Graham McNeill - The Kaban Project

Panicked people were running for the gates, desperate to escape the gunfire and the destruction being wrought behind them. He risked a glance over his shoulder and saw the assassin skim low across the roadway, using the now-wrecked transporter for cover as the battle servitor leapt from its back to get a clear shot.

Surprised by such an aggressive move, the assassin slid to the side as a flurry of lasblasts sawed towards her and left molten craters in the roadway. She flipped up into the air until she was upside down and passed over the servitor, her sword a blur of blue fire.

Lasblasts followed the assassin through the air, but they were wild and undirected as the servitor fell to the ground in two halves, its body severed at the waist.

He covered the last few yards towards the temple, where the two-headed eagle of the Emperor and Mechanicum were acid-etched onto each leaf of the great steel doors. A stoup of blessed engine oil was formed from the metalwork of the door's frame and Ravachol hurriedly dipped the fingers of both hands info the viscous substance as he heard a speeding bass hum drawing closer.

Ravachol cast the oil around himself and shouted, 'In the name of the Adept Malevolus, I claim the ancient right of Sanctuary within this temple! I claim this by right of past sponsorship by the Master of the Forge!'

No sooner had the words left his mouth than a pair of cone-shaped shield projectors mounted on the ceiling swivelled to face him. He looked up and saw a nimbus of green light build within the cones.

A shriek of blazing energy flashed towards him from the ceiling. He turned and cried out in terror as he heard a screeching yell from behind him. The razor edge of the assassin's energy sword exploded in a flare of brightly discharging energy as it impacted on the newly generated conversion field.

Ravachol fell to his knees, blinded by the dazzling light and blinked away the stuttering afterimages of the incandescent explosion. The assassin, a female he now saw, spiralled upwards into the darkness of the vestibule, tracked by a battery of quad-barrelled gun turrets.

Before they could open fire, she slid out of sight, skimming the walls and vanishing into the Martian night.

'Thank the Machine God,' he whispered, feeling as though his speeding heart-rate was about to choke him. He stayed on his knees as curious onlookers began to gather around him, wondering what fate had brought him to seek Sanctuary in this place and what manner of person would attract the attention of a tech-priest assassin.

He slumped to his haunches and put his head in his hands as a trio of Mechanicum Protectors marched towards him from the temple's interior. Each was armed with a bolter-topped spear stave and was augmented with a fearsome array of plate armour and enhanced battle gear.

His last servitor turned to engage the Protectors, but he said, 'No, stand down. These are the Protectors of Malevolus.'

'IT'S QUITE A mess you have left behind,' said Master Adept Urtzi Malevolus, his voice muffled behind the dark bronze of his facemask. A trio of green bionic eyes set into the pale remnants of his skull illuminated the interior surfaces of his red hood.

Though Malevolus's primary mode of locomotion was his human legs, they and his right arm were all that was left of his humanity. His red robes were fashioned from vulcanised rubber, thick and hard-wearing, and a monstrously large power pack was affixed to his back, its bulk held aloft by tiny suspensor fields. Remote probe robots darted back and forth from his body, kept in check by the coiled cables that connected them to the senior adept.

'Yes,' replied Ravachol as he and his last remaining battle servitor followed Malevolus through the cavernous chambers of the forge temple. 'I am sorry to return to you in such circumstances, my lord, but I did not know where else to turn.'

'No, no,' replied Malevolus, waving a pale, age-withered hand as they passed into a wing of the temple that was wide and tall, its massive pilasters and curved ceiling making Ravachol feel like he had been swallowed and was in the belly of some enormous beast.

'You did the right thing by coming to me,' continued Malevolus. 'Absolutely the right thing. I always said that you would make a big impact here, did I not?'

'You did,' agreed Ravachol. 'I just had no idea that it would cause so much trouble.'

'Do not worry about it, Pallas,' said Malevolus. 'I have already contacted Adept Chrom and this mess will all be sorted out soon.'

'Adept Chrom?' asked Ravachol fearfully. 'Why?'

'What you have uncovered has more ramifications than you might imagine, Pallas,' replied Malevolus as they made their way towards a heavily guarded door of brushed steel and bronze. The mighty door rolled aside on cogged locking teeth and Malevolus indicated that he should pass through.

Ravachol was about to ask about these ramifications as he stepped into a colossal chamber hung with tens of thousands of suits of Astartes battle plate and all questions died in his throat. The room was brightly lit and the cold illumination reflected dazzlingly from the unpainted suits of armour. Their silver brilliance reminded Ravachol of the crumbling records of Old Earth and the tales of warriors who had ridden into battle on the backs of animals. The idea made Ravachol smile as Malevolus entered the chamber and set off towards its far end.

'I've never seen so many Mark IV suits,' said Ravachol. 'It must be an awe inspiring sight to see these worn by the Astartes.'

'I imagine so,' nodded Malevolus. 'Of course, we are only about halfway through the general issue of the Mark IV. And as you might imagine, there have been difficulties in getting some of the more... traditionally minded Legions to abandon the old "Iron Suits".'

'The Armorum Ferrum? But why? I thought the Astartes complained that Mark III armour was too clumsy and uncomfortable for everyday battle use.'

'It is,' agreed Malevolus, 'But it is the most visually brutal of all Astartes armour patterns and some Legions relish that brutality and wish to retain it as a uniform for ceremonial guards or speartip assault units.'

'But Mark IV is by far the better armour,' protested Ravachol, unable to follow the logic of the Space Marines. He supposed he would never understand the Astartes, and had even heard rumours that they were soon to be classified as a different species, so far removed from the original human genome were they.

As he looked up at the hanging suits of armour and returned his gaze to the massively augmented form of Adept Malevolus, he wondered if the Astartes thought the same thing of the Mechanicum.

'There will be consequences you cannot possibly imagine as a result of what you have set in motion,' said the Master Adept as Ravachol hurried to return to the adept's side. The servitor jogged alongside him, its heavy footfalls echoing from the far walls.

'In retrospect, it was foolish of me to allow you to leave for Chrom's temple, but hindsight is a wonderful thing, is it not?' continued Malevolus.

'I don't understand,' said Ravachol.

'It doesn't matter,' said Malevolus. 'You don't need to understand, but while we have some time, allow me to show you what has been the recent focus of my forge's work.'

'I would be honoured,' said Ravachol. 'To see the handiwork of a Master Adept, well, that's something I never expected to see for at least another century'

'Quite,' said Malevolus, 'but these are exceptional times are they not? Some leeway can be allowed for, I think.'

Ravachol followed Malevolus as he led the way through the silent ranks of armoured figures to the furthest end of the chamber where a tall black cylinder stood atop a stepped dais of red marble threaded with veins of gold and silver.