Entombed
SARCOPHAGUS CONNECTED. . .
The words imposed themselves over Vercingetorix's eyes, a vulgar green light interrupting the gentle blackness of sleep. He tried to rub his eyes but found his arms were immobile. A voice cut through the confusion.
Are you awake, my companion? I am We once more.
. . .
AUTOSENSES ENGAGING. . .
The green script had changed, but around Vercingetorix's head, all was darkness. He felt warm and wet and his muscles were relaxed.
I issued a mild stimulant to combat the disorientation. Amniotic fluid concentrations: Anti-inflammatory 2 parts per thousand. Stimulant 5 parts per million. Muscle relaxant 3 parts per million. Nutrient solute 5 parts per thousand. Flesh preservative 10 parts per thousand. Remaining volume saline amniofluid. Are you awake, my companion?
. . .
AUTOSENSES ENGAGED.
. . .
The audiovox was the first sense to respond. Vercingetorix heard the clatter of feet and the rumble of promethium combustion engines around him. Beneath the commotion was the subtle hum of a gellar field.
Are you awake, my companion?
His ocular interface was next. Cables relayed data from the visor of his sarcophagus to his sightless eyes, which translated raw color into coherent shapes.
"I am awake, Spirit. Do my brothers need me?"
It must be so, my companion, for I am We again.
Air scoops took in samples of the surrounding atmosphere. Promethium fumes in abundance. Machine oil. The sacred incense of the Martian cult. Human respiration and perspiration. All the characteristic smells of the Strike Cruiser that had been his home for the last three months, though he had slept through that time without stirring.
CONNECTING MOTIVE SYSTEMS...
A crane hoisted the Dreadnought hull from the ground as the Techmarines' servo-arms lifted the bulky metal legs to their mounting brackets.
"Where are we, Spirit?"
We are aboard Strike Cruiser Spear of Lucifer, my companion. Warp transit time 93 days, 15 hours, 44 minutes standard. We are now approaching Imperial world Pacem.
Tactile senses were always the last to arrive. The sarcophagus was ill-equipped to translate the crushing power of a huge fist or the recoil of autocannons as they spat vengeance into the foe. The only reliable tactile sensations were those felt by the pilot interred in the sarcophagus. The gentle currents of amniotic fluid, the flow of electrons through connective cables and electronic interfaces... and of course, the pain.
"Spirit, my hearts ache."
Understood, my companion. Adjusting anti-inflammatory dosage. Concentration now 5 parts per thousand.
A cool, soothing sensation washed over Vercingetorix's shattered body. There was very little flesh left, but the meat that still clung to his frame was fragile and tender. Pain was a constant companion to Vercingetorix, a reminder of his weakness.
CALIBRATING FIBRE BUNDLE TENSION. ENGAGING AMBULATORY TEST. . .
A HUD appeared before Vercingetorix's eyes, displaying informational readouts about hull integrity, motive function, autosense relays, and other vital operating statistics. He concentrated, and the HUD faded to 90% translucency.
...
LEFT LEG...
...
RIGHT LEG...
...
Vercingetorix felt the Dreadnought's weight shift as he tested his legs' motive functions. Servomotors whined and fibre bundles sang with tension at frequencies too high for normal human ears. Not for the augmented senses of the adamantine sarcophagus.
Your left leg is not sensitive enough, my companion. It will slow you in battle. Correcting fibre bundle tension 2% positive.
ADJUSTING TENSION...
The warrior swung his legs again, content with the responsiveness of his body. He sensed the Machine Spirit's pleasure as he was lowered to the ground.
"It is good to have a body once more. These interminable hours of uselessness irk me."
I concur, my companion. Your absence is unpleasant. It brings much good that you are again We.
. . .
. . .
MOTIVE SYSTEMS OPERATIONAL. . .
SELECT ARMAMENTS. . .
After a few moments of thought, the spoke, his vox projecting a rumbling bass that cut through the noise of the hangar in which he stood.
"Give me my hands, Brothers. I wish to feel the life draining from my foes. I wish to know the joy the Primarch knew when he crushed his enemies."
The lead techmarine attending him motioned to two others, who used their mechanical harnesses to lift first one massive limb, and then the other, to the sides of the Dreadnought. Across the hangar from Vercingetorix, another Dreadnought was being outfitted with a pair of linked autocannons. He recognized the body as belonging to Revenant Eudorus. Eudorus was the youngest Dreadnought in the strike force, having spent a mere forty years entombed. Vercingetorix was glad that the two would not be dropping side by side. He questioned the younger warrior's wisdom in battle.
. . .
. . .
CONNECTING ARMS TO FRAME. . .
. . .
. . .
ARMS CONNECTED. . .
Vercingetorix strove to clench his fists, but his machine did not move. He felt an odd sensation as he tried to flex muscles that would not respond.
"I cannot feel my arms, spirit."
I understand, my companion.
RUNNING DIAGNOSTICS . . .
. . .
"I had a dream, Spirit."
During Our absence?
"Yes. In my dream, I was of flesh, and I partook of fleshy pleasures. I ate heartily, and drank my fill. I breathed air once more."
I cannot conceive your words, my companion. I do not know of fleshy things.
ERROR LOCATED. NEURO-LINK INTERFACE CONNECTOR XVII NOT FOUND. SUMMONING SERVITOR. . .
"I abhor the weaknesses of the flesh, and yet I must confess I felt joy in my dream. Joy in eating, in breathing, and in all the frailties that flesh is heir to. Joy even in the peace of a field unknown to soldiers' boots." The spirit was silent. The background hum of the Gellar field faded, to be replaced with the tactile rumble of realspace engines. A vox-announcer blared three minutes to target.
SERVITOR HAS ARRIVED. REPLACING CONNECTOR. . .
. . .
. . .
It sounds horrible, my companion. To be idle when there is so much killing yet to do.
"Ah, but without peace, spirit, how would we know the joys of war? Without peace we would be no better than greenskins, who fight only for the sake of fighting. No, we fight so that we might know peace with the Emperor and the Omnissiah. We go to war that we might end all wars."
But, my companion, war is our calling. There can be no peace. How can you dream of things that are not?
RUNNING ARM DIAGNOSTICS. . .
. . .
LEFT ARM. . .
. . .
RIGHT ARM. . .
. . .
The HUD imposed itself once more over Vercingetorix's autosight. The diagnostic relayed instructions, and he tested his arm systems one by one, powering up the energy fields around his fists, heating up the magnetic containment coils of his plasma guns, and tilting the deflection plates on his shoulders.
"It is the gift of mankind, and the curse. We see things that are not, and we wish them to be. It is what drives us to reach beyond the furthest stars, and what makes us grasp for that which we should not have. Things which are not are the very substance of dreams."
This thing "dream" is strange to We. To see without autosight. To think when I am not We. You bear a terrible burden, my companion. I rejoice that I can assist We. I rejoice that I may join We in the fires of war.
PROCEED TO DEPLOYMENT BAY. POD 3. FIRST WAVE...
Vercingetorix strode to the deployment bay amidst several other Dreadnoughts and twoscore of his battle-brothers. The floor beneath them trembled at their passing. The rest of the Battle Company was en route to the drop zone in Thunderhawks already, but the drop pods would form the first wave of the assault. Beneath his massive metal feet, Vercingetorix felt the deck rumble as the Spear of Lucifer unleashed the might of its bombardment cannons on the enemy below. A serf with a flag directed Vercingetorix to his pod. Once he was on board several servitors scrambled to secure his inertia harness. His Machine Spirit communed with that of the Drop Pod. Over the vox network, the Steel Father chanted the Litany of Steel, and fifty voices joined him in supplication to the Emperor. The Machine Spirit raised a tactical map onto his HUD. Vercingetorix considered the distribution of forces, the lay of the land, and ambient conditions. He plotted the target points of his strike force and reported them to the Astartes Tactical Grid, and then relayed his destination to the Drop Pod's Inertial Guidance Engine.
"Now, Spirit, we return to the war that never ends."
There was a thump as his Drop Pod fired, and then Vercingetorix was falling.
Vercingetorix fell through the atmosphere, ensconced in the blackness of his drop pod. The hull glowed with the heat of atmospheric entry. Inside the craft, the only noise was the low hum of power fields and the oscillating noise of plasma guns warming up.
"Spirit, what is the output of the plasma coils? HUD indicates an excessive magnetic flux."
The coils are operating at 110% of normal capacity, my companion. We thought it prudent to build excess charge that we may fire uninterrupted upon landing. We will compensate for excess heat that it does not endanger the flesh of We.
SIXTY SECONDS UNTIL PLANETARY IMPACT. . .
The drop pod hurtled toward the ground at speeds upward of 150 meters per second. The violence of its passing tore a hole in the clouds and dim sunlight poured through the hole, casting a circle of light on the ground. In the sky around his vessel, dozens of other pods shredded the air as they passed, shattering the sky. Vercingetorix's massive body strained against the harness that held it in place. He flexed his massive metal hands and dimly remembered the sensation of skin against skin. That was another time, another life. Now his life was only war.
FORTY-FIVE SECONDS UNTIL PLANETARY IMPACT...
My companion, topography indicates high ground three hundred meters from designated landing zone, heading two-nine-six.
Vercingetorix consulted his HUD map.
"Confirmed. Adjust course."
It shall be so, my companion. This pod's spirit concurs with We. Updating Astartes Tactical Grid layout and transmitting new coordinates to Pod formation.
Vercingetorix could feel the machine spirit's agitation. It stimulated an increase in his adrenaline production. His mind stirred restlessly and his massive metal body shifted in response.
THIRTY SECONDS UNTIL PLANETARY IMPACT...
We feel the war song, my companion. We hear its words in your head. It is good for We. It is why We are.
Vercingetorix tuned his vox unit to the command frequency for the drop pod battlegroup. "Revenants Diocles and Horovus, prioritize Hammerhead-class hovertank, then select opportunity targets at will. Tactical Squad Gamedes, secure the bunker at battlegrid coordinate VIII Sigma-6. Tactical Squad Androi, relieve the PDF platoon marked on the ATG." Vercingetorix paused, consulting his map again.
FIFTEEN SECONDS UNTIL PLANETARY IMPACT. . .
"Devastator Squad Filos, you will secure Saint's Ridge and deploy long-range firepower to cover Androi's withdrawal to VIII Sigma-6. The Emperor protects." DEPLOYING RETRO THRUSTERS. FIVE SECONDS. . .
Vercingetorix felt the hammer-blow of the massive rockets beneath him as they strove to tear his vehicle free from the clutches of gravity. Restraints in his sarcophagus embraced his frail flesh, protecting him from the worst of the buffeting.
Revere the Omnissiah, my companion.
"The Omnissiah guides us all, Spirit."
THREE. . .
. . .
TWO. . .
. . .
ONE.
The pod smashed into the earth with a hellacious roar, crushing an unfortunate fire warrior beneath it. The doors exploded outward, flattening two more troopers who were not fast enough. Vercingetorix felt the tremors that shook the ground as his brethren landed amid the Tau lines.
"YOUR DEATH IS UPON YOU, ALIENS. TREMBLE BEFORE THE MIGHT OF THE EMPEROR!"
Vercingetorix strode down the ramp of his drop pod, fists crackling with distorting energy and the magnetic coils on his plasma guns glowing with barely-contained energy. He felt a surge of joy as the Machine Spirit awoke to its full fury.
Come, my companion. There is much death for We to bring!
--PART 2--