Deliverance Lost

Sitting beneath a scalding hot pipe, nestled between a reactor feed core and a colossal drive shaft, Omegon opened up a tripod on the bare floor in front of him and set upon it a small communications device about the size of his fist.

He keyed in a sequence of frequency ciphers from memory – cracking the security protocols of the Mechanicum’s on-world communications network had taken him five whole days of calculations – and began to set up the signal. He routed the transmission through fifteen different sub-stations, bounced the carrier wave from two orbiting stations, established three dead-end backtrace locations, including one on Deliverance for his own amusement, and finally entered his personal command code check.

As Omegon worked, he felt a measure of contentment. While he had no preference regarding the existence or extinction of Corax and his Legion in themselves, their removal, and the securing of the Terran tech which the Cabal had assured they would come in possession of, would be a step closer towards achieving the aim of the twin primarchs. If Horus were to be given the greatest chance of success, the Emperor had to be isolated. In their death, the Raven Guard would provide further means for that to be accomplished.

Satisfied that only the most diligent search would indicate he was hijacking the constant datastream that criss-crossed the Mechanicum’s new estate, Omegon finally punched in the frequency address of Iyadine Nethri, his contact within the White Iron guild.

The communicator crackled for a while and then an affirmative beep told the primarch that the co

‘Councillor Effrit, I was expecting contact earlier.’ Nethri’s voice was muffled from the many layers of compression and encryption through which the transmission was being squeezed. ‘I hope that nothing is amiss.’

‘All is well,’ replied Omegon. His voice as it would emerge at the other end of the line would be nothing like his own, modulated and warped several times over to eradicate any trace of his identity. ‘I had to confirm certain orders and agreements.’

Omegon had not had to do any such thing, but was masquerading as an intermediary rather than the orchestrator of this particular coup-in-waiting.

‘We are ready to make our report to the revolutionary council,’ said Nethri.

‘Go ahead,’ said Omegon, smiling. He had created three different cells, one for each of the guilds already sworn to his cause, and while he waited, intelligence from the Alpha Legio

‘The storage bays at Pharsalika have been emptied of their usual promethium consignments. We are investigating to what purpose. Coldron Diaminex has been promoted to Vice-Regent of the Augmetical Society. He was one of the most vocal political opponents of the Imperium before compliance.’

Omegon continued to listen as more pointless trivia was rambled out to him by Nethri, until one particular piece of information piqued his curiosity.

‘Please repeat that last section,’ he said.

‘Output from manufactorum thirty-eight has been re-routed to manufactorum twenty-six, councillor,’ Nethri said again.

‘Confirmed,’ said Omegon. Manufactorum thirty-eight had been employed since the coming of the Raven Guard in the construction of power armour energy conduits. That the factory had ceased production was intriguing, and ran counter to Omegon’s expectation. He would have thought that all elements of armour production would have increased since the massacre, but the opposite was proving true. For the last eighteen days, production was being scaled down.

‘Any reason given as to why this has happened?’ he asked.

‘We are not sure, councillor. There has been an increase in astrotelepathic traffic through the Cortex Spire, and I have heard gossip that a new armour design is being awaited.’

‘Understood,’ said Omegon. He checked the passive interference monitor again. There was still no sign the transmission had been detected. The primarch could not bring himself to listen to the rest of the agent’s interminable report and so asked for the only piece of information he considered pertinent. ‘What news of the Raven Guard? Is there any sign of Corax?’

‘There is no news concerning the usurper, councillor,’ replied Nethri. ‘Current reports show only those ships and perso

‘Very well. Please submit the rest of your report by standard data packet. Ending transmission.’

He cut the link and set about dismantling the maze of communications loops and checks he had erected. While he did this, he used his Legion transmitter to contact Verson. The operative answered within moments.

‘We need an operative inside manufactorum thirty-eight,’ he said.

‘Understood,’ replied Verson. ‘I’ll have someone in place by moonfall.’

There was no need to say anything further and the communicator buzzed and fell silent.

Having completed his shut-down, Omegon dismantled the communicator and stowed it in a hip-sack that he slung onto his belt as he stood. He wore the red robes of a Mechanicum acolyte, and put on a silver and pearl mask to conceal his face before pulling up the gold-trimmed hood. Amongst a populace that contained vat-grown slaves, half-machine servitors and the augmetically-enchanced, Omegon’s size would not be worthy of remark. Even so, when forced to move openly, he travelled only during the ’tween-shift hours and through the areas of least traffic. It was better to be certain than sorry.

It was time to quit his uncomfortable environs and move on to the next safe area. Two days was long enough to be staying in one place. He already had his next location in mind.

SEVEN

Servant of Terra

To the Mountain

Hold Fire

MARCUS VALERIUS BLINKED hard, his thoughts clouded with a vision of a golden panorama and the echoes of a resonant voice whose words he could not quite understand. His temples throbbed painfully and his eyes ached for some reason he could not fathom. The voice in the praefector’s head changed, becoming more mundane and insistent, close at hand.

‘Are you all right, praefector?’

Blinking again, Valerius focused on the man in front of him. It was Pelon. After-images of golden eyes faded from memory, replaced by the manservant’s plain features.

‘Yes, I am fine,’ said Marcus, rubbing his brow with his knuckles. He turned and looked out of the metres-thick plasglass at the ship tethered alongside the viewing gallery.

His strange daydream becoming more unreal with each passing second, Marcus felt a moment of pride as he looked at the Servant of Terra III, lit by the dock lights against the shadowed orb of Terra. His new command, it was nothing more than a messenger cutter, smaller than a destroyer, but still large enough to boast a warp-capable engine. His requisition had been fast-tracked through the station’s official cha

‘The shuttle will be here in five minutes, praefector,’ said Pelon.

Valerius turned his head and saw his manservant being followed by a motorised trolley, steered by the half-form of a servitor. Several chests and bags were piled on the bed of the trolley.