Praise the Omnissiah

Creak, creak, creak, creak, creak, creak...

As he returned to the Dark Mechanicus flagship with heavy, repetitive steps, the Biologus Sage of Morok was still laughing, utterly delighted. This group of Astartes were complete idiots, morons, fools—this time, their Forge World had won again and again.

Understand, this was the Maelstrom. Though it was a relatively stable region within the Maelstrom, it was still the Maelstrom's interior. The Imperium couldn't even control the outer reaches of this storm, let alone the depths within.

And the Maelstrom, a vast region ravaged by massive Warp Storms, had remained unconquered even in the age of Old Night. Countless colonists who entered the Maelstrom back then simply vanished—annihilated, lost, forced to crash-land on some planet, their descendants devolving into primitive savages. For any organization to find a stable pocket within this storm-wracked zone was already a remarkable feat.

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This place was indeed dangerous, but danger also meant it had seen little exploitation. The Maelstrom was paved with gold—or rather, comparing its resources to gold was like comparing gold to sand.

The Warp Storms here were natural phenomena, at least as countless scholars had concluded after their studies. So no matter who came here, the approach was the same: plan relatively stable routes, employ more skilled Navigators, navigate space with extra caution, and pray daily to the God-Emperor, the Four Gods, the Omnissiah, and Gork and Mork during voyages. Sometimes, it was just a gamble—betting that these dozen ships wouldn't be lost this time, or at least not too many.

It sounded dangerous, and it truly was. But overall, the risk was worth the resources to be gained. After all, no one could do anything about the Warp Storms; everyone just had to adapt.

Another point: the Imperium couldn't control this place, so all the outlaws of the galaxy flocked to the Maelstrom. Though dangerous, it wasn't a Warp cesspit like the Eye of Terror, where mortals risked mutation and corruption after a few years, sprouting a second head.

This meant the Maelstrom was crawling with pirates and criminals. And when these criminals gathered, they certainly weren't going to farm or turn bolts in factories. Instead, a vibrant, thriving spirit of enterprise took hold.

The Great Pirate Era had arrived.

In the starports and planets where pirates and outlaws congregated, humans, Eldar, Dark Eldar, Orks, and Chaos Space Marines mingled in a chaotic mix. By some pirate code, they actually coexisted peacefully here. That law and order could be maintained in such a place was utterly bizarre.

But these people who hated farming weren't gathered in the Maelstrom for a symposium. What else could they do? Run factories?

Of course, they robbed—robbed the Imperium, robbed each other, robbed the Mechanicus, robbed planets, robbed the Dark Mechanicus like them, robbed anyone they could and dared to. That was why the Maelstrom couldn't develop: unsafe shipping lanes and producers always getting looted.

Yes, no joke—Daedalus had been robbed, and more than once. Daedalus was Dark Mechanicus, but their military, like all Mechanicus forces, was a "Defender Army." The reason it wasn't called a Missionary Army or a Mechanized Assault Corps was that its original purpose was truly defensive.

If a ship's Defender Army guards were boarded by Astartes, they'd likely be leaking oil—they'd be annihilated by the Space Marines. At a small resource extraction point, the Tech-Priests and Defender Army garrison, facing an incoming pirate fleet, would be best off retreating into underground defensive fortifications, watching helplessly as the pirates loaded their gathered resources onto ships, furious but powerless.

The Defender Army excelled at large-scale, coordinated planetary warfare. As long as those Astartes dared to deploy on a planet's surface, or a small extraction point had a sizable Defender Army presence, none of this would be a problem.

It was as if some unseen force suppressed the Defender Army. Losing to Space Marines in cramped, small-scale engagements was one thing. But sometimes, even against the Astra Militarum, with roughly equal numbers on open plains, they still lost.

Many Mechanicus Magi blamed this on the fact that after their modifications, Tech-Priests lacked some essential passion or trait for war, leading to relatively poor combat efficiency in command.

The Biologus Sage had dissected countless commander brains but still hadn't figured out why, despite numerical and equipment advantages against the Astra Militarum, they so often failed to win.

The truth was, they sometimes had to fight boarding actions, and small resource extraction points couldn't deploy large Defender Army forces. So in the Maelstrom, they had become the underdogs. With Daedalus's defensive firepower, no one dared attack their Forge World. But the moment they stepped outside, countless wolfish eyes were fixed on them.

Until this group of Astartes arrived—generous and foolish, handing over a priceless STC right away, with absurdly low demands.

Morok had already planned for a fifty-fifty split on mined resources. The mining Servitors were theirs, the low-ranking Tech-Priests were theirs, and the storage and transport equipment were theirs. Could the Astartes watch them mine every second?

Impossible, and they couldn't keep track. So who decided how much was actually mined? A fifty-fifty split—fifty percent of what? Now they could freely mine the resources in this star system and arbitrarily set the split ratio.

And that stupid Astartes Lord had even given them a planet, essentially providing free bodyguards for their local resource extraction point. If pirates came again, they'd just tell them these resources belonged to those Astartes. If you dare to rob us, we'll deploy three truckloads of Astartes. After all, those Astartes weren't lined up for counting, so no one knew how many there actually were.

Now Morok was starting to like these Astartes. They were honest, trustworthy, generous, and stupid—barely smarter than Ogryns.

When he got back, he'd propose in the council to increase support for these Astartes. If they could trade for Gene-seed, selling it to them at a slight discount might work.

Maybe... maybe they could send Daedalus here. They didn't have planet-moving technology, but the Omnissiah surely did. Since their Forge World had found the true Omnissiah and pledged allegiance immediately, surely the Machine God would graciously grant it.

Thinking this, the Sage snorted in contempt for Mars.

Mars had no Omnipotent Machine God. That Earth warlord called the Emperor was not the Omnissiah's avatar either.

But the Omnissiah was real—just not in the material universe, for He was in the Warp. In a place called the Soul Forge, they had found the Omnissiah and converted to Him.

"Prepare to depart. Return to the Forge World."

Morok the Sage began his command and prayer in that metallic grinding voice:

"This universe is a perilous domain, and the soul-storm hungers to devour us.

Strike the great bell once! Push the lever, start the pistons and pumps.

Strike the great bell twice! Press the button, engage the engine, ignite the turbine, inject life.

Strike the great bell thrice! Sing in unison, praise the Machine God."

"Praise the Lord of the Soul Forge, praise the Omnipotent Machine God—Vash'tor."