprehension, a holstered plasma pistol. His right hand only just
emerged from the long sleeves, resting flat on the bench. The other hung
loose by his side, a three taloned claw that flexed itself every few
seconds with a sharp grating noise. From his back emerged the traditional
servo arm, which must have been somehow attatched to his spine given his
lack of any back pack. Unlike the claw, this seemed quite inactive.
Beneath the cowl was half a face. The right was completely made of metal,

including a bionic eye that was hooked up to an antennaed skull on the

right shoulder. The smooth expressionless steel and polished bone might
have been unnerving, had not the flesh and blood face been even more
disturbing.
This tech priest was thin to the point of malnutrition. Bloodless lips
curled back to reveal perfect teeth, and an eyelid raised to reveal an eye
that was just as white. No iris, no pupil. Tears continuously ran down
the priest's cheek, only to be caught and devoured by an ever alert
tongue, thick and red.
'So, you are our mysterious guest.' The voice was cultured, speaking High
Gothic clearly and precisely, with much less slurring than Prolixite had
been prone to. 'Before I begin to ask you what you think you are doing in
my camp, let me introduce myself. I am Tech Priest D'Arethon, adept of
Mars and explorator of the Adeptus Mechanicus.'
He grasped the arm of the chair with his hand to push himself to his feet,

then raised both it and the claw so as to caress the one with the other.
'So now that you know who I am, would you mind explaining who you are?'
The truth wouldn't do any good here - if Prolixite's reaction was anything
to go by, he probably wouldn't even believe her, and it would probably be
even worse if he did. Still, there was no need to lie unless it was
absolutely necessary...
'My name is Hesperides, but I have no idea how I got here.' Well, she
didn't, she told herself.
What remained of D'Arethon's face creased up in a grimace, and Hesperides
knew immediately that she had said something wrong. He raised the claw,
its great blades springing apart and then closing suddenly. She
flinched.
'My lord. You will call me 'my lord'.' he told her.
She was beginning to see some sort of a pattern here... Never the less,
she gritted her teeth. 'My lord.'
He nodded and lowered the claw. 'The sun will be up soon, and there is
still much work to be done. For now you may sleep in one of the storage
tents.'
He turned from her, apparantly deciding that the audience was over, and
that she had permission to take leave of his illustrious prescence. Who
did he think he was?
Her anger abated somewhat when she felt a heavy hand upon her shoulder.
'Be so good as to escort my guest to supply tent beta.'
There was no option but to follow the servitor for now. There had to be
some way out of this, but she would think about it in the morning. Right
now she would settle for another rest.

D'Arethon waited until the woman and the servitor had left the tent before
calling the Eschatologist in.
'And what is it that you desire of me, my lord, first blessed of the-'
The tech-priest's stare cut Prolixite off mid-flatter. 'It would appear
that the Machine God smiles upon us, Prolixite.'
'What circumstance has arisen so as to give you that impression, my lord?'
'In this, my hour of need, he has sent a sign, a means by which I may
continue my work.' As he said this, D'Arethon stooped low over one of the
crates.
'Surely you do not mean-'
D'Arethon smiled as his hand slid across the smooth metal within the box.
He ignored the rough sawdust, concentrating instead upon the intricate
carving and potential for power that his fingertips rubbed against. Then
he blinked, and withdrew his hand, standing up once more. Not now, but
soon...
'But of course. If I am to succeed in my mission, and you to get your
relic...'
'But if you would but remember what befell the others...'
Prolixite swore that he would take the grin of the tech-priest at that
moment with him to the grave. He didn't care.
'I don't care.' D'Arethon said. 'Success is all. Tomorrow will dawn a
new era, and I will usher it into being.'
***
Forelir was lost. These catacombs seemed to go on forever, twisting and
turning, splitting and rejoining. Maybe the inscriptions and pictograms
upon the walls meant something, held some clue, but he was ignorant of it
if they did. His patience was beginning to wear thin.
But wait! What was that tang in the air? The unmistakable aura of power
that only machinery could generate. And judging by the strength of it, it
must be one big piece of machinery.
Quickening pace slightly, he found that a chamber of sorts opened before
him. Still dark, but he could make out some low structure in the centre.
The chamber was square, and about five times as wide as the corridors.
Within the walls seemed to be alcoves, set at regular intervals. The
occasional crackle of energy across their surface betrayed the prescence
of stasis fields.
Forelir took a step towards the structure. It was as high as his waist,
and as long as he was tall. It too was adorned in hieroglyphs. This was
the source of the power. It was so obvious. He reached out a hand to
touch it...
***
The supply tent was cramped, but at least it was warm. Warmer than a
night in the desert outside. The servitor's unsleeping form standing
outside banished any thoughts of escape from her mind. Not that she was
in any condition to make a break for it, anyway. Not in this robe.
But this was a supply tent, wasn't it? Somewhere, in this multitude of
crates and boxes and barrels must be some supplies of the apparellic kind.
It was just a matter of finding the right one...
***
The sun rose over the sands, but D'Arethon paid it no heed. Instead he
merely stood silently, leaning upon his staff and staring up at the
structure. It was at its most magnificent at dawn, he had found. Light,
but not too light, so as to expose the cruelties of time on its weathered
surface.

Behind him the labourers, some servitors, others merely slaves, emerged
from their tents, blinking in the light. They moved automatically towards
their tools and positions, exchanging not a single word with each other.
D'Arethon approved of that. Discipline was achieved through the proper
disposal of conversation, the doing away with any form of interaction
between workers. It only distracted from purpose, delaying the great
work. And he didn't have time to spare. Even though they worked all the
hours the long desert days provided them with, still they wasted the hours
of darkness. Even the servitors needed to recharge in this accursed
sandpit. But soon would be an end to all that...
They set to, digging at the sand at the base of the structure, some with
primitive shovels, others with huge earth moving vehicles. The sand was
carried away by the mehari beasts, servitors leading them by the nose.
They unearthed more and more every day, and even D'Arethon was amazed by
the scale of it. Truly the ancients were mighty indeed to have
constructed such an awesome symbol of their power. Such power...
Prolixite coughed. D'Arethon swung around.
'Sorry to disturb you, my lord, but-'
'I trust you have made the apparatus ready, eschatologist?'
'All is prepared, we merely await-'
'Our visitor.' Although there was no change of expression in the dead
fleshed face, Prolixite turned to follow its gaze.
Hesperides had stepped out from within the supply tent, only now there was
something different about her. The eschatologist saw that it was a good
change. No longer was she clad in the shapeless off white smock, now she
wore something.... more appropriate. Heavy brown boots, quite adept at
traversing the treacherous dunes. His eyes moved upwards, soaking up
every detail. Her legs were covered by thick, sandy coloured trousers,
too big for her but fastened securely by a heavy belt. As his gaze rose
ever higher, he saw what had become of the dress. The garment now tucked
in to the belt bore it an uncanny resemblance in colour, if not shape.
She had clearly torn the sleeves from it, as well as any material below
her midriff, baring not a little flesh (quite inappropriate for the
blistering heat, but he wasn't about to tell her to cover up). Her dark
hair was still a mess, at some time it may have been neatly trimmed, but
had recently grown out of it, alternately sticking up and laying flat.
The final point to consider was her fine boned face, its pale skin
doubtless set to darken under this sun. The moment he had first seen it
he -
She was staring straight at him, and advancing. Her walk was not the
confident stride of the previous night, but a faltering step, as if she
were embarassed in some way. If he was any any judge, she should be
feeling nothing but pride.
'I thought I told you not to look at me in that fashion?' she snapped.
He blinked, and then turned back to the tech priest. D'Arethon had
managed a half smile, and Prolixite stepped back to let him speak.

'I trust you had a pleasant night?'

If it was sarcasm she was in no mood to retort to it. 'I've had better.'
'Yes, this place does somewhat lack in-'
Once more Prolixite was cut off by a single glance from the tech-priest.
So it's not just me, she thought, they're all scared of him. She followed
his gaze, and noticed the worksite for the first time. A huge number of
workers and servitors were digging away at the base of a vast pyramid. In
the dawn light she couldn't make out much of it, but there was some form
of cross emblazoned upon it. A curved, alien cross. Doubtless there
were other details, but then they were doubtless heretical, and besides
which her attention span was being shortened somewhat by her hunger.
When had she last eaten?
'If you would follow me, we will break our fast in the emperor's name.'
D'Arethon had clearly said it out of habit, she could tell he didn't mean
it. There was no respect. Sometimes she wondered why the Ecclesiarchy
let the Mechanicus exist when they persisted in their belief in a false
god. But food was food.
She followed him into his tent. Prolixite entered behind her. A fold up
table had been set up, and a white sheet spread upon it. Now there were
three chairs, and D'Arethon indicated one with a wave of his claw.
'Sit.'
She sat. Her hosts took the other seats, and a scrawny servitor with a
large cutting blade in place of its right hand approached from somewhere,
holding a silver platter in its free hand.
'I will apologise now for the poor fare we must put up with here. We
have been here in this desert for over a month, and the supply ship is not

due for another week, assuming of course that the Warp is accommodating,
Machine God willing.'
The platter was set upon the table, but the cover was not removed. A
metal mug was set beside each of them, from what Hesperides could see they
contained an orange liquid. It bubbled slightly, and had a smell that she
did not recognise. Was this some sort of special Mechanicus drink?
Noting her hesitation, D'Arethon raised his own cup. 'A simple fruit
drink, nothing more.' he smiled. There was no way of reading his
expression (without peeling off the flesh to read whatever was printed on
his metal skull). Prolixite was another matter. He seemed to be watching
her glass intently, which was strange because so far he had done nothing
but examine her body, lecherous wretch that he was. It might just have
been her paranoia playing up again, but there was definately something
that he was expecting of her.
'Actually, I'm not thirsty.' She pushed the mug away from her just in
case they didn't understand.

'What, not even in this blistering heat?' D'Arethon smiled again. 'It is
for your own good. The desert can be a pretty dry place sometimes.'
'Why yes, sometimes it doesn't rain for years.' Prolixite volunteered.
His smile evaporated as the priest rounded on the eschatologist. There
was no denying it now. They wanted her to drink the drink, and not
because they were worried about her dehydrating. She had to get out of
here. Where she would go was another matter, but she could think about it
later. She put her hands on the table to push herself to her feet.
Cold steel against her throat. She relaxed her hands.
D'Arethon got to his feet and scooped up the tray. Hesperides felt a hand
upon her shoulder (again), and realised that the knife armed servitor
must be behind her. There was definately something wrong here.
'Well, if you insist, Ms Espridez, we will do this without anaesthetic.'
said the tech-priest as he raised the platter.
There was some sort of machine on the tray. It bore resemblance to a
spider, a blasphemous reproduction of the Emperor's work. Upon its
abdomen was the same symbol as that on the pyramid. D'Arethon carefully
picked it up, holding it in the palm of his hand. It was big enough to
let its legs dangle over the edges.
'It was lucky you turned up when you did.' he continued. 'After the
Dialogus Sister wore out, I feared that I would never see another female
again.'
'Wore out?' Hesperides realised that her voice was somewhat panicky.
Although she was fully justified, she swallowed and tried to steady it
before continuing. 'You have had the audacity to defile a Sororitas, and
want to do so a-'

D'Arethon's face was as near surprise as could be possible given his

restricted facial muscle. 'Of course not! How dare you imply such a
thing. I am a priest you know! I-' As if realising the redenning of his
cheek (which almost made it the colour of healthy flesh), he quickly
turned the conversation back to its original subject. 'This is a
scientific experiment. I know not whether or not you have heard of the
Necrontyr,' (The what?) 'but their total symbiosis with their machinary is
an inspiration to us all. By fully melding their minds with the blessed
Machine they have shown me the way. They are perfection itself. Imagine
it, a world without the petty and unnecessary biological needs.
Perfection. Forget the STCs, the Throne itself, mere childish
constructions. The secrets contained inside that pyramid will allow me to
bring such a blessing to all of mankind!'
He was ranting now, his streaming tears mixing with the spittle dripping
from his mouth. Hesperides had thought Confessor Bernando's battle frenzy
was the ultimate example of religious fervour, but this psycho had him
beat. He may not have had belief in any god, but he truly believed what
he was saying. As she had once believed.
'But until those inefficient drones outside have uncovered any sort of
entrance I will be forced to experiment. I haven't enjoyed much success
as yet, but I'm getting better.'
'What is it that you're going to do?' she asked, speaking as quietly as
possible. That blade was uncomfortably close.
'This' he raised his hand, 'is the only Necrontyr artefact in the Imperium
that the thieving Inquisition haven't got their hands on. I recovered it
years ago, have have been testing it ever since. It didn't take me long
to discover that no male body can handle it, but I don't know why. The
procedure I'm going to perform is really very simple, I'll just need to
 cut into your chest...'
Hesperides looked at the Nekrontire thing. there was no way that it would
fit inside her chest. Maybe this priest didn't just have devotion, he had
true madness... His blank eye was staring at her. There was no sanity
there. He had no idea what he was doing. He was doing it for pleasure's
sake, enjoying the pain he caused. By the looks of things it would be
very painful. If only she hadn't forsaken the Emperor's protection. Ah!
'It's not too late to have some anaesthetic now, is it?' she asked
timidly.
'Not at all.' The smile showed teeth this time.
The servitor drew its arm back, allowing her to reach forward, picking the
cup up again. She raised it to her lips. And then swung it around into
the servitor's face.
She had expected only a little surprise on the cyborg's part, just enough
to get past it maybe, but it seemed to be totally preoccupied. The liquid
was eating away at its face. It wasn't anaesthetic, but one really strong
acid. The priest was mad.
As the servitor reeled back, sparks flying as the acid ate away into vital
wires, Hesperides got to her feet. Prolixite was nowhere to be seen, but
D'Arethon was still there. Dropping the tray to the ground, he dashed the
table aside with a sweep of his claw, scattering acid into the desert
sands. She wasn't going to wait any longer, and ripped the tent flaps
open.
After the gloom of the tent, the early morning sun was like a slap in the
face. She squinted to shut out the brightness and ran forward blindly,
not caring where she went. Already the sun was burning at her exposed
arms, but that was far preferable to having acid eating away at her from
the inside. Her foot hit something, sending her tumbling into the sand.
She turned quickly, seeing D'Arethon literally tear his way out of the
tent, throwing the broken body of the sevitor aside. Flexing his claw, he

raised his hand above his head, still holding the spider. No longer was
there any fluid dripping from either his eye or mouth, but his bionic eye
was starting to glow red. She hazarded a guess that she may have made him
angry.
Then she saw Prolixite at his shoulder. He coughed politely and D'Arethon
swung on him, punching him to the floor with the flat of his talons. She
took the opportunity to get to her feet, and then she saw the pyramid,
only a few dozen yards away. The work had stopped, the ediface no longer
buried. It was totally uncovered. As she watched the servitors and
slaves drop their tools to the ground, she heard the escatologist speak.
'Muh, my esteemed lord,' he wheezed, 'I am happy to report that the dig is
finally ended!'
This was enough to distract D'Arethon's attention. She would have a
chance to run, search for some sort of spacecraft, some way out of here,
off this world. Then the sound of an engine starting, and she looked back
at the tech-priest. He was definately distracted now. The spider had
come alive in his hand.
***
Forelir jumped back. The stasis fields flickered and died before his
eyes, and their occupants emerged. Then he was alerted by another danger,
as he heard the entrance closing behind him. He was around and running
for it in seconds. A stone block was descending from the ceiling,
closing off the passageway. It was slow though, inefficient. Forelir was
fast, and wasted nothing, energy or opportunity. He dived through the
opening, rolling to his feet just in time to hear the trap slam shut
behind him.

He paused to collect his thoughts. The creatures that had emerged from
the tombs, they seemed somehow familiar. He had only had a second's
glance at them, but it had been enough. Their slow, shuffling movements,
their disproportiontely heavy bodies...
He had to get out of here, before they managed to break through. He could
already hear a dull pounding. He sprinted back the way he came, pausing
at the t-junction to look at the hieroglyphs with a new eye. He should
have realised immediately, when he first saw them! If only his mind
hadn't been clouded by revenge. He could see it now, of course. That was
the body, those lines the legs, some mandibles-
The wall moved.
Something hit him in the face, and then he was aware of several needle
sharp metal points digging themselves into each side of his helmet. He
raised his hands to remove it, or at least try and dislodge his attacker,
but then two more spikes buried themselves in his eyeballs, and his soul
slid from his carcass.

***
The workers, returning from the dig, were greeted by the sight of
D'Arethon flinging the scarab to the ground as if it had burned him. When
they saw the red weal upon his palm, they realised that it probably had.
'Don't just stand there!' Prolixite screamed, pointing as the machine as
it scuttled away, 'Stop it!'
Several of the workers had about their person (or at least close to hand),
a number of shot and stub guns (paranoia was another of D'Arethon's many
virtues). They blazed away at the thing, and were eventually rewarded
when one of its legs detatched and the thing sank slowly to the sand.
'Who fired?'
The slaves instinctively moved away from the guilty one, as D'Arethon drew
his plasma pistol. But his hand still hurt, and he dropped it. Waving
his arm to cool it down, he gestured with his claw.
'Fine. Bring the scarab to me and then you will recieve your punishment.'
The claw snapped shut to emphasise the point.
Hesperides saw the man hesitantly step forward, wrapping his hand in a
shred of his tattered shirt. She carefully got to her feet, thanking the
Emperor for the timely distraction. But somehow she couldn't turn away,
she had to watch, to see what would happen next. Prolixite stooped to
retrieve the plasma pistol, while the digger stooped to gingerly touch the
scarab.
There was a single, electronic beep. Then it exploded.

The man was engulfed by the flame, and she hoped for his sake that he had
died instantly. Everyone else was thrown to the ground, and a few tents
were levelled. But there had been no sound. She had always thought that
explosions caused lots of noise. This one had been totally silent.
Coughing sand from her mouth, she swept her hair out of her eyes. Most of
the others, D'Arethon and Prolixite among them, were getting to their
feet, but some would never get up again, their limbs, metallic or flesh,
shredded. And then came the sound. It was quiet at first, but gradually
grew in volume. A rumbling sound. The survivors turned as one to see
what was causing it. The pyramid was opening up.
It stood at least a mile high, and the gateway opening at its base was at
least a third of this. Stone blocks slid to the side, or up or down, as
the portal widened. Empty blackness lay within. As the ancient
mechanisms quietly subsided, another sound replaced them. The tramp of
many feet, all marching as one. It brought a tear to Hesperides' eye.
The sound of discipline.
But when the army marched forth from the pyramid, any more tears she may
have had quickly dried. Rank after rank of androids, in perfect
synchronisation with each other, strode into the sunlight. They were
humanoid, more or less, but with grotesquely bulky torsos, upon which was
emblazoned the same cross as was upon the pyramid and the scarab. The
cross, being blue, was the only colour to them at all, as their bodies
were just bare metal, pistons and wires exposed, like servitors without
the skin, without even a single layer of paint. But then their eyes lit
up, a daemonic red glow cast forth like some infernal searchlight, staring
out of their grim skulls.
They all carried weapons, attatched to them by more mechanical trickery.
It was no more than a lasgun sized tube terminating in a large spike, but
Hesperides was more than a little disconcerted by the glint of green gauss
energy at its tip.
She had good reason to be. The robots halted, and then raised their guns.
As they fired, men died. Their flesh was ripped from them, they were
stripped to skeletons, and then even that disappeared. That seemed to
break the spell that held the diggers in thrall. Some began to run in
panic, others to grab their guns once again. At this the warrior robots
broke formation, chasing down individual targets to flay with their
weapons.
All was chaos as human fought machine, and generally lost. Those that
fled were mercilessly destroyed by the necrons, standing stock still to
rapid fire their lethal guns into them. Those that stood their ground
found themselves outclassed, kicked to the ground by the butts of guns, or
torn assunder by metal talons. Those that could get a shot off were
rewarded by buying themsleves a few seconds more life.
Mercifully the screams of the dying lasted only a split second, just long
enough for their entire being to be dissolved, but the sheer quantity of
them composed a hellish symphony of intermingled death cries, varying in
pitch and tone. Hesperides tried to keep it out, to drown it in verses
of the Fede Imperialis, but still it got to her. So many souls, snatched
away by these steel daemons... But then she remembered her training, and
cleared her mind. She needed a weapon. She saw one lying on the floor,
a few feet away. A shotgun. She had seen militiamen use them, and if
such untrained vagabonds could do so, surely it would be no problem to a
highly trained Sister of the Adepta Sororitas?
Grabbing it may well have saved her life. In the corner of her eye she
picked up movement, and rolled to her back to see a beam of green light
stab through the air where she had been standing only a few seconds ago.
As the necron slowly traversed to bring its weapon to bear on her new
position, she fired. She aimed at its knee, thin and probably vulnerable.
She didn't know whether or not she had hit at first. The recoil of the
gun took her by surprise. She just wasn't used to firing them without the
aid of power armour, and had taken the strength it bestowed her for
granted. She was also surprised when the necron warrior fell upon her
leg, but at least she knew that she had hit it. It was missing a leg.
Its weight was incredible, and she bit back her pain. She brought the
shotgun down to point at its head and pressed the trigger again. One of
its eyes lost its glow, but still it came on. It tried to grab a purchase
in the treacherous sand with its free ahnd, while simultaneously trying to
raise its weapon with the other. She was out of shells, so she kicked it.
It hurt. It was like kicking the side of a rhino. As the daemon finally
managed to hold itself steady, she closed her eyes and begged the Emperor
for forgiveness. Forgiveness for her sins, and also forgiveness for dying
in such a humiliating way, unbecoming of one of His servants.
Then there was a hiss, the weapon discharging. She felt an increase in
the temperature, but no pain. Why had they screamed so much? Then she
opened her eyes. The necron was scattered in several pieces, Prolixite
standing above her with a smoking plasma pistol in his hand.
He helped her to her feet, kicking bits of metal out of the way. Then
they hid behind one of the remaining tents.
'I humbly suggest that we hasten to get ourselves as far away from here as
possible.' he said, in his matter of fact voice.
Hesperides nodded, too exhausted to speak. The necrons seemed to be busy
eradicating all trace of the excavators to be bothered about them, and she
saw by the amount of debris scattered around that those that had been had
been dealt with by Prolixite. She looked back. The humans were huddled
in a small group around the tech priest, blasting away for all they were
worth at the wall of metal surrounding them. For a moment she felt shame
at abandoning them, but then it was gone. They were only servitors.
She turned back to the eschatologist. 'Have you got any means of getting
us off this planet?' she asked him.

He raised his eyes to look into hers. 'The revered tech-priest did keep a
small personal transport a short distance from here, but none of the
servitors or slaves were privy to this fact. It is not equipped for warp
travel, but I believe there is enough food aboard to keep us going until
the supply ship arrives.'
'Then what are we waiting for?'
Prolixite caught her by the arm as she began to walk off. 'A short
distance, I mean to say, if we travel by mehari.' He pointed toward a
large beast that was currently enjoying itself nibbling on a necron elbow.

It was powerfully built, with large splayed feet for desert travel, and
thick folds of leathery skin. If it had eyes, they were sunk somewhere
into its head. She tried not to think about the smell, but couldn't help
it.
'We will surely die if we attempt it on foot.'

She sighed. The creature did have a form of saddle, just big enough for
the two of them. On her third attempt she managed to mount it, being
hindered somewhat by having to hold her nose to keep out the stench.
Prolixite made to get up behind her, but she gently kicked him in the side
of the head.
'You're sitting in front. I don't trust you behind me.'
She heard him mutter beneath his breath, but he complied. Handing her the
pistol, he told her to hold on tight. Then he smacked the mehari with a
large stick that he had got from somewhere. Hesperides later realised
that it had been D'Arethon's staff, only now it had snapped in half.
***
The beast ran. Wind dragged itself through her hair, and threatened to
pluck her from her seat. She remembered just enough to grip Prolixite's
waist with one hand, desperately searching for somewhere to place the
plasma pistol. She also thought about how fast the creature was moving.
She wouldn't have thought such a large and obviously heavy creature would
be able to keep this speed up. She had once, while only a novice, opened
a hatch on a moving rhino and stuck her head outside. The mehari may not
be moving quite as fast as that, but it was definitely close.
'How much further is it?' she bellowed, the wind all that she could hear.
'Not far now!" came the reply. She remembered Sister Leda saying just
that whenever they were in the rhino. Where was she now, she wondered?
Suddenly the beast lurched to one side and she almost lost her hold.
'What the frag was that?' Prolixite wailed.
She turned her head and saw it all too clearly. In the sky was some sort
of skimmer machine. Eldar? No, this one was different to the jetcycles
and grav-tanks she had seen before. It was small, supported by three
anti-gravitic motors, seating a single necron, that seemed to be actually
a part of both the skimmer and the large flayer cannon seated next to it.
The cannon was smoking, and Hesperides guessed that it was the discharge
of this weapon that had disturbed the mehari. And the skimmer was gaining
on them.
She swung in her seat and raised the plasma pistol. Her shot went wide,
her trying to hit a rapidly moving target not helped by the fact that she
was seated on one herself. While the necron seemed to be faring no
better, it was only a matter of time before it got lucky. Still holding
onto Prolixite, she raised her leg and rolled from the saddle, dragging
the eschatologist with her. The sand was soft enough to break her fall,
but hard and hot enough to remind her of the toll the sun was taking on
her arms. She let go of the man and looked up. The mehari was still
running, and then the skimmer flew past their position. Its pilot noticed
that they had abandoned their steed, and was already turning for a pass at
where they now lay. She knew it couldn't fail to hit them this time.

Holding the pistol in both hands, she fired. One of the skimmer's motors
exploded, and it spiralled over the horizon. She looked again at the
weapon in her hands. For a machine it was a thing of beauty, elegantly
crafted and hardly chipped at all. And barely warm. Which was strange,
considering that she had expected it to overheat on maximum power, but it
hadn't. Then she noticed the words 'manufactured on Mars' carved into one
side. That explained a lot.
Prolixite was stirring. He still had the stick in his hand. 'Wha-' he
began.
'Never mind that now, it'll be something to talk about while we're waiting
for the supply ship. Just tell me, can you get that... animal back?'
He looked at the stick. 'Of course I can. Lacking the constant
application of pain-' he swished the stick through the air a few times
'-they soon come to a halt. At heart mehari are lazy creatures, and it'll
come wandering back to us soon enough.'
The mehari was still running.
'Not long now.'
***
As the last of the slaves dissipated into the ether, D'Arethon looked
around desperately for another human shield. With none forthcoming, he
raised his arms in gesture of surrender. When the necrontyr lowered their
gauss rifles he sensed that they understood. Of course they did, he
corrected himself - they were the highest form of life, after all. They
obviously recognised him as an equal, and wanted to impart their knowledge
to him, as the ambassador between the ancients and the Imperium. This was

even better than finding their technology in the pyramid; to learn from
the masters of that technology themselves! The others had been inadequate
for their needs, but he would be the perfect vessel for them.
Then the ranks of the necrontyr parted, and an obviously important ancient
stepped forward. it was like the others in several ways, but it wore a
cloak of shimmering metal plates, and its head, with its obvious beard and
hat, resembled the carvings on the sarchophagus he had seen on Mars.
Clearly this was a lord amongst the necrontyr. It handed its staff -
topped with the same ankh as on the pyramid and each individual necron -
to another, and seemed to be studying him. He cleared his throat and then
wondered how he should address it. He almost regretted having disposed of
the Sister Dialogus. But it was of no consequence. If he spoke loudly
and clearly enough -
The Necron Lord reached out a hand, and touched the right hand side of his

face, metal against metal.

'Yes, I am like you!' he blurted.
The Necron Lord reached out its other ahnd to touch his claw.
'Yes, we are kindred spirits! Together we can bring order to the chaos
that is the Imperium!'
Then the Necron Lord tightened its grip.
'Wait, what are you doing?'
Pressure was being exerted upon him now. The Necron Lord was pulling at
him.
He desperately fumbled for his pistol with his hand. It wasn't there.
Panic. His claw was held immobile by the steel strength of the Necron
Lord. This wasn't supposed to be happening!
'No! I have freed you! You cannot do this to me!'
Finally, whatever it was that held the metal to D'Arethon's bones gave
way. The Necron Lord tore off his arm and half his head, pouring gore
from the rents left in the tech-priest's body. D'Arethon felt his life
flow away, even as his brain tumbled from his skull. He was not worthy.
He had been foolish to think that he could compare to their perfection...
The Necron Lord handed the inorganic remains of the priest to a Necron
Warrior and took its staff back. The host of the necrontyr formed up
behind it, and they began to march slowly back towards the pyramid.
Then the Necron Lord tilted its head. In the sky, something was moving,
and it was not a Destroyer. Something was trying to escape. This could
not be allowed. It stopped moving and behind it its subordinates stopped
also.
The pyramid began to crack. At its peak fissures came into being.
Another opening formed as the four sides of the pyramid split. From
within, swarms of scarabs took to the air, irridescent wings fluttering
fiercely. As one they streamed into the sky, towards whatever it was that
thought it could escape the necrontyr.
The Necron Lord and its entourage resumed their journey.
***
Hesperides slumped in the co-pilot's seat. She had been relieved to
finally end their mehari journey when they found D'Arethon's transport, to
finally leave the smelly beast to die in the desert, but this was almost
worse.
She had had no knowledge of how a spacecraft was flown. That was the job
of the Navy, and she was pleased to leave them to it. Now she was
experiencing it first hand, watching Prolixite at the controls. This
control chamber wasdark and cramped, and filled with dials and flashing
screens, buttons and panels that Prolixite insisted were essential to the
correct running of the ship. He had explained that D'Arethon had
personally taught him how to fly, so that he might get on with his work
during journeytime, but she wasn't really listening. She had never been
claustrophobic, but this room was starting to make her feel sympathetic
towards those who were. Yet Prolixite had insisted that she be seated
next to him, just in case 'something happened'.
Something was happening now. On the screen before her, which was old and
prone to flickering, she could see hundreds of scarabs heading towards
them. She told Prolixite.
'Yes, I can see them. But there's not much we can do about them. This
craft has no weaponry to speak of, so we will just have to pray to the
Emperor that those things aren't capable of travelling into orbit.'
The Emperor had no reason to listen to her, but she prayed anyway. She
couldn't help herself.
'They are detonating themsleves against the hull!' Prolixite gasped.
'They're not doing much damage, and we'll be in space in a few seconds,
but if they can follow us we're doomed...'
Hesperides smiled. At least this death would be quick. And at least she
wasn't the only person panicking aboard this heap of scrap metal.
Then Prolixite breathed a sigh of relief. 'Clearly they are not capable
of leaving the atmosphere. We are safe.' Talk about stating the obvious.
And she would be stuck with him for a week... 'It's a good thing we are
staying in orbit, because otherwise I'd say we weren't in any condition to
leave orbit!'
At his smile she took this to be what passed for a joke, and so smiled
back to humour him, although there was no humour in her expression. She
got out of the chair.
'Well, if you don't need me any more, I'll be in my room, getting some
sleep.' Prolixite grinned. 'And I'll be sure to lock the door.'

The eschatologist looked hurt at the implication, but she ignored him and
left. She only needed him until they actually contacted the Imperium
again, then she could see about returning to Terra, or maybe going to
Ophelia VII istead, if the Prioress was still so intent upon seeing her.
No, she would have to go back to Earth. It was her duty, her
responsibility. And if she didn't, the Inquisition would hunt her down
soon enough.
Her room aboard this ship was small, but it did have a bed, with actaul
sheets, and it wasn't white. That was all she needed, really. Placing
the plasma pistol under her pillow, she took hold of the rosarius that she
still wore around her neck. Tonight she would pray for their survival,
and a quick rescue. Was a sudden speeding of the supply ship too much to
hope for?
She took a few deep breathes, and cleared her mind. Our father...
Something grabbed her leg. She fell heavily to the ground, and saw
something under her bed. A single red eye shone out in the darkness.
When her leg was released, she scuttled back out of the way. The thing
dragged itself out. It was no dream daemon, but the pilot of the Necron
skimmer. Being fused to both its vehicle and weapon, it had no legs or
right arm, and the right hand side of its head was missing. It must have
survived the crash and somehow reached the ship before them.
It was slow, sparks fizzing along its surface as it dragged itself by its
sole limb. It was between her and the pistol, but the door was behind
her. She opened it and stepped back out of the room. With agonising
slowness the necron moved towards her. She leaned back against the door
opposite her room, and waited. Seeing the thing writhing before her, she
felt revulsion stir once more inside her. This thing was a cheap
imitation of the Emperor's form, an exaggerated parody. Even now, when it
should be humbled before the children of the Emperor and accepting an end
to its existance, it still insisted on struggling on, trying to keep a
grip on whatever passd for life within its metal skull, trying to bring
the righteous down to its own level. It deserved destruction. She
slammed her hand onto the door close mechanism, and let the powerful
pistons do their work, crushing the infernal device even as it reached the
doorway, close enough to reach out an arm towards her leg.

She looked down at the scattered wreakage. Suddenly she didn't feel that
sleepy anymore, but when she finally did, she had a feeling that there
would be something to replace the daemon in her nightmares tonight...