Chapter 21: The Dimensional Sextant
Within the manufactorum, the energy levels had finally stabilized above an acceptable threshold. Joric stood before the central workbench, and from beneath his dark crimson robes, several silver-grey mechadendrites operated with fluid, independent life.
They were tipped with laser-calibrators, micro-forcefield emitters, and high-frequency particle-scanners, all focused on a single object: the burnished gold, dodecahedron-shaped archeotech relic that had brought him to this world.
Under the workshop's mixed illumination—the cold white lumen-strips and the colored indicator lights of his equipment—the living patterns on the relic's surface flowed endlessly, possessing a deep, almost biological beauty. It hovered in an invisible cradle of complex force-coils, rotating at a constant, slow velocity, like some alien star.
"Energy injection attempt, sequence seven. Output frequency adjusted to the Tau-particle resonance band," Joric intoned, both to himself and to the servo-skull hovering nearby, dutifully recording the process.
An energy-jack at the tip of one mechadendrite emitted a whine at the very edge of human hearing, pouring a stream of highly purified power into a specific geometric node on the relic's surface.
For an instant, the relic's internal energy signature fluctuated. A faint, near-imperceptible corona of light traced its patterns, and then immediately extinguished, as if the object had fallen into an even deeper slumber.
The multi-spectral array on the workbench issued a low-frequency error tone.
"Failure again." Joric retracted the tendril. His optical lenses auto-adjusted, their cold surfaces reflecting the inert artifact.
"Standard energy injection efficiency is less than 0.3%. The vast majority of the power is... absorbed or dissipated into some internal dimension, hidden beneath the Planck-scale structure of reality. This violates all known models of energy-matter conversion."
He made the subconscious gesture of rubbing the bridge of his nose. The habit from his human life remained, a tell that his logic-engine was entering a state of deep, recursive calculation.
"Perhaps... we have fundamentally misunderstood its function," he said to the servo-skull, as if addressing a trusted colleague. "Perhaps it does not require an input of pure, physical energy. Or at least, not only that. Re-examining the sensory data from the transit event... the agony of a consciousness being deconstructed and reassembled... it was deeper, more fundamental..."
A hypothesis flashed through his core processor.
"Psy-energy?" The word, spoken by his mechanical vocalizer, carried the ingrained caution of the Cult Mechanicus, yet it was tinged with a purely technical curiosity. "Can it be that its activation mechanism is linked to the Warp... or a similar, inter-dimensional energy field?"
In the universe he had left, psychic power was the channeling of the Warp—a force that was both dangerous and uncontrollable. But in this world, the Warp did not exist. At least, he had never detected its characteristic chaotic fluctuations or its insidious whispers.
"Servo-skull, recall all environmental monitoring data from the transit event. Prioritize analysis of anomalous energy spectra and my own consciousness... fluctuation logs."
++Directive Confirmed.++ The skull's blue oculars swirled as it projected a cascade of complex data onto the main display.
Joric reviewed the waveforms and parameters. The record of the catastrophic energy drain was still stark, but alongside it was a faint, anomalous signal he had previously dismissed as noise. It was not electromagnetic or kinetic, but more akin to... a harmonic resonance on a consciousness-level, which had briefly coupled with his own violent emotional state and some deeper, spiritual undercurrent.
"It is as I theorized..." Joric murmured. "It requires a 'fuse.' A 'key' capable of leveraging the very structure of dimensions. Pure energy is the fuel, but the ignition—the directive—must be a specific psychic or spiritual force... what my universe designates as 'psy-energy'."
But without a psyker, how could this be achieved? In the 41st Millennium, the Cult Mechanicus had alternative, if brutal, solutions. One could "utilize" a psyker, or... one could simulate that specific inter-dimensional resonance with a brute-force application of energy far beyond all conventional reasoning.
"Calculate," Joric said to the servo-skull. "If we are to attempt to simulate the resonance frequency of a psychic activation using only pure energy, what would be the theoretical energy-level required?"
The servo-skull fell silent, its internal cogitators running at maximum capacity, calculating based on the relic's absorption properties, the energy-loss data from the transit, and Joric's new hypothesis.
Finally, a number appeared on the screen, along with a brutally clear equivalency:
++[Theoretical Minimum Activation Threshold (Estimate): Approx. 1/3 of the Night City main power grid's peak-load output, sustained for 1.7 seconds. OR: The total energy released by the instantaneous, ideal-state fission of 50kg of weapons-grade uranium.]++
Joric stared at the number. Even with the cold logic of a Tech-Priest, his optical lenses couldn't help but flicker.
"One-third of Night City's power... or fifty kilograms of uranium..." he repeated, his voice almost a sigh. "That is... a truly humbling threshold."
In the 41st Millennium, even on the fringe Forge World he hailed from, this would not be an impossible task. A single, medium-sized promethium reactor could suffice. As for psykers, the Mechanicus was never without "resources"—a psyker-slave from a black market, a "requisitioned" mutant from the Inquisition... the process was baroque, but achievable.
But here, in this cyberpunk world with its divergent tech-tree, its corporate-monopolized power grid, and its utter lack of psykers, the demand was preposterous.
To draw that much power would require him to infiltrate and seize control of the entire municipal grid, an act that would bring the full, overwhelming wrath of the corporations down upon him.
Fifty kilograms of uranium? That was a strategic, nation-state-level asset, locked down by Militech and its rivals. Any attempt to acquire it would trigger a global-level manhunt.
His metallic fingertip touched the surface of the relic. The patterns beneath seemed to pulse with a faint heat.
"A Dimensional Sextant..." he whispered, voicing the designation the servo-skull had provided, the closest match from the ancient archives based on its energy signature and structure. "A relic from the Dark Age of Technology... proof that mankind once touched the divine, and then fell. What an awe-inspiring, terrible creation."
The path home was visible, but it was blocked by an impossible chasm of energy.
He was forced to now seriously consider the path he had thus far avoided: cooperation with a corporation.
To use corporate resources to achieve one's own ends was not, strictly speaking, heretical to the Mechanicus, so long as the ultimate goal was the acquisition of knowledge. The Cult itself often engaged in limited trade with planetary governors, and even, on occasion, with xenos.
However... dealing with the corps of this world was a high-risk gambit. They were more rapacious and more lawless than any Imperial guild, and they lacked even the most basic, fearful reverence for the Omnissiah. It was a bargain with a beast, and a single misstep would mean annihilation.
"Risk-benefit must be re-evaluated. Multiple contact-protocols must be drafted," Joric said to himself. He added a new item to his priority list: Feasibility Analysis: Potential Corporate Alliance. It was now his highest priority.
He carefully placed the Dimensional Sextant back into its custom-built, energy-shielded storage case. The way home was clear, but the price of passage was astronomical.
He walked to the workshop's window, staring out at the wind-scarred wasteland. On the horizon, the neon of Night City pulsed and shimmered, a cold and tempting mirage.
"The plan must be... fundamentally altered," he announced to the empty wastes.
The servo-skull hovered silently behind him, its blue oculars steady, recording its master's grim and uncertain turn of logic.