The Grand Con

Fu Haoran stared at Priest Kallen's metal face, feeling that things were getting tricky.

Try reasoning with the Machine Cult? Those tech-priests recited the Machine Spirit's prayer three times just to fix a flashlight. Even changing a light bulb required asking permission.

You told them you were "in a hurry"?

They told you the Machine Spirit might take offense.

As the hammer-wielders put it, the Machine Cult's core technology wasn't building things. It was making a big show of itself.

In their eyes, innovation was heresy. Once, they'd unearthed a toaster that couldn't be replicated and worshipped it as a holy relic. They were hopeless.

Reason with the Mechanicus Cult? Fu Haoran knew without even thinking that they could argue for three days and three nights without getting anywhere.

But he'd found the tech-priests' Achilles' heel.

"Priest Kallen." Fu Haoran grew serious. "Can't you see? This was made in the early days of the Dark Age of Technology."

Kallen's brain stalled for a second.

"...Governor, it's impossible for this to be a relic from the Dark Age of Technology."

Fu Haoran shook his head and explained, "This is a semifinished product made with an early STC. The craftsmanship wasn't very refined yet, which is why the standardization isn't perfect. But look at this glider kit. It's made to the standard specifications of a Dark Age of Technology assembly line."

Kallen fell silent for five seconds.

His Servo-Skull flew over and repeatedly scanned the glider's connectors.

"...Scan results." A slight tremor entered Kallen's electronic voice. "Connector tolerance: ±0.01 millimeters. Confirmed to be formed using an assembly-line mold."

Priest Kallen's expression shifted from confusion to shock. His metal eye stayed fixed on the bomb as if he were looking at a priceless treasure.

The good news was, the bluff had worked.

The bad news was, Priest Kallen suddenly stepped in front of the bombs, more resolute than before, looking ready to fight to the death.

"No! I absolutely will not allow you to use a relic from the Dark Age of Technology! What blasphemy! What sacrilege!"

"Damn, is this tech-priest crazy?" Yuri muttered from where he was hiding nearby.

"He was shocked just a second ago, and now he's changed his tune. Does he really have to be so extreme? If we lose time, we lose the factory, and our Throne Coins, too!"

Fu Haoran felt a headache coming on. At a moment like this, Kallen was throwing a wrench into the works.

There was no choice. He'd have to patch the hole with an even bigger lie.

Fu Haoran stepped forward and lowered his voice until it was barely more than a devil's whisper. "Priest, actually, I have an STC fragment."

Priest Kallen's whole body jolted. Confusion, shock, and sudden realization crossed his face in succession. His metal eye's pupil contracted sharply. His first thought was to report it.

"An STC this important must be reported to the Forge World immediately! This is the Omnissiah's guidance!"

Fu Haoran wasn't surprised. To the Machine Cult, innovation was heresy; archaeology was their true calling.

"Don't you want to replicate it?"

Kallen's voice caught.

Fu Haoran stepped closer. "Priest, how many years have you been stationed on S-4? Ten? Twenty? Has anyone from Mars ever asked about you? Does anyone at the Forge World even remember you?"

Kallen didn't move.

"What's your rank in the Machine Cult? Sage? Tech-bishop? Or... just an unremarkable priest?"

Kallen felt a tightness in his chest.

But he'd replaced his heart with a Mechanical Heart a hundred years ago. Why did it still... hurt?

But someone's knife hadn't yet finished cutting. Fu Haoran twisted it further.

"I don't mean to offend you. I'm just curious: are Tech-Priests really like the stories say? Without feelings or desires, devoting themselves entirely to the Machine God, the Omnissiah?"

"Otherwise, I can't understand why anyone would want to spend fifty years guarding a remote planet, doing the same work as any other priest, copying an ancient template that others have replicated ten thousand times, writing reports no one reads, and submitting requests no one approves..."

With every word Fu Haoran spoke, Kallen felt as if his heart were being stabbed. His processor began to glitch.

At last, Fu Haoran played his final trump card. "Once the fighting's over, I'll show you this STC. It's only a fragment, but I believe it'll be enough to get you promoted to Archmagos."

"You might even be recalled to Mars and become an honored guest at the Forge World."

Kallen's lens aperture contracted.

Silence lasted for ten seconds.

"...You're sure it's an STC?" Kallen repeated.

"Yes."

"Why haven't you reported it?"

Fu Haoran smiled. "Priest, who do you think they'd give this STC to for research after you reported it?"

Kallen didn't answer, but his electronic components emitted a faint hum.

Kallen knew perfectly well that his qualifications were mediocre, his abilities mediocre, and that he'd never have a chance at promotion.

He'd been "exiled" to this remote planet and ignored for years.

He longed to advance, to gain knowledge, to escape his mediocre fate, to become an Archmagos worthy of respect.

On one side was the doctrine he'd upheld for years. On the other was the opportunity he'd dreamed of.

After a moment, he abruptly raised his head, his gaze turning resolute. "If this guidance system is confirmed to be an STC, I must be the first to study it!"

"No problem," Fu Haoran agreed at once.

"...Servitor." His electronic voice returned to its steady tone. "Retrieve the mounting rack compatibility parameters. Complete all mounting operations within fifteen minutes."

Priest Kallen transformed in an instant, his earlier stiffness and dogmatism disappearing without a trace.

"Move faster! Mount all these relics from the Dark Age of Technology on the Valkyrie gunships!"

He was even more impatient than Fu Haoran, almost itching to do the work himself. All he could think about was seeing what these creations from the Dark Age of Technology could do.

Fu Haoran breathed a sigh of relief.

"Finally, I got him to buy it."

Yuri appeared from who knew where and leaned close to his ear. "Damn, what kind of spell did you cast on that tech-priest? He was ready to fight you to the death just now."

Fu Haoran ignored him.

As for how to cover up the lie afterward, that was a problem for later.

Don't bring tomorrow's worries into today.

Fifteen minutes later, the Sky-Claw Valkyrie Gunships were fully loaded.

Eighteen FAB-3000 aerial bombs hung securely beneath the fuselages.

The pilot climbed into the cockpit and started the systems check.

A line of parameters flashed across the screen, and the pilot paused.

"My lord, the carrier aircraft requirement for these bombs... its speed can't exceed 500 kilometers per hour."

"That's right."

The pilot looked troubled at Fu Haoran's reply.

The Valkyrie Gunship's top speed wasn't particularly high, but it still reached 1,100 kilometers per hour. Now they had to cut its speed in half. This was simply...

"What kind of weapon is this? It's so pathetic," the pilot grumbled inwardly.

As the three Sky-Claw Valkyrie Gunships took off, Fu Haoran issued his orders.

"On my command, circle around to the rear of the coalition's forces and release the bombs from beyond their air-defense range."

"Why go to so much trouble?" Yuri asked, baffled.

"If you were a noble, would you go to the front lines?" Fu Haoran asked in return.

"Of course not," Yuri said, as if it were obvious.

"Exactly. The rear is where the noble private army's command centers and supply depots are. That's where the enemy is most concentrated, and all those troops are the nobles' elite private soldiers. Bombing them will inflict heavy casualties while also cutting off supplies and command to the gang cannon fodder at the front. Two birds with one stone."

Fu Haoran gave the pilot another order. "Remember, pull out immediately after dropping the bombs. Don't linger."

"Understood!"

The Valkyries veered off toward the coalition's rear.

The coalition's air defenses spotted the Valkyries soon enough, but seeing how far away they were, they didn't take them seriously.

At that distance, even if they dropped bombs, they couldn't hurt anyone. At most, they'd be a minor nuisance.

The Valkyrie Gunships flew unhindered until they reached a point sixty kilometers above the coalition's rear. The pilot's voice came through the comms. "My lord, we've reached the designated position and entered the bombing range. Requesting permission to release!"

"Release!" Fu Haoran ordered in a low voice.

The eighteen FAB-3000s detached one after another. There was no roar of booster engines, only the faint whisper of air rushing past as they fell silently.

In midair, the bombs' folding wings slowly unfolded. The two large, straight, retractable wings and V-shaped tail fins opened fully, their steel struts locked firmly against the bodies. They held steady as rocks.

The inertial guidance systems activated. Guided precisely by satellites, the bombs slowly curved through the air, like eighteen clumsy iron birds diving toward the dense clusters of noble private soldiers below.

On the ground, the noble private soldiers wore neat, standard-issue armor. Heavy bolters were set up along the front, and Leman Russ Tanks stood in orderly rows. Their defenses were tight, but they hadn't noticed a thing.

The bombs made less noise than the Servo-Skulls' hum. No one paid any attention to the strange shapes overhead.

Priest Kallen watched the footage coming through the comms. His expression gradually changed, and his voice filled with doubt.

"Something's wrong. How can a creation from the Dark Age of Technology be so crude? There's no Machine Spirit roaring, no holy energy fluctuations... Was I fooled?"

As soon as he spoke, something unbelievable happened. The bombs that had seemed so clumsy were flying steadily, turning with pinpoint precision toward the heart of the private army's formation without deviating at all.

Priest Kallen was utterly stunned. Thirty-seven passages from the doctrine he'd memorized fifty years ago scrolled through his processor—and not one could explain what he was seeing.

His metal eye remained fixed on the screen. For a moment, he couldn't say a word.