A γ+-class psyker did not have the capacity to destroy his Titan Legion — certainly not an entire thirteen hundred Titans.
Among them had been the first-generation Titan he had personally calibrated through iteration after iteration of upgrades.
Several veins stood out on Perturabo's forehead — not that they were particularly visible beneath the shadows of the neural cables.
That bitch had sacrificed herself, and taken an entire star system with her.
She had intended to sacrifice the entire star system — even all eleven systems she had conquered — to Chaos, in exchange for enormous power.
She had planned this from the very beginning, just like those techno-barbarians of ancient Terra who had used black science to perforate Terra into a sieve.
Perturabo did not blame his sons. This was not something they could have controlled, even though the scale of the losses was enough to make even the Emperor wince.
Perturabo had not originally intended to punish his sons, nor to lecture them on anything — but when he watched that massive dark-grey fleet return to the docks after eight months away, and saw the somewhat deflated expressions on his sons' faces, he found himself irritated despite himself.
Look at this. Was this Ferrix? The commander who charged at the vanguard without fear, whose frame in his custom Terminator armor was nearly as large as a Primarch?
Perturabo felt for the first time that he might have chosen wrong. How could a Legion's commander allow himself to wear an expression like that?
And Dantioch — you are the Company Captain I personally elevated, a Warsmith of the Iron Warriors.
What was this look of self-reproach and shame all about? Were you trying to use your guilt to prove that Perturabo had no eye for talent and had chosen poorly?
Not one Astartes had been lost. Not one Iron Guard had been lost. The mortal auxiliary casualties in this engagement had not even reached twenty thousand. They had recovered eleven entire star systems. Large fleets had already begun the work of terraforming those worlds. By any measure, this had been a resounding victory.
The gains from this victory were more than sufficient to compensate for every prior loss. The Titans lost in this campaign were a rounding error compared to the strategic value acquired.
As long as what he had built on Olympia remained standing, even Titans were merely mass-producible commodity goods.
He was genuinely somewhat angry this time.
Interlocking metal frameworks covered most of Olympia's surface. Countless factories thundered day and night. Docks, defense platforms, and supply depots densely packed the orbital lanes, making Olympia uniformly grey and utilitarian.
This was a planet that existed entirely for war. Every inch of ground was running in service of the Fourth Legion's war machine.
But Ferrix had no mood to appreciate this sight.
Thirteen hundred Titans.
One hundred and thirteen thousand seven hundred Mechanized units.
Seventy-eight thousand two hundred Iron Circle combat elements.
Ten thousand three hundred and twenty Sacred Dreadnoughts.
Two thousand three hundred and eighty Knight mechs.
The numbers echoed over and over in Ferrix's mind. Each recurrence was like a heavy hammer striking his hearts. His two hearts beat powerfully in his chest — but the beating felt more like convulsions.
Ferrix knew that the enemy they had faced this time would have inflicted severe losses on any Legion sent against it. The god-machines and the other combat formations had fallen victim to something no one could have predicted. No one had imagined the xenos queen would be that powerful.
Thirteen hundred god-machines.
Each one protected by thirteen layers of void shields. All of them simply gone in that explosion — not even spare parts could be salvaged.
And the Knight mechs, the Sacred Dreadnoughts, those Iron Circle robots that could stand against Dreadnoughts — Ferrix genuinely did not know how to report the situation to Father.
Losses of this magnitude would be considered crippling even by Imperial standards. These were weapons of war that Father had accumulated over years. A single xenos extermination campaign — a campaign that was supposed to be a foregone conclusion — and he had lost all of this machinery chasing efficiency.
"Commander."
Dantioch's voice came from behind him. Ferrix didn't turn around, only gave a slight nod.
"The fleet has entered its designated orbit. Ground transport ships are loading the first batch of resources."
"The Seventh Combat Group reports discovering an unregistered mineral deposit on the last planet. Preliminary scans indicate high concentrations of pure Thermatite crystals — suitable for plasma weapon manufacturing."
"Log it through the Logic Engine."
Ferrix's voice was level, carrying no discernible emotion.
Dantioch was silent for a moment, then stepped closer and stood at Ferrix's side. His gaze similarly fell on the casualty report on the holographic projection.
"This was my responsibility."
Dantioch spoke suddenly.
Ferrix turned, looking at this newly appointed Warsmith.
"It was I who commanded the ground campaign. If I had detected the warning signs sooner, if I had ordered the retreat earlier, if I had not prioritized efficiency by committing the entire Titan Legion at once — perhaps these losses could have been avoided."
Dantioch neither deflected responsibility nor offered any justification. He knew that this campaign had been arranged by the Commander specifically to allow him, the newly appointed Warsmith, to establish himself in the Fourth Legion.
"The Logic Engine's simulations didn't predict a psychic burst of that magnitude. You made every correct decision. No one could have done better under those conditions."
Ferrix did not blame this brother.
"But the losses still exist. Thirteen hundred Titans. One hundred and eleven thousand..."
"Enough."
Ferrix cut him off. Exhaustion was in his voice, but more than that, something Dantioch had never seen in him before — guilt.
"This isn't yours to carry. I issued the orders. I approved your battle plan."
"If accountability must be assigned, it falls on me. You did nothing wrong."
"It was I who commanded the ground battlefield. As a Warsmith — even if the title sits on me somewhat uneasily still — I will bear my responsibility. I will never shirk it."
Dantioch finished speaking and turned to leave.
Ferrix watched this somewhat stubborn brother go, his tall frame now weighted with exhaustion.
What would Father say? Would he be disappointed? Angry? Would he punish them?
Ferrix was uncertain. He had never truly understood his father.
He had only rejoined not long ago, but even at that first meeting, he had sensed the complexity and depth in Perturabo.
He could coldly sacrifice tens of thousands of Abhorrent Intelligence units in a single campaign without blinking — yet over the destruction of a Titan he had built with his own hands, he would let slip an almost imperceptible trace of regret.
He could listen to his subordinates' victory reports with an expressionless face, yet when they erred, he would pierce their pride with the sharpest possible words, then turn and leave them to lick their own wounds and reflect.
"He's really like a child sometimes. He clearly cares deeply, but he always can't help doing things that are hard to understand."
That had been Calliphone's assessment — Father's older sister, making these remarks about Father's "childish" behavior in private, in front of Ferrix.
Ferrix thought she had gotten part of it right. He could sense that Father cared about them — yet in all this time, they had never once heard Father praise them.
The transport ship landed on the main fortress of Olympia's landing platform.
Ferrix stepped out of the hatch. Olympia's distinctive industrial atmosphere washed over him — clean and crisp, because Perturabo had taken pollution control to an extreme. For an Iron Warrior, this was the smell of home. Terra couldn't compare.
Around the platform, the roar of workshops rose and fell in constant waves. Enormous foundries belched fire in the distance. Trains laden with ore and finished products screamed past on transport rails.
Above, countless engineering drones shuttled back and forth, maintaining the defense platforms and docks in orbit.
Ferrix had expected some kind of tense atmosphere — soldiers moving with urgent steps, officers with grave expressions, the entire fortress wrapped in some atmosphere of suppression.
But there was nothing. Mechanized troops shuffled through corridors. Mortal engineers were buried in their respective instrument consoles. The Iron Warriors and Iron Guard on duty patrolled and stood watch as they always did.
They barely gave Ferrix and his group a second glance — though a few of the newer recruits were genuinely curious about how the returning veterans looked after their victory.
"Father didn't notify them?"
Berossus watched this scene, somewhat at a loss.
Ferrix didn't answer. He didn't know either.
The group passed through the main corridor beneath the dome, past walls engraved with artistic bas-reliefs, and finally stopped before a massive metal door — the entrance to Perturabo's private workshop.
The door was unlocked.
Ferrix drew a slow breath and pushed it open.
Blinding welding light flickered erratically. Massive mechanical arms moved slowly overhead, hoisting heavy components onto work benches. The air was thick with the smell of burning metal, mixed with the sharp bite of coolant and lubricant.
In the corners, design blueprints and data slates were stacked in orderly piles. The walls were hung with exquisite and formidable weapons and armor.
At the workshop's center, Perturabo stood with his back to them, leaning over a massive mechanical structure.
His frame was extraordinarily large. Ferrix's body, which had grown to be nearly comparable to a Primarch's, would have looked like a child's beside him.
He was bare from the waist up, precise and powerful musculature rising under his skin, each muscle group chiseled so sharply it looked like components installed by a god.
His hands were working at something inside the machine — every movement precise and unhurried, like a surgeon performing a delicate operation.
Ferrix and the others stood there as the minutes ticked past.
Their spines were perfectly straight, their gazes fixed on their father's back.
It had only been five minutes, but those five minutes left them anxious and unsettled.
Finally, Perturabo stopped what he was doing, straightened, picked up a rag from the workbench and wiped his hands, then turned around.
The Primarch's face was calm as ever — no anger, no disappointment, none of the emotions Ferrix had braced himself for. He simply looked at them, those deep blue eyes carrying a depth that seemed capable of seeing through everything.
"You're back."
Ferrix knelt on one knee. The others followed immediately.
"Father, I have failed your trust. One thousand three hundred Titans were destroyed under my command, including the first god-machine you forged with your own hands. I accept whatever punishment you deem fit."
Ferrix's voice was low.
The workshop fell silent. Only the faint hum of the mechanical arm's occasional movement broke the quiet.
Perturabo looked at the sons kneeling before him. His face was unreadable. No one could gauge his mood.
"Punishment?"
"You came back for me to punish you?"
There was a note in Perturabo's voice that Ferrix couldn't quite parse.
Ferrix raised his head, trying to find some answer in his father's face — and found nothing.
"Eleven star systems rich in mineral resources. Thermatite crystals, Adamantium ore, Promethium reserves, raw materials sufficient to forge fifty thousand Titans..."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across Ferrix and Dantioch's faces.
"Why would you think I would punish you?"
Everyone was momentarily taken aback.
"But those Titans..."
Dantioch couldn't stop himself. Each one of them was a god-machine before which the Mechanicum's Techpriests would prostrate themselves daily in prayer.
"You think I would punish my sons over a few machines?"
Perturabo's voice was calm. He took a step forward, his shadow falling heavy across the kneeling sons.
Everyone's hearts clenched.
"Father, I... I..."
Ferrix stumbled over his words.
"You stand here, heads bowed, requesting punishment. What is the meaning of this? You think this makes up for the losses? Or that this earns my forgiveness?"
Perturabo stopped in front of Ferrix, looking down at him from above.
Everyone kept their heads lowered, not daring to speak. The atmosphere became oppressive.
"In that campaign — how many tactical errors did you commit?"
Ferrix gritted his teeth, working to keep his voice steady.
"If I hadn't been in such a rush for results, if I had dispatched reconnaissance forces into the nest-city's center earlier, if I had personally assessed the psychic threat of the xenos queen, if after the orbital bombardment I had immediately sent ground forces to confirm the kill..."
"I didn't ask about 'if.'"
Perturabo cut off his son's answer.
"I asked about the errors you actually committed — not the perfect solutions you can imagine in retrospect, but the wrong decisions you made under the information conditions you actually had at the time."
Ferrix fell silent.
"Answer me."
He raised his head and looked Perturabo in the eyes.
"I cannot find any. Everything I did was at the limit of what I could do."
Perturabo looked at this son. The corner of his mouth curved into a faint smile — which immediately vanished.
But Ferrix saw it. And Dantioch saw it too.
"Then what are you feeling guilty about? What are any of you feeling guilty about?"
"The losses I caused were severe. The..."
Before Dantioch could finish, Perturabo cut him off again.
"A pile of numbers."
"Let me ask you — what are those Titans?"
Everyone exchanged confused glances, not quite understanding what their father meant.
"They are weapons of war. Weapons of war that you designed with your own hands."
Perturabo looked at Dantioch's answer.
"They are tools. Nothing more."
He turned toward the work bench, picked up a data slate, swiped across it a few times, and a holographic projection materialized above the bench — a three-dimensional image of the eleven star systems.
"And what are these?"
Ferrix looked at the rotating planetary projections.
"They are... mineral-rich star systems."
"Correct." Perturabo nodded.
"They are raw materials — raw materials for forging more tools, more weapons, more Titans. What was the mission I gave you?"
"To recover these star systems and exterminate the Krathos xenos."
"And the result?"
"Mission accomplished. All eleven star systems recovered. The Krathos xenos exterminated completely."
"Time taken?"
"Five months and thirteen days."
"Casualties?"
"Forty-seven brothers wounded. Eighteen thousand seven hundred auxiliary troops killed in action."
Perturabo turned to face them.
"Then those Titans, those Mechanized units, those Iron Circle and Sacred Dreadnought formations — what was their purpose for existing?"
His voice remained calm, as if this were nothing more than an ordinary conversation.
"To... win the war?"
Tolaramino ventured a response.
"To win the war more efficiently."
Perturabo corrected him.
"Titans are not decorative displays. They are not sacred relics for veneration. They are not idols to satisfy the religious fervor of the Mechanicum's fanatics."
"They are tools. Tools that allow me to win wars at the smallest cost, in the shortest time, with the fewest casualties."
His fingers moved lightly, and psychic force gently helped the sons to their feet.
"You traded thirteen hundred Titans for eleven star systems capable of building fifty thousand Titans."
"You completed in five months what would ordinarily have taken years. You wiped out a xenos empire spanning eleven star systems for fewer than twenty thousand casualties."
"This is a victory — even if it will only be recorded in archives and databases, even if you will receive neither praise nor flowers. Iron Warriors need none of that."
Perturabo summoned a data slate from the work bench.
"The Thermatite crystal deposits in those eleven star systems you recovered are sufficient for me to forge three thousand new Titans with improved performance."
"I ran twenty-two different design experiments on that first-generation Titan. Every upgrade involved stripping it down and rebuilding from scratch. The unit you took with you had already been the fourth-generation variant."
"I have twenty-two backup copies of its core code. The blueprints can be retrieved at any time. The manufacturing processes were recorded in the Logic Engine's database long ago."
Ferrix and the others exchanged glances, and each saw disbelief reflected in the others' eyes.
"However..."
Perturabo's tone shifted. Ferrix and the others immediately lowered their heads.
"You actually placed more value on tools than on yourselves."
"And you thought I would hold you accountable for losses of this scale. In your eyes, am I the kind of person who would berate his sons over a broken tool?"
"Or are you questioning my judgment — questioning whether I had the discernment to select you as Warsmiths to lead the Iron Warriors?"
"Father, we—"
"Enough."
Perturabo waved a hand.
"Eleven star systems — sufficient to forge far more weapons. I'll hand the production lines over to you. The development of those planets is your responsibility. Equipment lost in combat will be replenished as a first priority from the new production output."
"Your performance in the campaign was good. Tactical judgment was sound. Emergency responses were timely. You didn't let glory-seeking drive you into throwing lives away. Keep it up."
With that, he turned and walked back toward the massive machine, his back to them.
"Go. I have work to do."
The workshop fell silent again. Only the faint hum of the mechanical arm and the distant roar of the foundries drifted in.
Ferrix and the others quietly withdrew.
"They were only machines. You are not."
Perturabo's voice came from behind them — very quiet, nearly swallowed by the factory's roar.
But they heard it. And somehow, their steps felt lighter as they walked away.
After confirming that his sons had moved far enough away, Perturabo reached across the work bench and picked up a component — a section of armor plating nearly melted beyond recognition, still bearing the scorch marks of the xenos queen's psychic fire. A flicker of something painful passed through his eyes.
That Titan had been the first Titan he had ever built with his own hands. Every gear. Every line of code. Every component. Every weapons mount.
Perturabo could have thrown it into a smelter to be recast. But he hadn't.
He had kept it. Set it in the corner of his work bench, where he could see it every day.
"Foolish," he murmured to himself. "It's just a machine."
In the depths of the Warp, in the warehouses of the Daemon Factory, an unremarkable Titan had appeared — so small compared to those warship-scale behemoths around it that it looked like a tiny figurine.
Three days later. Ferrix stood in the base's main conference hall, facing dozens of Iron Warriors Company Captains and Warsmiths.
The holographic projection displayed detailed data on the eleven star systems — mineral distribution, planetary orbital parameters, potential strategic value, defensive networks requiring construction... Dense streams of data flowed through the air. Each line represented a decision that needed to be made.
"Per Father's orders, these eleven star systems will be developed independently by us."
Ferrix's voice resonated through the conference hall.
"Father will transfer the production lines to us. Each star system will establish a complete manufacturing infrastructure — from raw material extraction to finished product assembly, all localized. This means that from now on, we will have eleven additional star systems for resupply."
"But this also means greater responsibility. The development of each star system requires our personal oversight. Defensive networks must be built by us. Production lines must be maintained by us."
"Even with the Logic Engine's assistance, this will not be easy."
"But Father has entrusted us with this responsibility. We cannot fail his expectations again."
"During the period we were on campaign, another forty-four thousand recruits successfully completed their transformation. Our scale has grown, and adjustments are needed accordingly."
They worked through the Legion's military affairs. Before long, they would also begin a new round of training — this time with additional content that Father had specifically added: campaigns against psykers and engagements involving Warp contamination.
Previously they had faced traitors in their training, but they had never truly confronted the problem of Chaos corruption or powerful psykers directly. That gap needed to be closed.
Perturabo was also developing a new artillery cannon design. The losses from this campaign had still been somewhat too large — if something like this ever happened again, even Perturabo, with all his resources, would feel a twinge of pain.
The siege cannon was well suited to assault and breakthrough, but it was rather unwieldy, and overheating at the barrel mouth also needed to be considered.
And the Titans — Perturabo had made up his mind. He would develop, as soon as possible, Titans that could be deployed directly from orbit without needing to be reassembled on the ground. The current process was far too slow.
Then there were the Iron Warriors' Terminator armor and power armor. Perturabo needed them thicker, more powerful, capable of mounting more weapons — while still preserving his sons' agility of movement.
These problems were all waiting for Perturabo to solve.
"My lord, the Mechanicum delegation has arrived at Olympia and is requesting permission to land. They have been waiting for six hours."
The Logic Engine's voice sounded.
Perturabo did not turn around.
"Let them wait."
The Logic Engine acknowledged and relayed the response to the Mechanicum's signal.
The Mechanicum. Tech-Priests from Mars, responsible for providing technical support to each Primarch's Legion.
They would bring a large consignment of technical equipment, large stacks of technical manuals, and large groups of tech-slaves who knew how to recite machine-spirit prayers without understanding why machines ran.
They would call lubricant "sacred." They would call improper maintenance "desecration." They would chant prayers, apply holy oils, and burn incense in his presence, then explain that these were necessary rituals for maintaining proper machine function.
Perturabo naturally knew who they were — the Imperium's double eagle — but on Olympia, Perturabo would not tolerate that kind of presence.
He had already thought through how to handle them.
But there was no rush. Let them wait.
Another six hours passed before Perturabo allowed the Mechanicum delegation to enter the palace.
The delegation numbered seven. The leader was a senior Archmagos, his entire form wrapped in red robes, mechanical eye-lenses emitting a faint red glow from the shadow of his hood.
Behind him came six Magi, each holding a sealed metal case inscribed with gear emblems and binary prayers.
They were somewhat put out — they had never been treated this way before. Even accounting for the fact that this was a Primarch, this kind of reception genuinely made a senior Archmagos feel disrespected.
But the moment they laid eyes on Perturabo, that feeling evaporated. They were vaguely overcome with an impulse to prostrate themselves — as if the Omnissiah himself had once descended upon Mars in a rain of meteorites.
So the Archmagos thought.
"Most honored Lord of Iron, Son of the Omnissiah — I am Hermexus, Chief Archmagos of the Forge, dispatched from Mars. I am here under orders to provide technical support to the Fourth Legion. These are our credentials."
The Archmagos spoke, his voice translated by his vox-synthesizer into cold mechanical tones.
The Tech-Priest behind him stepped forward and opened a metal case. Inside was a scroll of skin-parchment densely covered with technical qualification certifications and stamps of authorization from the Martian Church.
Perturabo did not look at the skin-parchment. He looked into Hermexus's eyes — that mechanical lens emitting red light.
"What model is your left eye?"
Hermexus's logic processor ran slightly faster. He was momentarily caught off guard. In thirty years as delegation leader, dealing with six Astartes Legions, no one had ever opened with that question.
"This is... a Mars-Alpha tactical augmetic eye. It can analyze battlefield data, identify friend and foe markers, assist with..."
"Resolution?"
"What?"
"Resolution. How many pixels can your augmetic eye distinguish?"
Hermexus's vox-synthesizer emitted a faint burst of static — he was processing. He had never been asked this question.
"The rated resolution is four thousand by four thousand. In practical use, due to neural interface bandwidth limitations, the effective resolution is approximately..."
"Twenty-three hundred by twenty-three hundred."
Perturabo completed the sentence for him.
"The bandwidth bottleneck in the neural interface has gone unresolved since the original Forge World Alpha-3 period. Your engineers tried switching to a parallel transmission protocol but failed — because the Martian Technotheocracy ruled that parallel transmission was incompatible with the doctrine of 'machine-spirit communication.'"
Hermexus's augmetic eye flickered.
"You... how do you know this?"
Perturabo finally turned his head, meeting the senior Archmagos's gaze for the first time.
"The Emperor provided considerable documentation on your organization. I have studied the Mechanicum's public materials on Olympia — and the materials you don't make public."
He rose and walked toward the open metal case. The skin-parchment was still inside it, its dense text catching the cold light of the room with a faint yellowish tint. He didn't touch it — only looked down at it for a moment.
"This is a template document."
"A standardized credential template printed uniformly across Forge Worlds thirty years ago. You changed the name and reference number and used it."
"And here."
Perturabo pointed to an inconspicuous string of symbols at the parchment's edge.
"This is a template identifier — used internally by Mars to count the number of printed documents."
Hermexus said nothing.
"You prepared no credentials specifically for the Fourth Legion. You used a generic template because you assumed a Primarch wouldn't bother looking at this kind of document."
He straightened, looking at Hermexus.
Hermexus's augmetic eye flickered again — this time for longer.
He had been ready to say: "I looked at it." But standing before this lord, he found he couldn't produce that lie.
"Most honored lord, I offer apology on behalf of the Martian Forge Worlds."
A subtle shift occurred in his vox-synthesizer's pitch. If Perturabo were sufficiently versed in Mechanicum codes, he would have recognized it as the mechanical expression for "shame."
"We did indeed... underestimate the extent of your command of technical knowledge."
"You didn't underestimate. You were too lazy to make changes."
"You have dealt with six Astartes Legions. With each one, you brought a similar set of credentials. With each one, you delivered a similar welcome speech. With each one, you said 'we are prepared to provide technical support for your Legion.'"
"Then you would station Magi and Tech-Priests within the Legion, and over decades gradually consolidate control over the maintenance rights to every last bolt into your own hands."
He stood at the negotiating table, fingers sliding across the surface. The surface lit up, displaying a complex organizational diagram — the internal structure of a typical Mechanicum Techno-Temple.
"The stationed Tech-Priests are responsible for reporting Legion movements. Your reporting chain is vertical — it does not pass through the Legion's command structure. Your loyalty to the Emperor is expressed in words. Your loyalty to Mars is expressed in actions."
"You hold the keys to everything. You maintain the Imperium's mechanical equipment — and you maintain your own power."
He raised his head and looked at Hermexus.
"Am I correct?"
Hermexus's vox-synthesizer was silent for a full five seconds. The longest silence of his life.
"Yes."
He had no desire to engage in sophistry in front of this lord, even though sophistry was something he was exceptionally practiced at.
In that instant, the six Magi behind him simultaneously raised their heads, all their augmetic eyes flickering at once.
Hermexus raised one hand, signaling them to be still.
"Lord of Iron, you understand us far better than we anticipated."
"Your methods are too elementary. Anyone could see through them."
Perturabo had no interest in arguing about this further.
Hermexus stood there, the red glow of his augmetic eye dimming slightly. He was thinking — Mars would need to completely reassess this Primarch.
Before departing Mars, the Fabricator-General had told him: the Fourth Primarch is the Lord of Iron, reclusive in temperament, not easy to get along with. Be careful when assigning Tech-Priests to him. Don't provoke him, and don't let him feel we're trying to control him. And he has transgressed against the Omnissiah's forbidden technologies — so the investment risk with this lord is too high. Treat him according to the standard protocol for a Primarch and nothing more.
But none of them had anticipated that this lord had researched their internal documentation, seen through their organizational structure, and even knew what a template identifier on their parchment meant.
"Lord of Iron — what would you have us do?"
"I want you to do one thing."
"What thing?"
"Leave all the supplies you brought here. And if it's possible, leave the STC fragments you've acquired and whatever technical research results you've produced as well. That second part is at your discretion."
Hermexus paused.
"And then?"
"And then you leave."
The palace fell silent.
The Archmagos's augmetic eyes flared with red light. They had departed from Mars, crossed half a galaxy, waited twelve hours for permission to land — and now this lord wanted them to leave their materials and go?
"I don't entirely follow your meaning, my lord. We came to provide technical support to the Fourth Legion. If you won't accept our stationing, the Legion's equipment resupply and maintenance..."
Hermexus continued.
"I'll handle it myself."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Resupply and maintenance. I'll handle it myself."
Perturabo's voice was entirely calm.
"I don't need your support. I don't need you to perform any maintenance on my Legion's equipment. I know my own Legion better than you do."
"I know what maintenance schedule every piece of equipment requires, what components need replacing, what technical competency is needed to operate it. I don't need your people to tell me any of this."
"You should have heard some things about me before coming here. And yet you still thought to handle me with these methods — even to exploit my Legion."
Hermexus found himself unable to respond. He could have answered any of this Primarch's challenges with ease — but he didn't.
"But... the machine-spirit appeasement rituals..."
Whether machine-spirits existed and whether machines could function effectively in battle for their warriors were two entirely different propositions.
Perturabo knew this — and didn't care in the slightest. He disliked vague and ambiguous things.
"The concept of machine-spirits isn't wrong in itself. The behavioral logic of machinery does share certain similarities with living things. But you have deified it."
He pulled up a new diagram — a maintenance procedure comparison for a standard Terminator armor suit.
"This is the maintenance procedure specified in your handbook. The warm-up phase requires recitation of prayers forty-seven times, anointing of nineteen joints with sacred oil, striking the outer casing three times before the force field reaction transposition activates, each strike separated by an interval of exactly thirteen seconds. The entire process takes thirteen hours."
He pointed to the simplified list of steps on the right.
"This is my optimized procedure. The warm-up phase only requires checking the lubricant's temperature and viscosity, then adding the required lubricant via standard injector. The entire process takes two minutes."
"Same result. I've tested it."
Perturabo closed the diagram. He had lost interest in arguing further with these Techpriests. If not for the fact that they could always produce interesting novelties from their pockets, he wouldn't have bothered setting aside time to receive them at all.
Olympia did not need partners. Nor did it need any second power of equal standing to his own.
Perturabo would not permit such a power to exist.
But extracting an Archmagos's most closely guarded technical secrets was nearly impossible — Perturabo knew that — and certain political considerations had still led him to receive these Techpriests.
He hadn't even revealed the Abhorrent Intelligences in their presence. The entirety of their reception had been carefully confined to a route designed in advance.
They knew nothing — even if they had heard rumors.
"I am not here to abolish your doctrines. I have no interest in that. I simply dislike having your people chanting prayers on my ships, and I dislike anyone inserting themselves into the world I built with my own hands."
Perturabo's eyes swept across the Techpriests.
"You may leave your technical documentation and go. Or you may simply leave as you are. But the supplies the Emperor promised — those must be delivered to me on time, in full."
Hermexus's augmetic eye showed, for the first time, the flicker of genuine reflection. His processors were running hard, weighing every consideration — even as this Primarch made him instinctively want to offer his loyalty.
This lord doesn't respect us. He doesn't treat us with hostility either. He simply regards us as a tool — a flawed but irreplaceable tool.
He can solve all his own logistical problems — even do it better than what the Mechanicum can provide. That's why he has nothing to fear. He doesn't even particularly care about the double eagle.
Hermexus understood Perturabo's thinking. This was a pragmatist — and a terrifying one.
"Lord of Iron, I understand. I will report to Mars: the Fourth Legion requires technical support, but the stationing of Tech-Priests needs to be restructured. We can dispatch a maintenance fleet periodically, providing supplies and equipment servicing — but we will not maintain a permanent station."
This arrangement worked — no broken bridges, no mutual interference. Perturabo gave a nod.
"Acceptable."
Inside the palace, Hermexus turned and signaled the Magi and Tech-Priests behind him to place the various STC fragments on the floor.
There were also fully thirteen large cases packed with blueprints and research data, along with several storage drives containing research materials.
"These are all the STC fragments I have excavated over the years, and the results of my research. Please accept them."
Hermexus said.
Perturabo didn't move. He simply regarded those cases and STC fragments in silence.
"Why?"
Hermexus paused, as if he hadn't anticipated this question — but he recovered quickly.
"I believe you are worthy of my personal loyalty."
Hermexus was overcome with an unusually intense conviction — one that was making his logic systems register something close to malfunction, because he felt this Primarch was deserving of his allegiance without even having properly come to know him.
Perturabo made no particular gesture. He simply flicked a finger, and several Iron Circle units stepped out of the shadows. Their optical sensors scanned the advanced technology the Archmagos had brought within seconds.
Then more Iron Circle units entered, beginning to carry away the precious documentation and STC fragments.
Hermexus and the assembled Magi and Tech-Priests were frozen in place.
Abhorrent Intelligences. Standing openly before them.
"ABHORRENT INTELLIGENCES!"
A young Magos's vox-synthesizer emitted a sharp, uncontrolled shriek. His mechadendrites rose instinctively, the close combat weapons concealed beneath his arm-plating nearly deploying.
"Silence."
Hermexus's voice fell like an ice spike, crushing the young Magos's panic.
But his augmetic eye never left those Iron Circle units.
Their joint structures were more streamlined and efficient. No redundant design at the armor plate seams of the kind common in Imperial machinery. Their weapons systems were fused with their frames in seamless integration, as if they had been built from birth for killing.
What stunned Hermexus most was not their combat capability, but their very existence.
Abhorrent Intelligences.
The ultimate forbidden territory between humanity and machine.
The absolute red line that the Imperium and the Emperor had prohibited in any form.
And they were walking openly through a Primarch's palace — like the most ordinary servitors, carrying away those precious STC fragments and research materials.
"Lord of Iron..."
Hermexus's voice wavered in a way it hadn't in a hundred years. His vox-synthesizer was trembling.
"These... these are..."
"As you see. Abhorrent Intelligences. Their core code was written by me. Every gear was designed by me. The weapons systems were calibrated by me. The combat logic was trained by me."
Perturabo casually summoned the Logic Engine's display, which showed Olympia in its entirety — the patrolling Iron Circle units and Mechanized troops, the medical robots at their operating tables, the god-machines and Knight mechs resting silently in their warehouses...
"If these Iron Circle units qualify as Abhorrent Intelligences, then so do all of these — because they too are operated by the Logic Engine."
Hermexus's augmetic eye flickered frantically. His logic processor was running the most intense computation of his life.
Behind him, the Magi and Tech-Priests had gone rigid. Their minds were in complete disarray.
What were they looking at? They could see it. They knew perfectly well what these things were.
The Imperium and Mars had taught them that what stood before them represented an absolute forbidden technology — heterodox constructs that must be destroyed.
But the Mechanicum's own doctrine also told them: when the Omnissiah descends, He will bring a new understanding of the machine, will shatter all outdated conventions, will reshape the entire Mechanicum.
And this lord before them...
He understood everything about the Mechanicum. He knew the template identifier on their parchment document. He had optimized maintenance procedures that had gone unchanged for thousands of years. He could call up their most closely guarded technical data at will.
And now he was displaying machine intelligences that should not exist — as if showing off the most trivial of tools.
A wild idea began to form in Hermexus's logic processor.
He knelt.
A senior Archmagos of the Forge, the leader of a delegation dispatched from Mars, a figure of no small weight within the Mechanicum, a ten-meter-tall behemoth — knelt before Perturabo.
The Magi and Tech-Priests behind him knelt as one.
"Lord of Iron — no. Omnissiah."
His voice was no longer cold mechanical tone. It carried something Hermexus had believed long since dead within himself.
Mechanical fluid was beginning to seep uncontrollably from his frame, but to preserve his dignity before the Omnissiah, he suppressed this excitement.
"You are not the Son of the Omnissiah. You are the Omnissiah Himself. We have been identifying the wrong person all this time. The Emperor is not the Machine God — he is a deceiver!"
Hermexus's words were stunning — and not a single Magos or Tech-Priest questioned them. Bodies from which most biological matter had long since been stripped erupted with astonishing faith.
Perturabo looked down at the Mechanicum priests kneeling before him. In his eyes there was no pride, no satisfaction — only calm, measured appraisal.
"You are kneeling before the wrong person."
His voice was not loud, but each word carried clearly into every Magos's receiver.
"I am not a god. I have no desire to be your god. I am simply an engineer. A forger. A person who understands machines better than you."
"If you want to learn from me — fine. Bring your knowledge here. Take my knowledge away with you. That is an exchange."
"If you want to kneel here and worship me, then get out of my world."
Hermexus raised his head. An unprecedented light flickered in his augmetic eye.
"Omnissiah, I understand your meaning. You do not need our worship. You only need our understanding."
"But please allow us to remain — not as stationed Tech-Priests, but as your students, your researchers."
"We can provide you with Martian resources and intelligence. We can deflect problems from the Mechanicum. We can navigate on your behalf with the Fabricator-General."
"We ask only one thing."
"Allow us to follow at your side."
Hearing the deep veneration and fervor in the Archmagos's voice, Perturabo felt for the first time the true terror of faith.
No wonder the Emperor wanted to eradicate all religion and sever all faith.
This kind of thing really was dangerous.
A senior Archmagos, without any verification whatsoever, had determined him to be the Omnissiah and offered this caliber of fervent belief. What would that mean for credulous common people?
Those who struggled at the edge of survival, crushed by heavy taxation, living in harsh and grinding conditions — the lowest of the low. When faced with spiritual salvation and release, would each and every one of them reach out for it?
Perturabo realized that Imperial Truth was genuinely important sometimes. Eliminating the zealotry of religious faith was a truly necessary undertaking.
"How many logic modules remain in your processor?"
Perturabo asked.
Hermexus paused.
"You... what do you mean?"
"When you knelt here and said these things — how much logical computation did you use?"
"I..."
"You used no logic. You used intuition. Judgment. Choice."
"Your processor is still running — but the way you made this decision has gone beyond the realm of pure logic. Do you know what that means?"
The Archmagos and the others looked somewhat stunned.
"The tragedy of the Mechanicum is that in your efforts to understand machinery, you turned yourselves into machinery. You believed that by discarding emotion you could approach truth. But what you discarded was the most important tool for understanding truth in the first place."
"Intuition. Creativity. Imagination. These are not enemies of logic. They are logic's complements."
"Machines and technology are not summoned with prayers and rituals. They are created with hands and minds."
"Technology doesn't advance that way. Do you think excavating STC fragments is sufficient by itself? Then why were people of the old age able to create all of this with their own hands?"
"Not worshiping perfection, but learning from imperfection. Not fearing failure, but progressing through failure. Not clinging to tradition, but innovating constantly."
Perturabo looked at the Mechanicum priests kneeling before him.
"If you truly want to learn, then stand up. Use your eyes to see. Use your minds to think. Use your hands to work."
"Those who kneel learn nothing."
Hermexus slowly stood.
The Magi behind him rose as well.
"Omnissiah — I... I understand."
His voice carried something Hermexus had believed long dead within himself. It was reverence — but no longer the blind adoration of religious worship. It was a student's reverence for truth.
"Please allow us to remain — not as followers, but as students."
Perturabo looked at him, and those deep blue eyes finally showed a trace of satisfaction and recognition.
"You may. But I have several conditions."
"Please state them."
"First, you must learn my language — not the Mechanicum's binary prayers, but the true language of engineering. The language of mathematics. The language of physics. The language of logic."
"Second, you must work with your hands. Not just study theory — you will enter the workshops, work on the production lines, forge with your own hands, calibrate with your own hands, repair with your own hands."
"Third, you must question — question every design I produce, every decision I make, every theory I advance. If you believe I am wrong, say so. Produce your evidence."
"Fourth..."
Perturabo looked at these "humans" whose flesh had been almost entirely supplanted by mechanical components.
"You may retain your faith. I will not tear down everything you are."
"Your faith is part of you. It is the culture accumulated across thousands of years. It is the way you understand the world. I will not destroy it — just as I would not destroy anyone's culture."
"But you must understand: in my domain, faith is only faith, and engineering is only engineering. The two can coexist — but they cannot be conflated."
"You may recite prayers outside the workshop and work with your hands inside it. You may venerate machine-spirits in your own time and optimize designs during working hours. You may write 'the will of the machine-spirit' in your reports while writing true test results in your data."
"These are my conditions. Can you meet them?"
"Yes."
"Good."
"You may remain. Iron Circle units will show you to your quarters."
"You will study alongside the engineers in the dome and the members of the Iron Council. The Logic Engine will answer your questions. You may also use its data to support your experiments."
"Do not work in isolation. Information sharing and collective effort accelerates the pace of technological development."
"Understood."
Hermexus and his delegation had been on Olympia for three full months now.
Everything on Olympia was reshaping their previously held understanding of the world.
Iron Warriors averaging two meters sixty in height. Iron Guard who could match Astartes. Mechanized troops and Iron Circle units patrolling everywhere. And the civilian population, who had grown entirely accustomed to all of it.
They had taught a fair number of "students." In ordinary circumstances, these mortals would never have had the qualification to study the Omnissiah's technologies. But here, such things were commonplace.
They rotated through the lower and middle levels — studying, teaching, receiving instruction from the Logic Engine at the upper levels. For the first time they felt that knowledge was not always so impossibly distant. If you were willing to learn, Olympia could design a standardized study plan tailored specifically for you.
Hermexus was in a workshop beneath the dome, his processor generating a report.
The report's title read: Preliminary Argumentation Regarding the Proposition that the Fourth Primarch Perturabo Is the Omnissiah and the Machine God Incarnate.
The first line read:
"He is not the Son of the Omnissiah. He is the Omnissiah Himself — for only a god could make machines truly 'come alive' without any ritual whatsoever."
This report would be transmitted, through an encrypted channel, to Fabricator-General Kelbhor when a Magos returned to Mars to deliver his report.