Singularity

[Inquisitor Sargoth]

I have spoken before of the impending death of Imperium, but this is nothing compared to the inevitable extinction of humankind itself. It is not blind faith or even the parasitical Adeptus Mechanicus which lies at the root of this problem. It is the nature of humanity itself that holds our species from becoming something more.

Fear not. I will rid you of your humanity and you will thank me for it. You will be free to become something more. I was like you, once.  My logic was flawed, mind impaired by trivial emotion and superstition, encumbered and above all else afraid.

I can see that you are afraid.

Come to me, then, my brothers and sisters, and I shall take away your fear.

-   From the third sermon of Iphia the Prophetess.

***

5.052.869.M40

Iron Father Eligius stepped carefully into the room, hands open and raised to show his peaceful intent, though he wore a plasma gun, a masterwork of his own construction, mag-clamped to his leg and a power axe, a gift from the adepts of Mars, at his back.  

His armour, always attuned to his mood, was tense. Warning runes blinked as it analysed the countless threats arrayed before him – combat-servitors, Skitarii and robed adepts lined the room, each training weapons upon him. Eligius began to mark those which were the greatest threat, his priority targets if the meeting turned into a trap; a Skitarius with a heavy-bolter, another with a meltagun, an adept with a plasma pistol and two hulking lifter-servitors. These in particular drew his eye, standing as they did a head taller than his own armoured form, their flesh-chasses hormonally treated and swollen with corded muscle.  

It was difficult to read the emotions of the tech-adepts before him – not least because many no longer possessed them – but he knew the room was thick with fear, fear of him. For all their weapons, they feared the wrath of a Space Marine.

"I came to parley, as she requested."

They offered no reply, merely gesturing towards the doorway. As he walked past them, the skin of his back crawling with his armour's dislike of having enemies behind them, the two Skitarii fell into line beside him. An honour-guard, though whose he could not guess.

A backwards glance – the metalgun was pointed unerringly at his back, the threat rune blinking insistently on his visor even after he turned away. He knew at this range it would liquefy his armour and what little flesh remained beneath.

A mantra echoed through the archway before him. This was no prayer to the Machine God; instead, a simple chant of one name, over and over. These priests had abandoned their faith, but not the mindset that accompanied it.

Iphia. Iphia. Iphia. She was their prophetess.

Fists clenched, Eligius stepped through the archway.

***

4.616.869.M40

Brother Farran, Champion of Sorrgoll Clan, sat in contemplation. He regarded the battle ahead with little weight – he was no stranger to battle in even the most difficult of conditions and death held no fear in him. His thoughts were drawn more to the nature of their enemy, the Apostate, and inevitably to Father Eligius.

His eyes fell upon his right arm, a gleaming bionic from the elbow downwards. It was a masterpiece, exquisitely weighted, perfect balanced and exactly the shape and length of his old limb. It felt as much a part of his body as his other arm, perhaps moreso, and the intricate inner workings were hidden beneath an armoured sheath upon which oaths of sacrifice had been inscribed in a copperplate script. It had been as much a reward as a replacement, and as much a gift as a reward.

Father Eligius had built it for him seven years ago upon his ascension to Clan-Champion.

His reverie was broken by a respectful cough.

"It is time, my lord."

Farran merely nodded, climbing to his feet. Chapter-serfs and servitor-attendants clustered around him, the tallest among them reaching only his chest.

He let fall his robe, and stood naked for a moment as they set to work, fastening the pieces of his armour into place, double-checking power-couplings were secure and joints sealed. They chanted in honour of the armour, listing the names of those who had worn it before Farran and singing to awaken its spirit from its dreams into battle-readiness.

Now they presented him with his weapons. His bolter, gold-edged and inscribed with Chapter dogma; his sword, an ornate relic passed down for millennia, and his gladius, plain and unadorned.  

Next they handed him a handful of frag grenades and slotted reloads into his backpack. One held out a miniature teleport homer and he obediently fell to his knee to allow them to affix it to his breast.

They began the closing mantra, and now Farran added his voice to theirs, making his battle-oaths as they blessed and witnessed them.

When they were done they pressed a piece of molten wax onto his shoulder and stamped it with a purity seal.

Finally they presented him with his helmet, their heads bowed in obeisance. When Farran clasped it into place he felt his armour sharing in his delight at their reunion. His own vigour ran down the nerve-junctions of his Black Carapace and he felt the reassuring strength of the armour flowing back into him, and with it confidence and surety. Without his armour, he was incomplete.  

Now he was a Space Marine.

***

Cardea had been a prosperous world, long ago. It had been settled before the Age of the Imperium and swiftly conquered in the early days of the Great Crusade, remaining loyal throughout all that followed and providing its tithe without incident for millennia. A peaceful and peaceable world.

Then the STC fragment was found, by chance, on a routine archaeological survey. Within a year, the fleets of the Adeptus Mechanicus had laid siege to the world and within a decade entire the population had been moved or purged and the great excavation-work had begun.

Within a century the fleets left the world a hollow, scooped-out gourd, a hell-world of volatile tectonics and blackened atmosphere. The original cities had long ago been destroyed, but some of the facilities built by the Adeptus Mechanicus had been built to survive this hell of their own creation. These had been abandoned over time, as the world had little even of mineral value, but the original remained as a shrine to the single design that had been found here.

It was a holy place and that such a dangerous and heretical ideology had taken root here was all but unthinkable. The servants of the God-Machine would not allow it to escape and they would see the whole facility destroyed before they let the taint spread.

The Iron Hands were perhaps the only Chapter the Adeptus Mechanicus could call an ally and it was for this reason, and for the presence of Father Eligius, that they had been summoned.

They were to attempt to recover the original STC document still kept within the facility, though the knowledge it contained had been copied a thousand times over, kill the Apostate and finally destroy the plasma reactors and therefore the facility itself.

They had another objective, more important to each of them then the mission they had sworn on their lives and their honour to complete. They would discover the ultimate fate of Father Eligius.

***

Farran was the last of the kill-team to reach the teleport chambers. It was always a disordered place, filled with spooling cable and thick with perfumed smoke, which failed to hide the sharp taste of ozone, from the censors carried by hooded acolytes. Ancient crystalline devices hung above the alcoves around the room, surrounded by the weblike wires and power-couplings of more recent centuries. They pulsed with light, though some had died long ago. They could never be repaired; such knowledge had been lost for as long as the Cult Mechanicus had existed. Eventually, though the adepts claimed - and desperately hoped - it would be at least another two millennia, this chamber would be entirely useless.

Chants were kept at a whisper –it was reverently quiet in spite of the bustle.

"You certainly took your time, brother," Aodh said, smiling.

"Brothers. How long before we are ready?" said Farran.

"I have Magos Serfinna's assurance it will be but a few moments, Brother Farran," said Vairya.

A robed figure leading a chant around a console above them confirmed this with a burst of machine-code.

Recognition runes began to appear on a corner of Farran's visor as his armour's spirit called out to those of its brothers. Kreios' rune blinked, brightening with each movement and growing dull whenever he was still. Despite the efforts of numerous artisans, his armour still had difficulty recognising a man without a heartbeat as a living being.  

Most of Kreios' time was spent as a Scout Sergeant, and he was one of the finest warriors and tacticians within the Clan. If Clan-Master Volos was to die, he was the only logical successor. That he led the mission betrayed its importance more than even the deployment of the Clan-Champion.

Another burst of machine code. The adepts were stepping away from their work, now, and the chant had changed.

The Rite of Initiation.

"Iron Hands. Assume positions," Kreios hissed over the vox.

Aodh sealed his helmet into place as each of the four moved into position.  The chant continued, now half-drowned by the thrum of powering generators, and Farran's visor darkened to shield his eyes from the light that filled the room .

"You know our objectives, brothers. It shall be my honour to fight alongside you. May we walk with the blessing of the Primarch and Omnissiah," Kreios said.

Farran closed his eyes as he heard the wail of the generators build to a crescendo, and suddenly the noise and the sensation of the floor beneath him was gone. There was no sense of gravity, or weightlessness... Simply nothing.

And then he felt gravity return, felt his feet slam into metal and opened his eyes. It was dark, but his visor auto-adjusted to low-light vision in moments. It also began to gently adjust the pressure within his sealed armour to match that of the underground facility.

He stood within a corridor, it seemed. Most of the glow-globes were broken or inactive. There was no sign of his bothers, though Farran's armour assured him that they were near. It was attempting to re-establish a vox-link, though currently it offered nothing but static.  

With a conscious effort Farran filtered out the noise, becoming aware of the sound of movement nearby, too clumsy and yet too soft to be any of his brothers. He unclasped his bolter, feeling his armour align itself with the weapon. A miniature targeting reticule appeared on his visor display.

There was a clamour, half binary-cant, half tormented scream, behind him and Farran span to face... something moving towards him, dead-skin stretched over a metal skull like a mask, long metal claws emerging from the skeletal remnants of hands. Though its movements were stilted it made a spirited effort to run.

Despite his revulsion, Farran did not hesitate for a moment. His bolter barked once and it crumpled, but now the scream had already been taken up by other, similarly broken, voices. Dark shapes began to emerge from the side-doors of the corridor.

Farran's lips framed a catechism of hate as he opened fire.

[Inquisitor Sargoth]

Farran's bolter roared as he tore apart the aged servitors that staggered towards him. His armour cried a warning and he span to face a skull-faced servitor that had been trying to flank him. He broke its neck in a single blow before falling to his knee and mopping up the last stragglers with disciplined bursts.

Farran moved instinctively so that his back faced the wall. There were far too many side-doors for him to defend this location, but as the static in his ears died and resolved into a familiar voice he knew he would have no need to.

"Brothers. Status report."

"Apothecary Vairya, reporting."

"Brother-Champion Farran, reporting."

"Brother-Sergeant Aodh, reporting. Contact; two servitor units. Terminating now."

"I also faced resistance. Hostiles converging on my position," said Farran.

"I've got a fix on you. You're not far from myself and brother Vairya – we'll converge on your position. Vairya, I'm sending coordinates to you now."

"And me?" said Aodh.

"You've been sent two levels deeper than the rest of us. Once we've regrouped we'll rendezvous with you. Find a secure position and hold it."

"Aye, sir," Aodh said, disappointment in his voice. No assault marine liked to be on the defensive.

"Moving towards you now, Farran. Contact, multiple targets. Moving to engage." Vairya said.

The sound of bolter-fire grew closer, perhaps drawing the bulk of the servitor-creatures.

One of them emerged to Farran's left, battle-damaged and apparently incomplete, as though raided for parts or perhaps partially reassembled. What little flesh remained was unhealthy and infected.

He smashed it into pieces before it had a chance to raise the heavy stubber built into its arm. His eyes lingered on the face – the expression had been one of pain.

His armour sensed movement and Farran turned to face Vairya, invalid target warnings chiming in his ears.

"Brother-Champion."

"Apothecary."

Without another word the two moved back-to-back.

"We expected more organised resistance than this," Farran noted.

"Just toys, aren't they?" said Aodh, disgust in his voice.

"Oh, I'm sure they've got a few surprises for us once they realise we're here," said Kreios.

"I hope so, Spectre."

The senior sergeant approached Farran, auspex in one hand, bolter in the other.

"Well met, brothers. Uploading map data to your armour now. I've plotted the fastest route to Aodh. Fall in."

Kreios took point, clasping his auspex into place on his hip and leading them from the corridor into a side-chamber.

Whatever this room had once been it was impossible to guess, but the death of machinery was clear. Cogitators, perhaps, or data-looms had been torn free from their housings, stripped and cannibalised until all that remained was naked wiring, shattered glass and discarded plasteek-cases.

"Heresy," muttered Vairya.

"The first of many, I'm sure." said Kreios.

None of them gave voice to the question that ate away at them from within.

Where were the adepts? What had happened here?

The facility was half-dead, dismantled and jerry-rigged. No doubt some conflict had occurred here, but no insurgency or even full-blown civil war could do this amount of damage.

"Encountering much stronger resistance, brothers," said Aodh.

"Logical. Our enemy is redirecting their forces to engage you, Aodh, because you are alone. The easier target."

Aodh laughed mirthlessly.

"We'll see about that, Vairya."

They had never seen eye-to-eye. In Vairya's eyes, Aodh was brash and hot-blooded while in turn Aodh dismissed him as cold and detached. Their deployment together might seem counter-intuitive, but the Iron Hands strived on conflict, encouraging rivalry between the Clans and even within them.

Farran walked through corridors without light, empty hallways, offices and shrines, desks and lecterns thick with dust. This level had been abandoned – perhaps the Apostate remained further down. Perhaps everyone had died in the months since contact had been lost and the servitor-armies were acting only out of instinct.

They paused at a sealed bulkhead that led to a lift-chute. It would be foolish to even consider summoning the elevator-cage.

Kreios nodded to Farran, who returned the gesture as his sword flared into life. He tore through the bulkhead, molten metal oozing around his blade, finishing the job with a brutal kick.

"I doubt the emergency ladder will support our weight, sergeant," said Vairya.

"Then we'll have to walk," replied Kreios, stepping through the opening and then downwards onto the walls of the chute itself.

Powered armour was designed to function in the vacuum of space and the sabotons incorporated powerful electromagnetic generators, primarily to hold marines in place in the event of decompression. Farran smiled as he followed, the servos of his armour audibly humming as they compensated for gravity. He did his best to soothe their pain and to ignore his own discomfort. Progress was slow, but the trio walked down two levels until they reached the bulkhead of level Tertius.

Farran offered his armour a short prayer of gratitude before plunging his blade down and burning through the metal. Disengaging the mag-strips, he swung through and landed heavily, muscles and armour relaxing as he stood upright once again.

Aodh was waiting for them, armour and claws flecked with blood. The corridor behind him was littered with bodies.

"Well-met, brothers," he said, with a smile Farran could sense even through his helmet.

The kill-team did not have time to enjoy their reunion – as though in response to the assault marine,  a voice echoed around them, carried by voxponders, comm-units and even the mortal throats of the few creatures still alive.

"Humanity is weak, flawed and yet bizarrely proud of its imperfection, going so far as to define itself by weakness. This is madness. This is lunacy. We are the future of humankind; the denial of humankind. Those who will not embrace ascension, who oppose and attempt to murder us, will be destroyed."

***

5.052.869.M40

Already the skirmishes were breaking out between her followers and those who remained loyal. Eligius knew that this was the last chance for any peaceful resolution before the entire facility broke out into civil war, but this was not had brought him here. He was not here to negotiate and it was not his duty to do so. Iphia had rejected the Omnissiah and this ultimate sin superseded even the mounting tech-heresies her followers committed in her name. He was obligated to end her, her and every heretek that dared to spit in the face of the Omnissiah.

And yet... Eligius could not lie to himself. He was more than prepared to kill Iphia, even if it meant his own death at the hands of her acolytes, but he had also come to listen to her. In spite of the teachings that echoed in his memory, the warnings of the Magii of Mars itself, he found her ideas captivating.

The Iron Hands had always been close to the Adeptus Mechanicus, a relationship the wider Imperium looked upon as unhealthy, even dangerous, due to a shared belief in the power of technology and knowledge and, crucially, in the strength of the machine over the weakness of flesh. Many Chapters saw their obsession with augmentation as almost sacrilegious, as though they disdained the gene-heritage of a demigod.

But they were wrong, Eligius knew. To become something greater than human - stronger, wiser, closer to perfection - this was the true aim of the Iron Hands ever since the shame of Isstvan and perhaps even before then. To distance themselves for the impurity and weakness of the human form, to constantly strive to improve their bodies as they did their minds, was a holy calling.

And She agreed.

Already her origins were becoming shrouded in myth and yet she had been reborn but few days ago. Adept-Logis Iphia had been young, but promising, and like many of her kind she had elected to undergo the Rite of Pure Thought.

Something had gone wrong. The procedure had purged her not only of emotion, of doubt, of illogic, but also of faith. She had decried the Omnissiah and the entire Cult Mechanicus as a superstition, a lie which held back the species from evolving into something greater. Her logic had been powerful, her arguments compelling– many of the adepts who had already undertaken the Rite were converted and they were not alone.

As she stepped into the light, Eligius knew he was honour-bound to kill her, but realised that on some deeper level it was his duty to understand just what she was becoming.