Imperial Frontier: Nearing the Truth

The factories of the Imperium of Man generally shared one characteristic. Put simply, they were big—really damn big.

Each factory was practically a small city, with colossal boilers and foundry production lines stretching in every direction.

Beneath enormous artificial metal domes, the roar of machinery and the clanging of spindles echoed endlessly through the factories' vast workshops, corridors, and halls, sending countless human creations down the conveyor belts year after year.

That wasn't strange, was it? Even civilian equipment factories couldn't meet demand, given the Imperium's vast population and territory. You could turn an entire planet into an Adeptus Mechanicus Forge World and it still wouldn't be enough, let alone produce the munitions required for the eternal wars raging across the dark galaxy.

And then there were the wars spreading across the galaxy, constantly destroying countless factories and their output. One planet after another was engulfed in flames, its foundries going down with it, bidding the Imperium farewell.

So the administrative departments of the Imperium, the Adeptus Mechanicus, and the Departmento Munitorum were always scrambling to make up the shortfall. With legal Imperial factories unable to meet demand, the "great" administrators of the Imperium came up with a solution: countless "illegal factories" controlled by gangs in the Lower and Mid Hives became valuable substitutes.

The absurd part was that the factories in the Imperium's Lower Hives provided the gangs with most of their income. By managing and exploiting workers through violence, more than a few gang leaders had transformed themselves into Imperial elite.

Well, it seemed the old Imperial elite had entered that circle the same way. Ah, the Imperium was as familiar as ever.

But a sage of ancient Terra had once said that where there was oppression, there would be resistance. That was clearly true here, too.

The workers walked through the factory's lower levels, between foundry workshops that had lain dormant for who knew how many years. Black and gray machines stood silently on either side in the murky darkness, their machine spirits waiting to be awakened after a long slumber.

But these workers hadn't come to awaken the machine spirits. They had come to attend a gathering—a religious meeting in the underground passageways beneath the Hammer Factory.

The workers walked down the long corridor to its end. There, dozens of workers armed with autoguns and lasguns barred their way.

The men had yellow armbands wrapped around their arms, each marked with a pair of intertwined snakes. "Who are you?" "A soul, a lost soul." "Why have you come here?" "To hear the truth." "Why do you wish to hear it?" "To walk the Path of Redemption."

Two workers embraced. The armed men stepped aside to make way. "Go on in, my brother. May the Lord of Redemption bless you." "And may He bless you, brother."

Beyond the archway, a vast underground chamber was already packed with workers. Some carried guns, while others bore short blades or metal clubs. They had all gathered to greet and embrace one another, adorning every corner with hymns praising their deity and candles for prayer.

A thousand candle flames lit the dim underground "chapel." Orange-red prayer slips gleamed in their light.

The believers gathered there. When the bells rang, they all looked up. Thousands of eyes gazed toward the far end, past the steam pipes and hydraulic shafts. A Missionary in a gray robe, a gleaming silver chain hanging around his neck, stepped onto the pulpit where the foremen had once issued their orders.

Many priests stood around him, also clad in gray robes, their faces hidden beneath their hoods.

The Missionary removed his hood and stood before the crowd, shouting, "Brothers in faith! You have heard the voice of the divine!"

The Missionary shouted. His voice was so powerful that it carried through the enclosed metal chamber and echoed louder and louder without the aid of any amplification.

"You have seen the Path of Redemption! Tell me! Have you seen that glorious shore beyond? Have you seen the great dawn when suffering will be no more?!"

The audience erupted into raucous cheers. They shouted with manic excitement, just like typical religious fanatics.

"My brothers and I are honored to stand here, with our humble bodies, and spread the light of redemption to this dark corner! But do not worry, brothers. The Lord of Redemption has arrived! At the edge of the universe, I heard His voice! His redemption, His light, and His hope will return to this dark corner!"

Red smoke began to fill the chamber. The silent priests opened a number of gas canisters, and clouds of pink dust blasted out of their valves. The active particles filled the entire hall in the blink of an eye.

The crowd cheered again. The workers shouted themselves hoarse, their faces covered in pink dust, their eyes bloodshot. Countless guns and weapons rose into the air, joining a sea of raised arms.

"There will be no more suffering! No more suspicion! We will rise to greatness! And now, to welcome the Lord of Redemption and His angels, you must take back what belongs to you and offer everything to our great Lord. Only then will you obtain true redemption!"

"Go! Seize the factory! Take it with your weapons and your faith, and slaughter those greedy, pitiful heretics! Seize it all for the Lord of Redemption!"

Mosley, of course, was the one shouting. Beneath his voluminous robe, he pointed toward the countless exits. A roar rose from the workers, almost bestial in its fury. Like floodwaters bursting through a broken dam, they surged toward the exits. Thousands of guns and blunt weapons clashed together, while gunfire, clanging metal, and earth-shaking footsteps filled the air.

Mosley turned to the silent priests. "Go, my brothers of the family. Leave only our young brothers in faith here with me to open the underground passage. The rest of you, offer your slaughter to the Lord of Redemption!"

The priests, taller and more powerfully built than ordinary men, nodded slightly. They headed toward the exits, walking into the slaughter without carrying any weapons. Or perhaps they themselves were weapons—terrifying weapons of faith.

Mosley and the two priests who remained exchanged nods, then headed for the passage behind the pulpit.

Gunshots and cries of battle soon rang out above them. Mosley walked through the tunnel with a satisfied smile. Everything was going according to plan. His army of believers would seize the factory, and with his family's help, they would claim everything before that arrogant fool Vito could.

He would prove that only he—Mosley, the one who heard the words of the divine and their chosen one—could lead the people along the Path of Redemption. In the end, he would be the first, and greatest, to receive redemption before the divine.

Trembling with excitement, Mosley reached a large door. He nodded to the young priest, who went to a nearby valve. Together with his companion, he strained to turn the enormous wheel.

As the red metal valve turned, compressed air hissed from the exhaust vents. The heavy mechanical locks began to move before Mosley's eyes. With a rumble and a clatter, the ancient metal door slowly slid aside, opening the way into the secret underground passage.

Mosley walked through the doorway with a mocking smile. He had expected Vito and his irreverent underlings to have been waiting there for ages. But the reality was completely different—or rather, the exact opposite.

Mosley looked around the underground passage in utter bewilderment. There was no one among the barricades. The empty tunnel lay in perfect silence, like a space that had died completely.

The great Missionary turned to exchange confused looks with the two priests. But their confusion soon faded as applause echoed through the tunnel. A man stepped out, wearing his trademark smile.

"Right on time, Mosley. Right on time," Vito said with a smile, standing at the far end of the tunnel. Mosley stormed toward him. "Where are your men? By the Lord of Redemption! My believers are fighting for their lives up there! Send your men to help them!"

"Don't worry, they'll go. There's just been a small change in the plan, and I haven't had a chance to tell you."

"A small change? What change?"

Vito smiled and snapped his fingers. "This."

Suddenly, another figure appeared from a dark corner behind Mosley. The tall, slender figure held a shotgun and fired twice, blowing the head off the young priest who had followed Mosley.

Mosley's face turned ashen. He spun around to look at the gunman. When he recognized her, fury surged through him, the veins on his forehead bulging. "Silver Snake! Vito! What the hell are you planning?!"

Vito smiled and shrugged slightly. "I've prepared a casualty list. You see, among those who supposedly died in this factory battle, there's one name: the great Missionary Mosley."

Mosley understood. A bestial roar rose from his throat. "Traitor! This is a disgraceful betrayal! I'll kill you!"

Before he could finish speaking, Mosley charged. He moved so fast that his steps were almost impossible to follow. In an instant, he was in front of Vito, raising his hand—no, his claws!

At some point, his fingers had grown unnaturally long and sharp, transformed into mutated claws. He swiped at Vito's throat, but Vito reacted with impossible speed and force, punching him in the jaw.

Mosley flew backward and crashed into the wall. He hit the ground, roared, and lunged at Vito again. This time, Vito turned swiftly and dodged his attack. He spun around and drove the silver-plated toe of his boot into the Missionary's face. Several teeth flew out as they shattered. Mosley rolled several times before managing to get back up.

No, he was crawling on the ground. He shrieked in a voice no human should have had. His face began to lose its human shape, twisting into a countenance as warped as a Chaos mutation.

Vito frowned. In the few milliseconds he spent wondering what kind of mutation this was, Mosley abruptly turned and fixed his gaze on Silver Snake. He then roared and charged at her.

Silver Snake started in surprise and raised her shotgun, firing repeatedly. But without any attachments, she couldn't hit a target moving that fast. All three shots missed.

Mosley leaped onto her and knocked the shotgun away, then slashed at the straps securing the mask over her face. The leather straps tore instantly, and the mask went flying.

Silver Snake began coughing violently almost at once. She clutched her throat, unable to breathe, but Mosley didn't stop. He pinned her to the ground and clamped his claws around her arm.

The mutant roared, his claws beginning to shrink. The beautiful barmaid screamed as she stared at her arm. Bone conduction let her hear—and feel—the sound of her bones breaking.

But her voice soon choked off as she struggled to breathe. Her eyes grew cloudy and bloodshot, and the violent coughing made her agony worse.

Mosley raised one claw, its sharp talons pointed at Silver Snake's throat. "Die, bitch!"

"You're the one who should die. Remember?" a voice said from behind him. But before Mosley could turn around, Vito grabbed the back of his head and hurled him to the ground in a one-handed throw.

The concrete floor cracked on impact. A powerful current surged from Vito's palm, and Mosley let out a pained howl. He screamed hysterically, his limbs convulsing as he writhed.

Lightning crackled across the ground around him. Vito glared at the mutant and swung his other fist like a cannonball, smashing it into his face. Mosley's head struck the ground just as hard, leaving a small, shallow crater. Then he passed out completely.

Vito didn't pause. He immediately turned, snatched the breathing mask off the ground, and hurried to Silver Snake. He put it back on her face. The breathing valve began working at once, and she stopped coughing and could breathe again.

She pressed the valve with her one good hand and sat up with Vito's help. Weakly, she leaned against his chest, her right arm hanging limp at her side.

Vito muttered a curse. Then he heard footsteps clanging against the metal floor. He drew his Bolter at lightning speed and aimed toward the source of the sound—the figure in the red robe.

"Vito, she needs treatment," said a mechanical voice.

"No kidding. Can't you see that? Now that you're here, why don't you help? Omega."

Data shimmered in the mechanical Magos's eyes. Behind him were several weapon-equipped mechanical limbs, one of which was stained with blood. The Magos retracted them beneath his robe, then extended another mechanical arm. A syringe was mounted to it.

"Beyond the archway, people are searching in the factory. They are looking for Missionary Mosley. They came from inside the factory. I stopped them."

Omega crouched and injected Silver Snake's arm. The pained expression on her face gradually eased, and a faint series of crackles came from her arm.

Vito raised an eyebrow. "Mandela Serum? Bell had you bring it?"

"Correct. Bell believed that, given your characteristic way of doing things, you would need battlefield medical supplies. So he had me bring them."

Omega scanned Silver Snake with his eyes, then stood. "She will be fine. The Mandela Serum has already taken effect. Her bones will heal within a week. Praise the Emperor and the Omnissiah."

Vito sighed and picked Silver Snake up. She muttered a curse under her breath; the pain clearly hadn't gone away yet. Vito gave a wry smile. "That wasn't much of a date."

"I can tell," Silver Snake said with a wry smile, resting her head against Vito's chest. "Let's go back. I need a drink."

"So do I. And I have a few questions for Mosley. Omega, help me carry him."

As he spoke, Vito turned to look at the priests' corpses in the distance. "Take care of them."

Mechanical arms emerged from beneath the Magos's robe. One of them spewed flames, instantly setting the two corpses alight. Several others dragged Mosley, whose body had grown a size larger, along behind Vito. Together, they disappeared into the tunnel.