13 Soviet Past (V, the Second of Two Trials)

"It's been a long time, Your Excellency," Trazyn said dryly.

Karyl nodded to him. "Indeed."

Their conversation was brief and calm, like two old acquaintances who hadn't seen each other for years suddenly bumping into each other on a strange city street. They both had things to say, but chose not to, because they both had things to do.

Orikan was puzzled by this.

Very confused.

His single eye was fixed on the human man, who, in the fleeting three seconds that the mediocre could not even perceive, had single-handedly slaughtered Trazyn's guards and technicians.

Their bodies now lay scattered at his feet, like worthless trash.

Orikan did not consider his comrades to be exceptionally talented, but they were, after all, Necrons —and in those hands of flesh and blood, they were as fragile as...

A word suddenly popped into Orikan's mind: glass.

This is human description, human vocabulary, born from what they call language.

Orikan still remembered what it was called— High Gothic, a long, complicated, and uncreative language. It was as ridiculous as the so-called long history that humankind has always boasted about.

The language used by the Necrons has better expressions, varying in length, some vulgar, some beautiful, some sounding like ballads, others powerful and resounding like the booming of war drums.

For an eternal race, every kind of pastime is necessary, and playing with language is certainly one of them. In fact, if Orikan's vocal cords hadn't been destroyed by Trazyn, he would likely be singing by now.

Five nanoseconds after this idea was conceived, Orikan's neural pathways revealed a terrifying truth to him: he was insane, which was why he had such an unrealistic and ridiculous idea.

He's not a jester, so why would he sing at a time like this to amuse himself and others?

But why? The astrologer asked himself, puzzled. Why am I experiencing this "running error"?

If Trazyn knew what his friend was thinking, he would jump for joy and mock Orikan in the manner of a true jester and clown, laughing at him loudly.

When Orikan could no longer bear it, Trazyn might tell him the truth. Unfortunately, he couldn't do that. He had no way of knowing the astrologer's thoughts, nor could he act as indifferent as usual in such a situation.

Orikan's problem is not unique.

A program error. Trazyn, sensing that tiny problem, actually felt a genuine smile.

Yes, a genuine smile, genuine emotion.

Unlike the affected smile he wore when acquiring new artifacts, unlike the mocking laugh he gave when he saw Orikan's fury, unlike any smile he ever showed after becoming Necrons.

His neural pathways can mimic those ambiguous emotions based on past memories; Living Metal can make a distorted smile appear on his iron face; and a voice generator can make him laugh heartily—it's almost as if he were still alive.

But what's gone is gone.

The librarian, Trazyn, had already died after being pulled into the bio-furnace by his brethren; the Trazyn the Infinite was merely a distorted phantom carrying his personality and memories.

Anything he did in Trazyn's name is now insignificant, whether it be achievements or petty squabbles. Trazyn is dead, Trazyn lives on, and will mock Trazyn and the Necrontyr with endless life.

But now he's actually showing some emotion.

Is it just my imagination? Another runtime error, or...?

"--the Infinite." The instigator called softly, interrupting his thoughts.

Trazyn reconnected the vision sensor and regained his sight, and the malfunction disappeared. He didn't even manage to save it, watching helplessly as this valuable error was buried.

It was a mistake, that's true. But it was also a gem, surrounded by endless empty sands.

Now it has disappeared, flowing into the yellow sand.

That's enough.

Trazyn offered a humble smile, trying to ease the tension, but the person he was trying to please simply raised his right hand calmly, indicating that he didn't need to.

"Cast away these formalities and unnecessary pretenses, Trazyn. I didn't actually kill your men; your Reanimation Protocols still stands."

Trazyn nodded silently, the gesture being slight.

He completely understood what the other person was saying and what was hidden behind those words.

But he didn't see this as a good thing, because it meant that Karyl Lohars no longer intended to communicate with him in a normal way—perhaps because he had lost all respect for me?

"Well, I guess I deserve it," the Infinite thought. "I just bombarded their ship."

"I am very sorry," Trazyn said. "I did not expect this meeting to turn out this way, Your Excellency. Although this may sound somewhat unbelievable, please believe me, the attack was not carried out by me."

"Is there a difference?" Karyl asked.

"There may be no difference on an official or political level, but we don't seem to be in an official setting right now, nor are we speaking to each other using our political identities."

Trazyn shrugged cautiously, but with a touch of humor.

"Unless you firmly believe that this nameless cruiser, which does not belong to any dynasty of the Necrons, is under my command."

Doesn't it belong to you?

"I came fully prepared," Trazyn replied seriously, holding up one finger. "I erased its identification records, its place of manufacture, and all maintenance reports from the past forty centuries—without the technicians' knowledge, of course."

"Although I don't think they can bypass me and report to Parliament, it's always good to be cautious, don't you think, Your Excellency?"

Karyl crossed his arms and asked again, "So, how do we resolve the issue of firing?"

"Cannon overload, program error—" Trazyn said, raising a second finger. "—Or perhaps it's a shameful betrayal; some technician was turned into a spy by one of my enemies, plotting to frame me while I'm away on vacation."

"You'll be traveling on a ship with no records?"

"Trazyn, the overlord of the Solemnace Dynasty, wouldn't, but the collector Trazyn would." The Necrons let out a few strange chuckles and raised a third finger. "I should be fairly well-known in institutions like the Inquisition, Your Excellency. They'll believe this story."

Karyl raised an eyebrow and tilted his head. "So."

He prolonged the sound.

"So?" Trazyn continued.

Are you trying to get me to collude with you?

Trazyn took a flamboyant step back, bowed with standard human courtesy, then raised his head and grinned. "I had no such intention, Your Honor—how did you enjoy your pipe from last time?"

"To be honest, I've never used it even once. I don't smoke, Trazyn."

"Perhaps you can give it to someone else; it already belongs to you, Your Excellency," Trazyn said calmly. "Do as you see fit."

Karyl didn't respond to the Necrons's words. Trazyn's reaction was strange; his seemingly witty remarks were filled with an inexplicable emptiness.

The Infinite may know many secrets of the galaxy and can easily produce the fruits of a civilization, but he does not know how to conceal his true emotions.

Karyl didn't delve deeper into the matter, but simply raised his hand and made a gesture. The shimmering green light emanating from the control panel continued to flicker, but suddenly the multiple runes on it all began to hum in unison.

This meant they were activated. Then, with a soft crackling sound and a flash of green light, two Astartes clad in jet-black armor stood on the now empty bridge.

Nevertheless, they did not move, but remained completely still, not even breathing.

Karyl approached them and examined them closely. Trazyn followed him at the opportune moment and went about his work.

"I found them on Banjo-4, Your Excellency. However, as you can see, they have erased all markings from their armor, even the most basic emblem, the Aquila, has been scraped off. Therefore, I believe they are the legendary Fallen."

"Rumors?" Karyl chuckled without turning his head. "You're careful with your words, Trazyn, but I don't believe this is the first time you've seen Fallen."

"That's not the point, sir?"

"So what is it?"

"The important thing is—" Trazyn raised his voice—"These two Fallen are about to end their escape!"

"What? You're planning to use your official identity? The Trazyn the Infinite, ruler of the Necrons Solemnace Dynasty, wishes to transfer two Astartes to the Imperium of Man? If so, then I'm afraid I must consult Primarch Lion El-Jonson. After that, he will meet with you to discuss the specifics."

After a long silence, Trazyn uttered a number. "One hundred and twenty-eight."

Karyl finally broke into a pleasant smile, "Really?"

Trazyn sighed.

"Capturing Fallen is difficult, Your Excellency. It's quite different from taking one or two dying Space Marine off the battlefield. My first challenge is their excessive vigilance."

"You may not know this, but these people have been forced to evolve an instinct that I find hard to understand due to the long-term pursuit. Any slight movement can cause their taut nerves to twitch, and then they will immediately begin to disguise themselves and escape."

"And I'm not the only one in the galaxy interested in them. In other words, if I set my sights on one or a few Fallen, I'll have to deal with the Dark Angels hunting them first before I can turn my attention to them."

"By this time, they have often already fled. Admittedly, some of them have lost the will to fight and are spending their remaining years idly in some remote place, some even farming the land. But I must say, even such people are not easy to take away."

Karyl nodded thoughtfully. "You're very professional. When will they arrive in the Banjo System?"

Trazyn looked up listlessly, his eyes gleaming green, and replied in a tone familiar to philosophers, "At the latest, after forty-six Terra hours."

"Thank you," Karyl said. "Now, shall we talk about one last thing?"

Trazyn was silent for a moment, then suddenly shook his head. "I don't see the need for that, Your Excellency. From any perspective, this meeting—"

A jarring, synthesized electronic voice interrupted him.

" --Trazyn!"

The Infinite looked down and saw a tall Shadow struggling to stand up among the remains of the technicians and guards. It was his old friend Orikan.

However, compared to his usual self, the astrologer now looked much more disheveled. His limbs were salvaged from the remains of the guards and were not a good match for his specialized physique.

Although the Living Metal complied with the agreement and repaired the damaged parts of his body, the differences between the neural pathways could not be simply and forcibly requisitioned by his superior authority.

At this moment, the astrologer walks with a limp, like a malfunctioning Servitor a broken program.

Trazyn almost burst out laughing—did I just call him Servitor? Oh, the dead god.

"You!" Orikan roared at him furiously. "Explain yourself!"

"Explain what?" Trazyn retorted, moving to stand behind Karyl. He put his hands behind his back and tilted his head gracefully toward Orikan.

"What do you want me to explain, old friend?" Trazyn said, suddenly feigning realization. "Ah, your prophecy. You mean to say that all of this is not what you saw in the prophecy, is that it?"

"To hell with your prophecy!" Orikan roared, panting heavily.

Before Trazyn could even be surprised by his old friend's crudeness, he discovered that the astrologer had painstakingly transmitted a long string of complex and difficult-to-decipher code. He quickly deciphered it, but contrary to his expectations, the code was not a curse.

It is actually just a linking invitation, an invitation that allows Trazyn to connect directly to the mind of Orikan.

Trazyn's metallic face instantly turned serious. He patted Karyl's shoulder, silently apologizing to the latter who had been watching the show in silence, and then strode away from him, standing in front of the now much taller Orikan.

The Infinite looked up, gazing into his old friend's glowing green eye, and suddenly asked, "Are you serious?"

"Hurry up!" Orikan urged angrily.

Trazyn silently activated the makeshift connection and entered Orikan's mind.

This place was not much different from his own, or from the many other Necrons he had entered and replaced. The same emptiness, the same tedium, but Trazyn immediately sensed something was wrong.

An unnecessary data redundancy, a program malfunction that Orikan is trying its best to protect.

It was stuck between Orikan's personality and way of thinking. The astrologer's ego and self-protective mechanisms wanted to clear it out, but his own reason, or rather, his mental units, firmly prevented it.

The astrologer clutched it tightly in his hand.

Trazyn was stunned; he hadn't expected to witness such a scene. He was surprised, without a doubt, partly because of seeing Orikan's unwavering resolve at that moment.

The astrologer accomplished what he could not. Admittedly, Trazyn could argue that specialization is key, since Orikan was an astrologer and his control over his "soul" was certainly stronger than Trazyn's.

However, this doesn't explain the whole thing.

This data redundancy is slowly destroying Orikan's mental units; it was initially just a programming error that would be fixed as the program ran automatically.

Normally, Orikan wouldn't even be aware of its existence. But it was a mistake, and the price to pay for keeping it would be staggering.

For the Necrons, this was a massive and slow torment; the longer the error was preserved, the more painful the torment became.

It was like jumping into lava with your own flesh and blood, Trazyn thought.

He silently and carefully touched a portion of Orikan's mental unit, which was still relatively intact.

The astrologer's words surged into the fragile connection, roaring and raging, all thoughts swirling together, leaving no room for respite, one question after another nearly overwhelming Trazyn.

Tell me what happened. How could he do such a thing? How did my emotions arise? This scene wasn't in my prophecy. Shouldn't he be a hateful, evil god? How could he do such a thing? Tell me the answer, Trazyn!

I don't know either.

Through the transmission protocol, Trazyn packaged and sent the message. More questions came pouring in, some accusations, some pleas, some frantic curses, and some emotions that had never been seen in Orikan before, almost to the point of weeping.

Mood.

Mood?

Trazyn looked at the data redundancy; that wretched error had already devoured nearly two percent of Orikan's mental units—a terrifying number, and its efficiency was only going to increase further.

But if just two percent is enough to cause such a huge emotional reaction in Orikan, what will happen when it goes further?

Trazyn disconnected from the link and turned to look at Karyl Lohars.

As if by coincidence, the latter raised his head at almost the same time to meet Trazyn's gaze. His dark eyes were empty, like a mirror reflecting Trazyn's own image.

His superior visual sensor unit allows him to clearly see every speck of dust in the air, and capturing his own facial expressions through reflection is a breeze.

But he doesn't actually have eyes, and this isn't true seeing; it's merely a ridiculous imitation of the flesh and blood of the Necrontyr by the Necrons using technology.

Just like his expression, it was all a lie.

Orikan emitted unconscious electronic noises behind him, the pain of which Trazyn could clearly perceive.

This is the truth. Even the pain is far better than his pretentious hypocrisy.

"Is our previous agreement still valid, Your Excellency?" Trazyn asked softly.

"Of course." Karyl nodded.

"I'd like to make some changes—I'd like to modify my identity during the meeting. From collector, archaeologist, and naturalist Trazyn to the Trazyn the Infinite, ruler of the Solemnace Dynasty. What do you think?"

Karyl smiled slightly.

"Forty-six Terra hours later," he spoke, his voice low and menacing, as dark waves surged within his Shadow, and an indescribable chill began to spread. "The gods will be here awaiting you."