"Don't bother with him, Lorgar."
Perturabo's voice was low and steady, breaking the tense, calculating silence that lingered in the corridor after Valdor had taken Utio away.
He slowly turned, drawing his gaze back from the direction Utio and the Captain-General had departed and returning it to Lorgar beside him.
On the Lord of Iron's cold, hard face, which looked as though it had been carved by a precision machine tool, there was neither lingering fear nor relief over the conflict that had nearly erupted. There was only a profound, long-suppressed disgust and contempt.
"The Adeptus Mechanicus, that pack of self-important hoarders..."
"We've been sick of them for a long time."
He took two steps forward, approaching the decorative stone railing carved with intricate patterns along the edge of the corridor.
His gaze was unfocused, as though it pierced the palace walls and reached the Forge Worlds held in the Adeptus Mechanicus's grip among the distant stars. As though he could see the mountains of undelivered weapons and the cold, data-driven faces of those Tech-Priests, who counted only the 'blessings of the Omnissiah' and disregarded the sacrifices of warriors.
"They're like custodians of rusting treasure hoards built from ancient knowledge."
"The best, most advanced things are always locked away in their deepest furnaces and databases, under the lofty names of 'research' and 'preservation.' Or they demand endless 'rituals' and 'contributions' before handing over a few scraps."
"But the things they have no use for, the discarded equipment, even defective goods with hidden dangers and obsolete junk, they brazenly foist on us in the name of 'supporting the Imperium.' And they expect us to be grateful, to 'earn' it with our warriors' lives and our Legions' achievements!"
He spoke faster and faster. For Perturabo, this anger was directed not merely at