Chapter 18: Praise the Omnissiah
Grind-squeak... Grind-squeak...
As he moved with his heavy, complex gait back to the Dark Mechanicum flagship, Magos Morlock was still laughing. His internal mechanisms whirred with unrestrained glee.
These Astartes were imbeciles. Fools. Dolts. His Forge World had just won, and won again.
This was the Maelstrom. Even in a "stable" region, it was still the Maelstrom. The Imperium had no control here; they could barely manage the sectors on the outside of the storm.
This vast, churning warp-storm was a phenomenon that even the colonists of Old Night had failed to tame. Countless settler fleets had entered the Maelstrom only to be lost, annihilated, or thrown off course, their descendants regressing to savages on forgotten worlds. To find a single, relatively stable star system in this region was a blessing.
Of course, it was still dangerous. Warp-navigation was a gamble. You plotted a tentative course, used the most skilled Navigator you could find, and prayed. You prayed to the Emperor, to the Four Gods, to the Omnissiah, to Gork and Mork... or you just gambled that your fleet would, this time, emerge intact.
But with great risk came resources beyond imagining. The Maelstrom was a virgin territory, untouched by the Imperium's insatiable hunger.
There was another factor: the lawlessness. The Maelstrom was a haven for every renegade, pirate, and outcast in the galaxy. It was a chaotic, thriving anarchy, a new frontier of bloody opportunity.
On the lawless pirate-ports and renegade worlds, Humans, Aeldari, Drukhari, Orks, and Chaos Space Marines all mingled. An uneasy truce, a "Corsair's Compact," somehow kept these dens of vipers from devouring each other.
But these were not people who had come to farm or work production lines. They were here for one reason: to raid.
They raided the Imperium, they raided each other, they raided the Mechanicum, they raided planets, and yes, they raided the Dark Mechanicum. This was the true reason the Maelstrom remained undeveloped. No trade route was safe. No producer was secure.
Daedalos had been hit. More than once. They were Dark Mechanicum, yes, but their armies were, like all Mechanicum forces, "Tech-Guard." And the "Guard" was for guarding, not for void-assault.
If a Skitarii garrison on a void-ship was boarded by Astartes, they would be smeared across the bulkheads. When a small resource-platform was attacked by a pirate flotilla, the resident Tech-Priests could do nothing but seal themselves in their panic rooms and watch as their hard-won resources were stolen.
The Skitarii legions were designed for large-scale, set-piece planetary battles. If those Astartes dared to meet them in an open field, it would be a different story. But in the Maelstrom, that was not how war was fought.
It was a strange, persistent flaw. Their forces were ill-suited for the small-scale, high-speed skirmishes of the void. Some Magi theorized that the heavy augmetic modification of the Tech-Priests removed some essential "passion" or "intuition" required for the art of war, leading to their combat inefficiency. The Biologis-Magi had dissected countless brains and found no answer.
Thus, in the Maelstrom, they were vulnerable. No one dared assault Forge World Daedalos itself, but the moment their ships left its protection, a thousand wolves were watching.
Until now.
Until these Astartes. These generous, honest, stupid Astartes. They had handed over a priceless STC for a laughably low price.
And Morlock's 50/50 resource-split proposal? It was a joke. His servitors would do the mining. His Tech-Priests would do the accounting. His ships would do the hauling. Were the Astartes going to watch over every single mining-rig, every single day? Impossible.
So, who, precisely, would be counting the resources? Who would determine what "50%" was?
And now, the fool-Lord had gifted them an entire planet. He had, in effect, provided a free, terrifyingly powerful bodyguard for their new mining operations. The next time a pirate fleet appeared on the augurs, Morlock would simply inform them that this operation was under the protection of the Astartes. The threat alone would be enough.
Morlock was growing to like these Astartes. They were generous, they kept their word, and they were, by all calculations, dumber than an Ogryn.
When he returned, he would propose in council that they increase their support. If they could acquire more gene-seed, they should sell it to them cheaply. Keep them strong. Keep them happy. Keep them stupid.
Perhaps... perhaps they could even move Daedalos itself. They lacked the technology to move a world, but the true Omnissiah did not. They had found Him, and they had been the first to pledge their loyalty. The Machine-God would surely provide.
Morlock's internal vox emitted a static-hiss of contempt. Mars was blind. The "Emperor" of Terra was a flesh-worshipping warlord, not the Omnissiah.
The Omnissiah was real. He was not in realspace. He was in the Immaterium.
In a place called the Soul Forge. And they had found Him.
"Prepare the ship," Morlock's metallic voice rasped, his words both an order and a prayer. "We return to the Forge World."
"This universe is a domain of perils, and the storms of the soul hunger to devour us.
Ring the Bell once! Push the lever, start the piston and the pump.
Ring the Bell twice! With push of button, fire the engine, and spark the turbine, bring life to the machine.
Ring the Bell thrice! Sing the song, praise the God of All Machines!"
"Praise the Master of the Soul Forge. Praise Vashtorr, the Omnissiah."