-Mars
The lander's boarding ramp hissed open, releasing a gust of chemical-smelling air into the Martian smog. Nusa, the Machinist, descended the ramp at a measured pace, flanked by his personal guard.
A platoon of ANBU — elite shinobi operatives in matte-black power armor, faces hidden behind stylized oni masks. To the shinobi, the ANBU were what Custodes were to the Astartes: elite among elites. Their every step fell in perfect rhythm, hands resting lightly on hilts and weapon grips.
Among them moved several field agents in formal suits, data-slates secured at their sides, faces impassive behind tinted visors.
Awaiting them was a delegation of Martian forces. Skitarri cohorts stood rigidly in formation, crimson-clad Tech-Priests and towering battle automatons forming a curtain of steel and synthetic muscle.
At their head, a pallid figure wreathed in robes of rust-red and brass.
"Sanctified greetings, Lord Machinist," the Archmagos intoned through a vox-amplified, mechanical voice. "By decree of the Omnissiah's chosen, you are granted passage to the Council of Red Steel and the Fabricator-General."
A line of robed attendants chanted litanies of compliance in binaric cant. Servo-skulls drifted overhead, streaming data-tethers and incanting machine-prayers.
The Archmagos turned sharply and gestured.
"This way."
Nusa inclined his head slightly, the barest of acknowledgments, and followed.
The procession moved deeper into the forges of Mars. The air thickened with noxious smog and blistering heat, the thunder of titanic foundries pounding endlessly around them. Gigantic chains carried slag and refuse overhead, while servitor-thralls toiled below, their flesh charred and fused with crude machinery.
The deeper they went, the worse it became.
Soot thickened. Corrosion gnawed at decaying structures. The air shimmered with heat distortion, and the light from half-broken lumen arrays cast sickly shadows.
Yet Nusa walked with the same calm smile, as if the unbearable heat, the shriek of servos, and the stench of burning oil and dead flesh meant nothing. His ANBU mirrored his composure — silent, steady, weapons ready.
Inside, however, Nusa seethed.
His gaze moved over every detail, cataloguing the degradation, the disrepair, the inhuman cruelty of servitor pens and overworked adepts.
[Beloved, Mars is in worse condition than our reports indicated.]
Sakie's voice whispered in his mind, her tone tight with disgust as the HUD displayed data streams of environmental decay and mechanical failure.
[Confirmed. Degradation levels exceed projected thresholds by 42%. Cultivation of human stock for servitor transformation.]
[I see it. It's worse than I feared.]
Nusa replied via internal comm, maintaining his serene exterior.
[Are we proceeding with the plan? I'll finalize the preparations.]
[Yes. Proceed. And Sakie… conceal our AI network. If they detect your presence, the Imperium and Mechanicus will declare war on us before sundown.]
[Please, dearest. I'm already threading through their ancient scrap-code. It's as filthy and inefficient as the reports claimed.] She made a noise of distaste.
Nusa gave the faintest of nods.
The procession moved from forge-works to habitation zones. Monolithic administratum blocks loomed overhead. At regular intervals, crimson-robed Skitarii watched them with cold optics, while vox-turrets tracked every motion. Wall-mounted defenses shimmered with active shield barriers.
They came at last to a heavy adamantium bulkhead. Dozens of data-tethers, servo arms, and multi-jointed manipulators dangled from its arch. The Archmagos turned, his voice devoid of warmth.
"Your escort will remain here, Lord Machinist. The Council has permitted audience for you alone."
At his gesture, defensive turrets powered up with a low hum. Servo-skulls reoriented, and Skitarii units raised their galvanic rifles in unison.
The ANBU moved at once, forming a protective cordon around Nusa, weapons half-drawn. Their sudden speed made the surrounding Skitarii flinch. Even the Archmagos' augmented mind noted their rapidity.
Far faster than the Harlequin strike data catalogued from Luna.
"Sire, we cannot allow you to walk alone into a potential ambush," the ANBU commander said sharply.
"It's fine, Stand down." Nusa raised a hand.
The ANBU hesitated, then obeyed, retreating a pace but remaining poised.
"Calm down. Nothing here can harm me." Nusa's voice was light, almost amused.
The Archmagos gave a curt, mechanical nod, gesturing to a Skitarri escort team who stepped forward to flank Nusa.
"This way, Lord Machinist."
The ANBU and field agents watched grimly as their master vanished beyond the bulkhead.
A mechanicus adept lead them to a more guest friendly location to wait.
Unwilling to be a center of attention of mars adepts on the surrounding area, the Anbu commander reluctantly agree.
Glancing one last time before following the guide.
Inside, Nusa was led through a series of corridors marginally cleaner than the forges, though the air remained choked with incense and the tang of ozone. Flickering lumen strips cast long, warped shadows.
At last, he entered a vast chamber.
Many mechanicus adept of various implantation watches as if Nusa is a gladiator entering the arena.
A single iron chair sat at its center. The only one with rusted surface on since entering the bulkhead.
Crude, undecorated, surrounded by a raised amphitheater of towering, mechanical thrones.
Upon each sat a Magos or Lord of Mars, their forms a patchwork of flesh and metal, crimson robes hanging like funeral shrouds.
Optics flared. Auspex units hummed. Data-streams flickered across holo-displays.
Nusa smirked.
"Childish," he murmured under his breath.
A crude power play. High seats, low seat, one man before many. The illusion of dominance. The lords of mars has been in power for too long unable to sense the danger they are staring at.
He stepped to the center, beneath thousands eyes both organic and augmetic.
"Very well," he thought. "If you insist on such a play, I'll enjoy my part. For now."