Chapter 8: God of Myriad Machines
At the time, Kobo Hal was nothing more than a minor forge-prefect.
If Terra was a crowded battlefield overflowing with warlords, gene-tyrants, and techno-barbarian kings, Mars was no less fractured. Once the principal forge world of humanity during the Dark Age of Technology, Mars had evolved into a labyrinth of machine cults and techno-theological sects.
To the Martians, machines possessed spirits.
The faithful believed in a great Machine God who guided all worthy creations.
Yet one problem persisted:
What did this Machine God look like?
No consensus existed.
Thus each cult revered its own interpretation. If Mars held ten thousand sects, then ten thousand Omnissiahs existed in doctrine — an exaggeration, perhaps, but not by much.
Hal's Mechanismist enclave was small and largely insignificant. Their Machine God was known as Omnesia, and had history taken its natural course, Hal would likely have lived and died as a devout but obscure servant of sacred machinery.
Then a towering figure of radiant gold arrived.
Hal's first thought:
A minor Terran warlord come begging.
Mars had launched several expeditions to reclaim Terra's lost technological vaults, but the ferocity of Terra's endless wars had driven Martian forces back repeatedly. Even if this Terran warlord possessed unusual strength, Martian pride would not allow submission.
None but Omnesia could command their loyalty.
No one.
…
"I agree to the alliance."
Hal had intended to refuse.
But the golden giant before him was simply too extraordinary.
Within minutes of arriving, the stranger had repaired a sacred engine the cult had studied unsuccessfully for centuries. The insights he offered casually were revelations entire scholastic orders had failed to achieve.
Hal could already imagine adepts chanting binharic hymns while anointing circuitry with sacred lubricants.
Was this the Omnissiah's envoy?
—or the Omnissiah Himself?
The giant inclined his head and produced a prepared document.
The Treaty of Olympus.
Hal read.
His internal temperature regulators spiked. Oil mist vented from his mechadendrites.
Mars recognized as sovereign partner.
The Mechanicum granted autonomy.
Exclusive rights to study recovered technologies.
Participation in a galactic destiny.
Was he hallucinating?
"Um… Om— Emperor," Hal corrected nervously, "is it truly so? The Mechanicum need only supply materiel and expertise, without external interference?"
"Correct," the Emperor replied. "The Imperium's sigil bears the twin-headed eagle — symbol of dual sovereignty. Mars and Terra shall stand as equals. Furthermore, the Mechanicum will hold priority rights in the study of technologies recovered during future expeditions."
Omnesia preserve us.
Sign it.
Sign it now.
Hal lifted the stylus—
—and hesitated.
"Your Majesty… perhaps formal ratification should wait until Terra is unified."
Reality intruded.
Terra itself remained unconquered. Speaking of galactic dominion might be premature.
Secure Terra first.
Then we will speak of the stars.
"Very well," the Emperor said. He possessed patience measured in centuries.
Hal cleared his vox-grille.
"We cannot openly intervene in Terra's conflicts. However… as a gesture of goodwill, we can begin fabrication of requested materiel under provisional agreement."
Regardless of whether this golden warlord was genuine or delusional, Hal sincerely hoped he would triumph.
The Emperor produced another set of data-schematics.
Mark II power armor.
Weapon systems.
Ammunition patterns.
The foundational wargear of the future Legiones Astartes.
"Then I leave this in your care."
Hal experienced the distinct sensation of being outmaneuvered.
But there was nothing further to say.
Imperial Palace, Himalazia
"My lord — how did Mars respond?" Malcador asked as the Emperor returned.
"They will formalize the treaty after Terra is unified," the Emperor replied. "What of Zero?"
"She is instigating unrest within the Indonesian Federation," Malcador said. "Simultaneously, several minor neighboring polities have submitted without resistance."
The Emperor gave a small nod of approval.
"Valdor. Take three hundred Custodians and consolidate the western front. I will lead the expedition personally."
Valdor bowed and departed.
Malcador watched him go.
"You will not allow her to engage directly?"
"Not yet," the Emperor said, rubbing his temples. "It is too soon."
Indonesian Federation — Hive Citadel
Archbishop Tang ended another day's labor.
Safeguarding the purity of his people's bloodline demanded vigilance. The burden of righteousness was exhausting.
A knock interrupted his reflections.
"Enter."
A servant crawled in and prostrated himself.
"Your Grace, disturbances erupted in several lower hive districts. Multiple manufactories were lost."
Tang's expression hardened.
"Execute the agitators. Must I instruct you in everything? Guards — remove him."
The servant collapsed into frantic prostrations, his forehead striking the floor hard enough to draw blood.
"Mercy! Mercy, Your Grace!"
"He has dirtied my floor," Tang said coldly. "Torture him. Then burn him."
Guards dragged the screaming man away. Servitors silently cleaned the bloodstains.
Tang inhaled slowly, restoring his composure.
Before retiring, he recorded the day's entry in his personal chronicle:
Nothing happened today.