'These creatures are not dead.' Tsu'gan got back to his feet. Though the majority of their bodies were mechanised, even servitors required biological systems to maintain the integrity of their human flesh parts and organs. Without them they would not be able to function. 'It's like some kind of deep hibernation,' the brother-sergeant added.
'A defence mechanism, perhaps?' offered Emek, alongside Dak'ir who was just behind Pyriel.
Tsu'gan didn't have time to answer before Iagon spoke up.
'I have a life form reading, two hundred metres east.'
Looking in that direction, Tsu'gan grunted. 'Weapons ready.'
Together, the Salamanders followed the quietly flashing signal on Iagon's auspex.
Two hundred metres
east led the Salamanders to a large Mechanicus temple. Octagonal in shape and with an archway leading off from each of its eight sides, here the blending of machine and religiosity was even more prevalent. There were iron altars, burning brazier pans and devotional statues; cyber-skulls wound around the temple's ambit like eternal sentinels. An inscrutable sequence of ones and zeros, doubtless some esoteric equation relating to Mechanicus science, filled the plated floor. Huge, bulb-headed battery units spat arcs of electricity across flanged conductor fins fixed to a thin torso of metal. The ephemeral sparks filled the chamber sporadically, illuminating it in a harsh white glare.
In the centre of the room, encircled by the cog symbol itself, a robed figure knelt in supplication.
Tsu'gan was the first to enter, Honorious and Iagon at his back with weapons drawn. The figure seemed still to the brother-sergeant, though after he'd stared at it long enough he detected the slightest tremor of movement as it rocked back and forth. As it faced away from them, hooded by a heavy cowl, Tsu'gan was unable to discern its features or physical disposition. Combi-bolter readied cautiously, he battle- signed for his fellow squad members to fan out around him. In a few short seconds, the entire complement of Salamanders was in the large room and poised for immediate assault.
'A magos, by the look of it,' uttered Pyriel. His eyes flashed cerulean blue behind his helmet lenses and then died again. 'I see nothing,' he added in a hollow voice, 'Nothing but mental static. It is as if its mind is shut off somehow, or merely waiting for some trigger to ignite it.'
The Librarian looked to Brother Iagon, who was adjusting the auspex trying to get a more detailed reading.
'The biorhythms appear normal, all circadian functions are perpetuating as expected. Heart rate, respiration, they are consistent with a deep sleep.'
Brother Emek shook his head. 'It isn't sleeping, as such,' he observed, his curiosity coming through via the comm-feed. 'Its movements are acute, but exact and repeated, as if locked in some kind of holding pattern or mechanised catatonia. It is irregular.'
'Explain, brother,' Dak'ir returned.
'Magos are sentient: they are unlike servitors, dependent on doctrina wafers or pre-programmed work protocols. Cold and inhuman, certainly, but they are not slavish automatons. Some trauma must have afflicted it in for it to behave in this way.'
Tsu'gan had heard enough. He levelled his combi-bolter, taking careful aim.
Dak'ir put out a hand to stop him. 'What are you doing?' he snapped.
Though he couldn't see Tsu'gan's eyes behind his battle-helm, Dak'ir felt the heat in his fellow sergeant's glare.
'Listen to your battle-brother. It's a trap,' he growled, looking over at Dak'ir's gauntlet on his bolter stock. 'Step aside unless you want to lose your hand, Ignean.'
Dak'ir bristled at the slight. He had no issue with his lowborn heritage, he only objected to the way that Tsu'gan used it as a derogatory barb.
'Desist,' he warned him, through clenched teeth. 'I won't allow you to shoot a man in cold blood. Let me approach him first.'
'It's not a man, it's a
Still Dak'ir would not yield.
Tsu'gan's finger lingered near his bolter trigger for a few seconds more before he lost the battle of wills, lowered the weapon and stepped back.
'Proceed, if you wish,' he growled. 'But as soon as the creature turns - and mark me it will - I shall fire. You'd best be out of the way when I do.'
Dak'ir nodded, though the gesture went unheeded so was scarcely necessary. He glanced behind him at Ba'ken, who gave an acknowledgement of his own, though this one indicated that he was watching his sergeant's back. Before he turned away, Dak'ir noticed Pyriel looking on. The Librarian had observed and, doubtless, heard the entire exchange between the feuding sergeants but had said nothing. Dak'ir wondered then whether Pyriel's presence on this mission was more than merely simple command. Had Master Vel'cona, at Tu'Shan's bidding, instructed him to assess how far the enmity between the brother-sergeants went and act appropriately or even report back? Or perhaps there was another imperative guiding the Librarian, one related to his careful observations during the ceremony on Nocturne? Now was not the time to consider it. Dak'ir slowly drew his chainsword and approached the magos.
His bootsteps sounded like thunderclaps through his battle-helm as he walked tentatively towards the centre of the temple. As Dak'ir moved he panned his gaze slowly back and forth, interrogating the deeper shadows lurking in the recesses of the room. Cycling through the optical spectra afforded by his occulobe implants and combined with the technology of his battle-helm's lenses, Dak'ir felt certain there were no hidden dangers.
Within an arm's length of the kneeling magos, he stopped. Listening intently, he made out a susurrus of meaningless sound seeping from the supplicant's mouth. Close up, the tremors in the magos's body seemed more pronounced, though whether this was merely proximity or the fact that it had somehow detected his presence, Dak'ir was uncertain.
'Turn,' he said in a low voice. It was possible the magos was in some kind of trance or deep meditation. Perhaps he had lost his mind and was fixed in some catatonic state as Emek had suggested. In any case, Dak'ir had no desire to alarm him. 'Have no fear,' he added when a response was not forthcoming. 'We are the Emperor's Astartes, here to rescue you and your crew. Turn.'
Still nothing.
Dak'ir took a firm grip on his plasma pistol, still holstered for now, and reached out with the tip of his dormant chainsword.
The blade had barely brushed the crimson robes, when the magos turned, or rather its torso rotated as if on a gimbal joint, and it faced the intruder defiling the sanctity of its temple.
'
it barked, the chattering phrase it had been repeating made audible at last and vocalised in a grating, machine dialect.
Kadai's words in the dream came back at Dak'ir like a hammer blow and he almost staggered.
The phrase continued in an uninterrupted loop, speeding up and increasing in pitch and volume until it became an unintelligible whine of noise. Dak'ir brought his chainsword up into a guard position and retreated one step.
The sound of tearing cloth followed as the magos's robes flared out in shreds at his back and two mechanical arms sprang out like the pincers of some insect. A chainblade affixed to the end of
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