Graham McNeill - The Kaban Project

The first indication that something was amiss was a gradual dampening of the sounds, as though, one by one, the devices of Mars were falling silent. Puzzled, he ran a self-diagnostic test, finding to his alarm that several of his primary interface systems appeared to be offline.

The glow from his sensory dome intensified and he cast a 360° sweep of his surroundings.

Behind him was a figure clad in a form-fitting bodyglove of deep red. Though the priest had long since left much of his flesh upon the surgical tables, he recalled enough to know that this was a female of the species. Two pistols hung from her slender hips, but, more horrifyingly, she held a bundle of wires in one hand and a series of delicate tools in the other.

The priest looked down at his robes, finding a wide square cut in the fabric and a host of neatly severed wires protruding from the framework of his body.

'Who are you?' he said, relieved to find that his vocabulator still functioned.

'I am Remiare,' said the figure. 'Where is Adept Ravachol?'

'Who?' said the priest, though he knew such an act of defiance was futile. Amongst the adepts of Mars, the name Remiare was well known and he understood with terrible clarity that his doom was at hand.

The tech-priest assassin smiled as she saw the effect her name had and cocked her head to one side. She tapped the enlarged portion of her skull where a multitude of sensor equipment was grafted to her death mask face and said, 'I have followed his information trail here, so do not insult me by denying you know him. Tell me where he is now'

The priest looked towards the vestry doorway, praying that one of his fellow priests would find reason to come this way or hear the silent call for aid he was eyen now broadcasting.

The assassin dropped the parts she had taken from his innards and shook her head. She waved a finger at him as though scolding a child and knelt before him.

'This is a very private vestry,' she said, lifting the delicate tools she held. 'And your Confessor Field should ensure we are not interrupted.'

'Why are you doing this?' asked the priest. 'Tell me that at least.'

'You have become an enemy of my employers.'

'What? How? I have hurt no-one, I simply pray to the Machine God!'

'No,' said Remiare. 'The time is coming when there can be no neutrality and whether you know it or not, you have chosen a side.'

The priest tried to move as Remiare reached inside his violated body, but found that his motor functions would not obey his commands.

'What have you done to me?' he cried, horrified at the idea of the assassin taking him apart from within and cutting him off from the Machine God. 'If you have followed Ravachol here, then surely you can find him without doing this! Please!'

'You are right,' agreed the assassin and the corners of her mouth twitched as she smiled.

'Then why?'

'Because I enjoy your suffering,' said Remiare.

THE FORGE TEMPLE of Urtzi Malevolus loomed from the darkness ahead like a dark volcano, its sloping sides black and glossy. A web of glowing ore channels converged on the forge temple, carried along massive aqueducts, insulated pipes and deep channels. The branding iron heat rendered the air here hot and stagnant, the bitter taste of metallic oxides catching in Ravachol's throat.

Deafening thunder surrounded Ravachol, each mighty edifice that reared up through the smoke vented from a thousand coolant towers echoing to the sound of a thousand hammer beats and the relentless tread of millions of workers. Though proud of the vast industry being pursued here, Ravachol felt acutely exposed, the dark skies pressing down on him like a slowly lowering ceiling.

His progress towards the forge temple had slowed markedly as he drove within the high walls of his former master's fiefdom. Such was the volume of tankers, workers and bulk transporters that, passive electronic bow wave or not, he could only move at a crawl through the masses of traffic. It had taken him two hours to get this far.

Eventually he turned onto the main thoroughfare that led towards the mighty gates of Malevolus's temple, remembering the way with the ease of someone who had worked there for a great many years. He felt a surge of sudden welcome as he passed through the crowds and smiled at the thought of setting foot in the temple that had once been his home.

With his purpose clarified by the machine priest, he felt as though his ordeal would soon be over.

Even as he drew up to the gates, mighty portals flanked by mighty, pumping pistons the size of a titan, he saw a red blur speed past him. A hot spray of oil and blood spattered his face and he cried out as a severed head landed in the passenger seat next to him.

Ravachol slammed on the brakes and spun in his seat. Behind him, one of his battle servitors lolled against the sides of the transporter, its knees buckling as its reduced nervous system decided it was dead. The servitor collapsed with a heavy, metallic clang, blood pumping energetically from the neat stump of its neck. The others ignored the death of their compatriot and stared glassily ahead as Ravachol searched frantically for the source of the attack.

He leapt from the driver's seat and dropped to a crouch as he saw the red blur flicker through the clouds above him. He squinted through the particulate air and saw a lithe figure in red zip towards the transporter, a long energy blade held extended before it. Though he had never seen such a being before, he knew enough to recognise that his attacker was a tech-priest assassin.

'Servitors!' shouted Ravachol, pointing to the red-clad figure. 'Defend me!'

The three remaining servitors jerked into action, their weapons powering up and combat protocols searching for the identified target. Ravachol hunkered down as a stream of heavy calibre gunfire ripped up the sky and a rain of brass shell casings tumbled musically to the ground. The sharp bark of rapid-firing laser bolts mingled with the booming reports of heavy bolter fire.

Thanks to his embedded wetware, both enhanced servitors would be working together to bracket the target and destroy it. The third surviving servitor clambered from the transporter to shelter him as the crowd of adepts scattered from the gunfire. The servitor's left arm was a powerful gauntlet sheathed in deadly energy, its right ending in a short-range plasma discharger. Its heavy boots and thick jumpsuit were a reassuringly solid presence between Ravachol and the assassin, but he knew from their reputation that mere servitors could not stop such a deadly killer for long.

'You, with me!' shouted Ravachol, risking a glance into the sky. The assassin spun from building to building by some unknown means, skimming from the walls and twisting through the air like a red slick, its legs bending in all kinds of impossible ways.

Puffs of shell impacts and the burning afterimages of las-fire followed its inhumanly quick flight, blasting chunks of stone and metal from the buildings, but leaving it unscathed.

Darts of fire spat from the assassin's pistol and bloody craters erupted on one of his servitors. It didn't go down, but dodged and kept firing until another shot struck its head and its lobotomised brain mushroomed from the back of its skull.

Ravachol set off towards the great gates of Adept Malevolus's forge, knowing that were he able to claim Sanctuary, then not even a tech-priest assassin would dare violate the sanctity of a Master Adept.

The servitor ran after him, its lumbering gait thumping on the metal roadway as it followed. Behind him, Ravachol could hear hissing barks of laser discharges and knew that one servitor was still fighting. Even with its enhanced combat routines, it wouldn't last long, but the entrance to the forge complex was just ahead.