Beneath the peak of Olympus Mons, Fabricator General Kelbor-Hal watched a squad of Securitatem emerge from the Vaults of Moravec.
His servants, their powerful forms layered in armor, had skin black as charcoal, their backs covered in spines.
They marched in perfect formation within crackling energy fields. Kelbor-Hal's new senses could perceive the raw, untamed power that transcended the flesh.
Those without mouths babbled through their auxiliary mechanisms, chanting hymns to the new power of Mars in a new scrapcode language.
They wore etched bronze masks, their gazes cruel and slanted.
Regulus walked to Kelbor-Hal. "Congratulations. The magnificent fusion of Warp and machine power has revealed a new form."
Kelbor-Hal nodded, accepting the praise. He looked at Lukas Chrom.
"Chrom has done most of the work. His Kaban machines, combined with the power of the Vaults of Moravec, have created something wonderful."
"They are only the beginning. Next, the Skitarii will be transformed."
"The scrapcode has already spread across Mars's networks, but not all forges are vulnerable. Koriel Zeth has created a new form of data transmission. She and her allies have adopted it, replacing traditional communication."
"Then we have identified our enemies." Regulus said.
"I will give her one more chance. Her Akashic Reader will serve my cause and the Warmaster's."
"Melgator, you will go to the Forge of the Magma City immediately. Determine Zeth's intentions."
"As for the others who refuse enlightenment, they must be purified."
Kelbor-Hal turned to his Nine Disciples, who had just emerged from the Vaults of Moravec.
"The false Omnissiah came to me, deceiving us with promises, making us His slaves."
He replaced his binary with the new scrapcode. "We have broken His chains. We must purify Mars."
"We must purge all the infected, freeing us from His suffocating control."
"Destroy the enemy forges. Burn their rebel strongholds."
Kelbor-Hal looked at Sota-Nul, the first of the Nine Disciples. "The knowledge of Schiaparelli must be rebaptized."
He turned to his second, Adim Protos. "The munitions depots of Tycho Brahe must be destroyed."
At the twelfth hour of the scrapcode's spread across Mars, a deep rumble echoed through the Tycho Brahe region.
The Dark Skitarii, their spiked armor now black instead of Martian red, advanced.
Their already-modified forms were swollen and hideous.
They raised their loathsome weapons, not only to kill the Fabricator General's enemies, but to vent the aberrant energies torturing their bodies.
Adim Protos's mechadendrites flickered with uncanny light. The skull clinging to his back discharged a terrible energy beam, striking the highest-priority target: the command relay station for the automata.
The energy beam, rippling with a sinister glow, shrieked like a banshee, consuming the relay.
Ash and soot drifted on the wind, settling on the surrounding automata.
The loss of control logic sent the Vorax-class automata into a state of confusion.
As they activated their embedded combat protocols, the Dark Skitarii opened fire, a devastating volley striking them.
Twisted energy beams tore through the automata, shattering hundreds.
Protos advanced, chanting the scrapcode of his enlightenment.
One by one, the Vorax automata let out distorted screams, their machine-spirits corrupted, turning on everything around them.
They turned their guns on their own, their corrupted logic driving them to fire volley after volley.
Boom, boom, boom!
Rows of automata fell. They turned their guns, but their sensors did not recognize the allies as enemies.
Protos watched the automata, incapable of independent thought, unable to adapt to sudden change.
His logic engines surged with joy and pride. 'Our master's choice was correct. He has brought us new life.'
'He has freed us.'
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!
Missiles, trailing fire, streaked into the Dark Skitarii ranks. A dozen of the augmented warriors were torn apart.
His skull-staff let out a piercing shriek. One by one, the missile platforms on the walls fell silent as the scrapcode spread.
Protos switched to binary, addressing the walls.
"Magos Tycho, I am here by the Fabricator General's command, to purify the traitors."
"You use filthy scrapcode." Magos Tycho said, disgusted.
"These monsters you bring before me; they are chaotic hybrids of flesh and machine. They are more terrible than the savages who roam the Pale Plains."
"Everything that was good about the Mechanicum, you have turned to darkness. What frightens me more is that you cannot see it."
Protos shook his head. "This is pure code. It existed before it was tamed and bound to flesh."
He uttered a scrapcode. The front ranks of augmented warriors formed a shield wall, advancing.
Their hideous forms were not merely genetically enhanced, like common Skitarii.
Their bodies glowed. Red light pulsed in their veins, as if electricity flowed through them.
The Dark Skitarii swung their crackling weapons, unleashing waves of sinister energy.
Boom, boom, boom!
The walls shook, black cracks spreading across them.
Magos Tycho leaned on his staff, looking up.
Burning wreckage fell through the lightning-scarred sky, slamming into the ground. Charred bodies spilled from the broken hulls.
He checked the noosphere.
[The Mechanical Glory, its engines destroyed while evading low-orbit frigates, has crashed.]
[The Data Temple has fallen in the Cydonia Mensa region. Millions of square kilometers of land, and four hundred million souls, have perished in the explosions.]
The factions of the Emperor and the Warmaster exchanged devastating broadsides.
The fury of the Machine God raged across Mars. The voices calling to the Omnissiah were drowned out.
'Arkhan told us Lord Nareth would send warriors to help us.'
'Whether true or not, it is too late.'
He opened a noospheric sub-network, ordering his Tech-Priests and servitors.
"Activate the self-destruct sequence. Ignite the promethium storage tanks."
"Detonate the entire arsenal. I will bury the volcano, and all the fallen traitors with it."
Deep red warning runes echoed across the Tycho Brahe region. The twelve-countdown of the Machine God's holy detonation began its chant.
"Three-" Data streams shot through the noosphere, into Tycho's embedded interface.
"Two-" Tycho looked up, his eyes wide.
Streaks of purple light shot through the smoke.
At the last moment, before fifty-two billion tons of munitions were reduced to ash, Tycho gave the order: "Abort self-destruct!"
....
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