Chapter 177: The Lamenters: Let Me Save Just One More
Whirrr—
A colossal construct of wraithbone, standing nearly as tall as an Imperial Warhound-class Titan, moved through the simulated obstacle course with unnatural agility, deftly weaving around plasma barriers that erupted from the floor. Its ankle joints, moving with an almost biological fluidity, sidestepped energy pylons that stabbed up from the deck, all while constantly evading attacks from multiple weapon emplacements. A storm of shells from six auto-turrets detonated in a string of dazzling fireballs behind it, but the vast majority of the shots were dodged by its incredible speed.
Screee!
With an impossible back-bend, the Titan evaded a sweeping laser beam. The wraithbone vertebrae of its spine hummed softly. Every turn possessed a dancer's grace, and the soul stones embedded in its pauldrons pulsed with light as it moved. It was as if the creature in the testing chamber was not a 20-meter-tall war machine, but a single warrior undergoing tactical drills.
The performance of Aeldari Titans was truly galaxy-leading.
A localized temporal-acceleration module allowed its movements to leave after-images in the naked eye. Internal anti-gravitic systems permitted the behemoth to make sudden stops and turns that defied the laws of physics. And then there was its "psycho-prognostication operating system"—a system that allowed the soul of a Farseer to be integrated into the chassis, providing all manner of psychic support. It could monitor the shifting tides of the time-stream, not only foreseeing future events and potential dangers but also simulating possible alternate futures, allowing its actions to synchronize perfectly with the strands of fate.
A Titan augmented with a Farseer's soul could even twist those strands together, making ill fortune find its enemies more easily, causing artillery shells or even laser beams to change direction and track their targets. It could also emit a powerful psychic cry, bolstering allies and banishing the fear from their hearts, making them fearless in battle.
In past recorded conflicts, the Imperium had to expend at least ten Titans of an equivalent class to take down a single Aeldari one. Of course, the outcome of any battle still depended on the skill of the pilots. In a straight, formation-based firefight, Imperial Titans were not necessarily outmatched. But if the Aeldari machine got into close quarters, the Imperial engine would be butchered effortlessly.
It had to be said, while the logic of the Aeldari operating system—which required its pilots to be twins or triplets, one living and one deceased—was bizarre, it was also understandable. The Aeldari's current technology was fractured. The Drukhari held the secrets to most of their advanced biological sciences, while the Craftworld Eldar possessed their psycho-technological lore, but the two factions rarely shared their knowledge. If they could return to the age of the ancient Aeldari Empire, when death was a temporary inconvenience before resurrection into the materium, the conditions for piloting a Titan would not be so strict. After all, for an immortal species, even low birth rates would result in a net population gain.
But now...
After slaughtering so many "knife-ears" along their crusade, including countless corsairs, Ramesses had only managed to find two sets of twins.
"Hey, Arthur," Ramesses said, his eyes fixed on the Titan as it ran through its diagnostic tests.
"What is it?" Arthur turned his head. He was on the other side of the chamber, testing an AI-driven battle-automaton with Zahariel.
Before the Emperor had forced Mars to sign the Crimson Accords, the Red Planet had been a prolific user of Abominable Intelligence. Ten thousand years ago, the Kastelan Robots had no need for data-wafers. Cawl still possessed the original AI-prototype for the Kastelan, and as their collaboration deepened, he had shared some of those secrets. After extensive testing by multiple parties, the AI's security was deemed acceptable. At the very least, these combat-AIs were worthy of a certain degree of trust. Even with the risks, the rewards were well worth it.
It was as he always said: the AI itself was rarely the problem. The problem was the people controlling it. The transmigrators didn't have to worry about a sector governor misusing AI or, worse, turning to Chaos and providing the Great Enemy with a hyper-productive forge-world, accidentally cultivating a Great Unclean One they couldn't handle. For their own use, they would naturally choose the most convenient path.
"How many souls do you think are in an Aeldari Infinity Circuit?" Ramesses mused. "Could we... use them to pilot Titans?"
He was already lost in the possibilities. If just culling the remnants of a minor, doomed Craftworld had yielded this much talent, what would happen if they took down an entire major one?
"..."
Before Arthur could reply, the Aeldari twins, hearing Ramesses's words, fell silent.
He's talking about our people! How can he discuss destroying a Craftworld right in front of us?! Even if—
Wait. Actually, that might work.
"My Lord, I have been to Iyanden," one of the twins said in a low voice. "I trained there on the Path of the Bonesinger. If we can counter the prophecies of the Iyanden Farseer Council, I can use my soul as a prophetic anchor to lock onto the Craftworld's location."
Ramesses disliked being called a god, so most of the Aeldari simply referred to him as 'That Lord'. And this Lord was merciful. While it was obvious to anyone that he prioritized humanity, he was not averse to extending his protection in the Warp to other beings, so long as they proved useful. Beings like them. Or the Squat engineers and the T'au Earth Caste scientists who had followed.
Life in the Warp, to be honest, was far more peaceful than they could have imagined. Within the Seeker's domain, there was a clear system of advancement. You could laze about, doing menial work in the Warp for eternity, or you could strive to improve your professional skills. Either way, you could survive. In theory, there was always work to be done in the Immaterium. You could even assist the 'Lord of All Under Heaven' with his political administration, but the workload of the Imperium's bureaucracy was enough to break any sane being. Few non-humans dared to take on that particular task.
Ramesses himself didn't know the details. He just found ways to put these Aeldari to use. No matter what, it was a net gain for him. This Wraithknight project, for example, involved providing the Aeldari with soul stones and cloned bodies, allowing the illiterate warriors who only knew the thrill of battle to serve a purpose and fight for humanity.
And the Aeldari were quite happy about it.
After all, though their performance metrics were certainly higher than those of the Astartes, they existed. In the Seeker's domain, you could earn custom living spaces. As your clearance level rose, you could even earn time to return to the material universe for a breath of fresh air. Though their freedom was restricted, they had gained true security. A job with benefits, shore leave, and the guarantee that your soul wouldn't be devoured by Slaanesh upon death. It was a good gig.
The twins had no hesitation about selling out their kin.
Was it really betrayal? No, this was bringing salvation and opportunity to their people!
"..." Arthur and Ramesses exchanged a look.
It seemed they had already cultivated a client-race of Aeldari.
"Doesn't Iyanden also have one of the Crone Swords?" Ramesses asked.
"Yes. The Spear of Twilight," Arthur nodded. "It takes the form of a great spear and burns away the life force and soul of its wielder. It's sealed in a stasis field by their Farseer Council."
"So that's two we have a chance of getting our hands on now," Ramesses replied optimistically. The Soul Sword in the Eye of Terror and the Spear of Twilight on Iyanden. They knew the location and unlocking method for the former, making it the easier target. The latter was not only hard to find, but would also mean going up against the strongest of the Craftworlds.
"That will have to wait. Don't forget Romulus's decision."
Everything had to be put aside for the transmigrators' new human Imperium. Their grand nation-building projects had not even begun. Without a functioning model to show as an example, they could never persuade other human worlds to join them, let alone guarantee the material needs of their own military forces.
They truly could not afford another major war.
"The priority now is dealing with the Hive Fleet. Once we've concluded our talks on Macragge, construction must begin. Everything else comes after." Arthur returned his focus to the automaton, feeding it more combat data. Automata were incredibly effective against Chaos; as long as they didn't run into a being like Vashtorr, their performance was far more stable than a human's.
"Right. This rotten Imperium needs to be shattered and rebuilt sooner or later," Ramesses agreed. He suddenly stood up straight, swiped a hand through the air, and tore open a portal to the Warp. Distant screams echoed from the swirling violet fissure as he stepped through it without hesitation.
First, he had to assign some quests.
"You two will be responsible for piloting the Titan from now on. Figure out amongst yourselves who gets to use the body," he said, his voice fading as the portal closed behind him, leaving the Wraithknight moving with an even greater, newfound liveliness.
"..."
Arthur continued his attack in silence.
Zahariel watched the data-stream scroll before him, his fingers a blur across the virtual keys. He silently calculated the combat data and transmitted it to Romulus, for the Lord of the Dawnbreakers to formulate a battle plan.
It was time for war again.
It was the greatest lie I have ever told.
On the shattered ramparts, the bitter wind of the highlands whipped the smoke of war across my pauldrons. We crossed the plateau, our power boots crushing a mixture of frozen earth and shattered bone, searching for any sign of life.
Finally, in a field of ruins, we found the last survivors. They were disciplined, a military unit. In their shelter, we found a group of children.
I watched as a ragged child darted from the crowd. Her emaciated hand clutched my gauntlet.
"Lord Angel," she asked, "have you come to save us?"
Her tiny hand held mine, but its soft touch felt like the sharpest stone, making me instinctively pull away. Something small and simple clattered against my ceramite. The girl hastily withdrew her hand, her fingertips brushing against the battle-damage at my armour's joints. The sound it made was more arresting than a priest's prayer in a grand cathedral.
She was so frightened. Behind her, dozens of other children were watching me, their eyes filled with hope.
The air reeked of decay. In the thick mist, pulsing, flesh-coloured capillary towers were draining every nutrient from the soil. In the sky above, a living cloud of Gargoyles blotted out the sun. On the northeastern edge of the continent, the orbital spire that was still operational offered only sporadic resistance.
We were out of time.
I said—
"Yes, child."
Malakim Phoros, Chapter Master of the Lamenters, took the child's hand again.
"I have come to save you," he answered, his voice firm.
We still have lives to trade for time.
But—
The Emperor's Angel felt his strength fail him. The mighty physique the Emperor had granted him felt impossibly fragile in that moment.
This was not despair. This was not a complaint against the unfairness of the universe. The Lamenters never complain about fate, for fate has never been fair.
He simply felt sorrow. A deep, profound sorrow in the face of life that would inevitably be lost, and his own powerlessness to stop it. The sorrow pooled in his heart, twisting, weeping.
How many more can we save?
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