Excellent Assets

The top floor of the Governor's Spire, Strategic Command Room.

The air purification system was running at full capacity, struggling to suck out the stench of scorched flesh and blood that permeated the room.

Yet the foul odor, a mix of Promethium fuel and burnt innards, had already seeped into the luxurious velvet tapestries and the ancient mahogany conference table.

Alicia van Valantius was not seated on the Runic Throne, the symbol of supreme power, as she usually was.

She stood before the holographic strategic map, her Power Sword still unsheathed.

The disruption field on the blade had been deactivated.

A faint blue glow lingered, along with a few drops of black blood from the Rebel assassins.

Half an hour ago.

An undignified purge had just taken place here.

Several bodies were being dragged out like dead dogs by Servitors.

They were nails planted in the guard by collateral branches of the family, who had dared to reach for the Governor's crown on this turbulent night.

"Clean it up," Alicia ordered.

Lilith, the Captain of the Guard, silently handed her a pristine white handkerchief.

Alicia took it and carefully wiped the engravings on the sword's hilt.

But her gaze never left the map before her, a sight of despair.

Vast swaths of crimson spread across the map like a plague.

Those were the regions marked as fallen or out of contact.

The markers for Granary Four and Granary Nine had already gone dark, reduced to ashen silence.

Yet, amidst this sea of gray and red, one stubborn green dot flickered steadily.

Granary Seven.

The Ministry of the Interior's automated calculation Servitor emitted the clatter of gears and spat out a long strip of Parchment.

The data on it was marked in red ink.

Staggering, yet hard to believe.

Lilith analyzed the data wearily:

"Excluding Granary Seven, our Imperial Tithe shortfall is forty-five percent. That means the Imperial Fleet won't come to support us—they'll only come to execute a 'Tithe Default Purge.'"

"Or even... the Ordo will deem the Governor's family incompetent and directly revoke your rule."

Alicia took the Parchment strip, her eyes quickly landing on the data line for Granary Seven:

Output: 120% surplus.

Promethium Fuel reserves: Sufficient.

Refugees housed: 103,000 (no major riots occurring).

"But with Granary Seven included, the shortfall shrinks to ten percent," Alicia said, a glint of brilliance flashing in her violet eyes.

"That number, I can cover with the Holy Terra Bonds our family has hoarded for generations, plus some antiques."

This little Scribe, Rovi Dann, had actually pulled it off.

Not only had he withstood the tide of plague, but he'd also conjured enough resources to buy their lives from the mud and corpses.

"He's no longer consumable," Alicia said, tossing the bloodstained handkerchief to the floor. "He's an asset. A valuable one."

"Governor, something's wrong," Lilith said at that moment, glancing at the red alert flashing on the communication array.

"Mars' Adeptus Mechanicus Tech-Reclaim Squad has already entered the atmosphere. Their Augur Array has locked onto Granary Seven—there are... very bad energy readings there."

Alicia knew exactly what that was.

What Rovi had done there was enough to burn him ten times over according to the Imperial Cult Codex.

And according to the Imperial Armoury Codex, enough to turn him into a hundred Servitors.

"Those Red Robes from the Mechanicus have noses sharper than Mutant Rats," Alicia sneered, turning toward the communication station. "They want to burn down my granary in the name of Tech-Heresy? Burn down my Imperial Tithe?"

She pulled a seal engraved with the Rogue Trader emblem from her collar and stamped it heavily onto an electronic document prepared long ago.

"By the ancient privilege granted to House Valantius by Holy Terra, send a first-level notice to the Mechanicus recovery squad."

Alicia's gaze turned as sharp as a blade.

"That is my Chartered Experimental Zone. It's a Sacred Improvement for the Emperor's table."

"If the leading Magos dares to blow up my granary over a few screws that don't match their dogma, I'll file a complaint with the Ministry of the Interior, claiming the Mechanicus caused the Imperial Tithe default."

In this cold universe, only two things could make those stubborn Mechanics bow their heads:

A lost STC template.

Or the threat of political consequences they couldn't bear to shoulder.

Granary Seven, Outer Plaza.

The sky hung in a sickly leaden gray.

Acid rain mixed with volcanic ash pattered down, drumming against the ground.

A roar tore through the clouds.

An Arx-class Heavy Transport, painted in the rust-red of Mars, descended like a steel eagle.

With the low-frequency hum unique to anti-gravity engines, it slowly landed in the center of the plaza.

The blast wave sent makeshift tents flying and knocked several gaunt Laborers sprawling into the mud.

Rovi stood in the shadow of the Wall of Gluttony, straightening his rain-soaked collar.

He could feel the Amulet Fragment of Nurgle, hidden against his skin as a warning device, growing faintly warm.

It wasn't because of plague in the air.

It was because the ship before him carried something so dangerously extreme, it could annihilate everything.

"Here they come," Rovi murmured.

Beside him, Priest Alpha's Red Robes were soaked through, making him look somewhat disheveled.

But his Cybernetic Eye burned unusually bright, and several Mechanical Tentacles twitched uneasily in the air.

"Logical projection: survival probability 34%," the Priest's electronic voice crackled with static.

"The target is Magos Magellan, a high-ranking inspector from the Mars Forge Hall. His devotion to doctrine rivals his craving for lubricant."

The hatch hissed open with a hydraulic sigh.

Two rows of Faith Militant in heavy carapace armor, wielding laser carbines, marched out.

Their steps were perfectly synchronized.

Each footfall sank to the same depth in the mud.

Beneath their red cloaks were deeply modified mechanical prosthetics.

Behind their emotionless visors lay the dead silence of those ready to execute a "purification" order at any moment.

The last to emerge was Magos Magellan.

He had shed nearly all human form.

Where legs should have been, an anti-gravity hover-chassis now floated;

his torso bristled with data ports and auxiliary mechanical arms;

his face bore no skin, only a cold metal mask studded with optical sensors of varying sizes.

Like the Compound Eye of an insect, they glimmered with a sickly green light.

Three Servo-skulls circled behind his head, emitting sharp, buzzing tones.

The Magos ignored Rovi and Alpha, who had bowed in deference.

All his sensors locked instantly onto the "Wall of Gluttony" stretching across the defensive line.

This metal barrier, cobbled together from Harvester armor plates, was now engaged in a horrifying "biological activity."

Its surface was coated in a layer of chitinous bio-metal.

Several thick metal barbs still held half-digested Ogre limbs.

From within the wall came a low, churning sound, like countless mouths chewing.

A powerfully acidic digestive fluid seeped along the base, hissing white vapor.

"Beep! Beep!"

The Servo-skulls behind Magos Magellan suddenly blared an alarm.

Red laser beams swept frantically across the wall.

"Non-standard bio-mechanical reaction detected!"

"Warp thermal residue detected!"

"Alert! Alert! Suspicion of Abominable Intelligence! Suspicion of Heretical Technology!"

The atmosphere froze to an absolute zero.

The Faith Militant raised their laser rifles in perfect unison.

Black muzzles locked instantly onto the brows of Rovi and Alpha.

The air reeked of ozone, sharp and scorching.

It was the precursor to laser weapon charging.

Yet Rovi's heartbeat remained steady.

Or rather, he forced it to stay steady.

He did not move, not even a blink of an eye.

He merely tilted his head slightly, giving Alpha a look.

This was the "script" they had rehearsed countless times in the basement.

Priest Alpha slid forward one step.

He did not beg for mercy in low Gothic, the tongue of men.

Instead, from his vocalizer, he burst forth a rapid, piercing stream of binary code, like a data modem dialing.

"01001000... Praise the Machine God... Data upload... Requesting connection..."

This was the "Sacred Language" within the Adeptus Mechanicus.

A communion of souls understood only between Priests.

Magos Magellan's movements paused.

A multitude of optical sensors focused simultaneously on Alpha.

Then, a thick Data Probe extended from beneath his robe, plugging directly into the interface on Alpha's chest.

This was a data duel that unfolded in milliseconds.

From Rovi's perspective, it was merely a moment of silence.

Yet within the thought palaces of the two Priests, a torrent of data streams raged wildly.

Alpha did not attempt to conceal the "living properties" of the metal wall.

That would have been impossible.

There were too many witnesses.

Following Rovi's instructions, he explained it as an "ancient, sacred, special protocol designed for extreme environments."

"This is not mutation, Magos."

Data transmission complete, Alpha spoke in a low, synthesized voice.

His tone brimmed with fanatical academic reverence.

"This is a fragment of corrupted data we discovered while clearing the ancient databanks in the Granary's lowest level."

"It points to a derivative STC model designated 'S-99'."

At the word "STC," Magos Magellan's cold metal mask seemed to twitch.

For the Adeptus Mechanicus, seeking the lost Standard Template Constructs of the Golden Age was a sacred mission more vital than life itself.

"You're trying to tell me this man-eating wall is a creation of Golden Age humanity?"

"Designed to adapt to the extreme biomass contamination environment of the Hive City's depths." Rovi spoke up at the opportune moment.

He held a parchment folio in both hands, its cover yellowed with age.

This was a "blueprint" he had forged overnight, combining his past life's mechanical engineering knowledge with Alpha's reverse mapping.

He stepped forward, his gait respectful, his eyes clear and devout.

No one would guess this was the same cold Advisor who, not long ago, had commanded the use of corpses as Fuel.

"Magos, if you please. The environment here is corroded by plague; ordinary metal rusts away in three days."

"To ensure the Harvester's operation, to keep the Emperor's Granary uncontaminated, we were forced to activate this ancient technology."

Rovi opened the folio.

Pointing at the complex structural diagrams within.

"This mechanism is designed to 'devour' surrounding organic matter, converting it into self-repair materials and anti-corrosion coating."

"It is a sacred design of 'fighting poison with poison,' the Machine Spirit's ultimate adaptation to a hostile environment."

Rovi's expression was filled with reverence for the technology.

As if he were truly a humble caretaker of a sacred legacy.

"We are but lowly maintainers, serving the Machine Spirit strictly according to the blueprints."

"As for why it has become so active, perhaps the heretics here are too numerous. The Machine Spirit, to protect us, has triggered a deeper defense protocol."

This reasoning was airtight, leaving no gaps.

It cleverly swapped "Chaos corruption" for "biomass adaptive repair."

In the 41st millennium, an age of technological regression and superstition, much high technology was already as inexplicable as magic.