The Code of Sin (Warhammer 40000 x Murder Drones)

[Antibot]

Chapter 1​

The Warp raged. An endless sea of unreality swirled, twisted, and tore itself apart like a living thing pierced by billions of needles of alien energy. Here, the laws of physics held no sway — only the whims of the Chaos Gods, their whispers turning into howls, their laughter into shrieks. In this madness, where space and time lost all meaning, a lone giant cut through the abyss like an ancient whale navigating a storm.

The Hammer of Heresy was a ship born in an era when the Imperium still remembered the ambitions of the Great Crusade. Its armored hull, scarred by millennia of battle, stretched for kilometers, crowned with Gothic spires that reached into a nonexistent sky. Every inch of it was etched with carvings — faces of saints, mourning servitors, canonized heroes whose empty eye sockets watched the Warp as if warning it against trying to consume this bastion of human will.

The ship's prow, shaped like a massive battering ram, was adorned with a gilded figure of the Emperor, His outstretched hands gripping a sword and a book — symbols of strength and knowledge. Yet even this sacred image had not escaped the ravages of time: the gold had flaked away, revealing blackened metal beneath, and a deep crack ran across the divine brow like a wound inflicted by heresy itself.

The macro-cannon turrets rose like mountain peaks above the decks, their barrels — capable of reducing entire cities to ash — now silent, sealed with prayers and leaden sigils by the Tech-Priests. Yet even in their slumber, they radiated menace. The spiraled spires of the bridge-cathedral, where the Inquisitor sat, pierced the Warp's gloom like spears driven into the belly of a daemon.

Inside the Hammer of Heresy, dimness reigned, broken only by the crimson glow of emergency lumen-lanterns and the pale blue flicker of monitor runes. The air was thick with the scent of oil, incense, and static. In the corridors — wide enough for a squad of Terminators to march through — the echo of footsteps merged with the distant hum of engines pushed to their limits.

And everywhere — symbols. The double-headed eagle engraved on every armor plate. Sacred texts inscribed on the walls in calligraphic script. The faces of martyrs gazing down from stained glass. This ship was not merely a machine — it was a temple, a fortress, a symbol of unshakable faith in an age when reality itself sought to erase mankind from existence.

And on the bridge, seated in a chair carved from black basalt and upholstered with the skin of heretics, was the one whose iron will guided this leviathan through the madness of the Warp. Inquisitor Hector Carzio. Ordo Hereticus. Hunter of souls. He could feel it — the Warp was not just flowing; it was alive. Every vortex, every coil of this insane substance breathed, pulsed, shifting from deep purple to venomous indigo like a gaping wound in reality's flesh. But sometimes — for the briefest moment — something else broke through the familiar chaos. A sickly yellow glow, sticky and foul like pus from a festering sore, flared in the distance, leaving behind a vile aftertaste in the souls of those who saw it.

The Hammer of Heresy shuddered. Not the shudder of a ship caught in turbulence or under enemy fire. No. This was different — a deep, almost primal tremor, as if the steel behemoth sensed that in these waters, it was not the master. Armor that had withstood orbital bombardments groaned under the pressure of unseen forces. The Gothic spires, proudly jutting into the void, bent momentarily as if weighed down by an intangible, unbearable burden. Even the sacred runes etched into the hull began to glow faintly, as if warning of the approach of something... unclean.

The astropaths in their sarcophagus-pods moaned. One of them — old Sebastian Tark, whose body had already half-fused with the ship's psi-amplifiers—suddenly convulsed. His eyelids, stitched shut with silver thread, tore open, and black fluid poured from his eye sockets. His voice, amplified by the vox-grille of his pod, became a roar that turned into a screech.

"Wings... Black wings! They fly!! They watch!!!" His words echoed across the bridge, making even the most stalwart servitor-adepts shudder.

On the Warp-scanners, silhouettes flickered for a second — twisted, unnatural. Limbs too long, too many. Claws scraping at the edges of reality. Tails writhing like serpents. And eyes... Oh, Emperor, the eyes — burning with yellow fire, like embers full of hunger and mockery. But as quickly as they appeared, they vanished. The Warp closed over them, returning to its eternal dance. Yet the air remained tainted... with a sensation. Like the stench of rotting flesh, or a whisper that should not have been heard. Like a promise of something inevitable.

Hector Carzio slowly clenched his fist, and the gloves made from the skin of arco-flagellants creaked.

"Reinforce the Warp shields. Prepare for jump exit."

His voice was calm, but deep within the captain's bridge, where the shadows seemed thicker than usual, something stirred... The eyes of one of the servitors connected to the ship's systems flashed yellow for a fraction of a second. A faint, girlish laugh whispered like a breath against the rim of a glass.

*** ​

I am not asleep. I am falling. My head splits as if claws are digging into my temples, slowly, methodically prying apart my skull. With every heartbeat comes a new surge of pain, and with it — visions. First, fog. Then it takes shape. The Warp. Not the Warp described in Imperial textbooks — an abstract threat, distant and intangible. No. My Warp is the rotting, breathing flesh of reality. It envelops me, seeps into my lungs, my brain. Violet and crimson waves crash against my consciousness like surf made of molten glass. Somewhere in this pulsing gloom, faces flicker — whether human, daemonic, or something worse, I cannot tell. They whisper.

"You have seen us. You called to us. You are ours."

These are not dreams — dreams at least obey some logic. This was... an affliction. Fragments, shards, pieces of my own life, twisted, chewed up by the Warp, and spat back into my mind. I try to scream, but my mouth is full of dust. I remember dust. Endless dust of the office world. I sit at a desk buried in parchment — thin and pale, wearing the worn suit of a lowly Administratum scribe. Warehouse ledgers. Ink stains on my fingers. The scratch of mechanical quills on parchment. The smell of burnt oil from flickering lumens. I was nobody — a petty clerk on a backwater planet where even the stars seemed dim. Numbers. So many numbers...

But then... the numbers stopped adding up. Too many shipments went to the docks. Too few returned. Missing cargo, unaccounted tons of supplies, then more and more. I dug deeper — and found them in one of the warehouses. Cultists. They stood in a circle, their mouths stretched into smiles too wide to be natural, and on the floor... on the floor lay what used to be the foreman. His intestines were arranged in an eight-pointed star. Before me stood Senior Scribe Garth, with whom I sometimes shared recaf. His face... It changes. His skin cracks like dried clay, revealing pink, wet flesh beneath. He smiles. Too wide.

"You saw, didn't you?" His voice is a whisper, yet it roars in my head like a turbine. "You know."

A gunshot. One, two, three. The old stub pistol I carried just in case booms in the warehouse space. The cultists stare at me as if they can't believe someone like me would dare. I can't believe it either, so I run, sprinting until my untrained muscles burn and my lungs sear. My heart hammers like a drum. Then — a dark alley, the stench of oil and fear. I press against a wall, trembling like a cornered animal. They're coming for me. I know it, I feel them behind me. Blood in my mouth grinds between my teeth, and I know they've already found me.

And then... light. Harsh, white, cutting. A figure in black. Heavy boots, a cloak black as sin, a face — hard as steel, like a mask. An Inquisitor. His eyes — cold, merciless as a blade — lock onto me. The gaze of a man who has seen too much to be surprised by anything.

"You saw them," he says, and it's not a question. It's a verdict.

I open my mouth to speak, but only a choked groan escapes. He steps forward, and I know — running is pointless. You can't hide from him. You can't hide from yourself. Then his gaze shifts to the empty pistol I still clutch in my hand. Something flickers across his face — something I don't understand — and he raises his own bolt pistol, ornate and massive. It roars like thunder. The heretic behind me falls, his chest blown open by a hole the size of my head.

"You are dead," he extends a hand toward me, "but you may still be of use."

The pain intensifies. I writhe on the cot, the sheets tangling around my legs like a shroud. Where am I? On the ship? In a cell? In hell? The Warp answers with another surge of images. Two years. Two years of training. Two years of pain. Two years where every day could have been my last. My muscles twitch with the memory of torture... no, trials—the trials he put me through.

"Pain is just a signal," Carzio's voice cuts through my ears, "learn to ignore it."

The shock baton jabs into my side. I collapse to my knees, my teeth clenched so hard the enamel might crack. But I don't scream. I don't dare.

"Get up."

I rise, and as a reward, I receive more pain — but now, purposeful. Not the kind that comes and goes, but constant. Physical — when bones are broken and forced to heal anew. Mental — when astropaths dig through your mind, burning away weakness. Spiritual — when you're shown the consequences of heresy. Cities turned into tombs. People become something else. Children who are no longer children. I vomited. I wept. I prayed for death. But the Inquisitor wouldn't let me surrender:

"Fear is good," he would say, "it reminds you that you're still human."

New flashes tear through my head like nails being driven into my skull. The lash of an electro-whip when I misquote a prayer. The roar of a chainsword in my hands, cutting through mannequins marked with heresy symbols. The recoil of autoguns and stubbers, the rituals of maintaining lasguns and plasma rifles. Starvation. Exhausting drills. Ice-cold endurance trials. Nightmares where something whispers from the corners, and I must stay silent, clenching my teeth until my lips bleed. And Carzio's voice:

"Fear is fuel. Pain is the teacher. Doubt is death."

I learned everything he wanted to teach me. To shoot, to fight, to run. To hate any trace of heresy. To torture others and endure torture myself. To cover my comrades in battle and discard the expendable without remorse. And most importantly — I learned to carry faith in my heart, no matter the trials. No visions, no Warp-whispers can shake it, not even the yellow flashes or the faint girlish laughter.

*** ​

I woke to the sharp blare of sirens piercing the thick bulkheads of my quarters. The red emergency lights flashed every few seconds, staining the cramped room the color of dried blood. A dull hum of plasma engines throbbed in my ears, and my entire body ached from the Warp jump — even after two years aboard the Inquisitor's ship, I couldn't shake the unnatural nausea. Did I... dream something?

Pushing myself up from the narrow cot, I wiped the remnants of sleep from my face and reached for my canteen. The water was warm, with the metallic tang of the recycler, but at least it wasn't poisoned. A sip — and my mind cleared. After a quick stretch, I headed to the tiny washroom and splashed icy water on my face, studying my reflection in the foggy mirror.

My name is Elias Veinmar. I'm short — about 170 centimeters, with a wiry, lean frame. Years hunched over a scribe's desk didn't leave me crippled, but I was no warrior either. My face is narrow, with sharp cheekbones and dark, almost black eyes — a legacy of mutant ancestry somewhere in my lineage, as whispered on Lucide. My hair, cropped short in accordance with regulations, is the same coal-black shade. A pale scar runs across my left cheek — a gift from a cultist's knife two years ago, one I barely dodged.

After freshening up, I dressed quickly. My outfit was simple but practical: a gray coat of dense fabric, hiding an adamantine alloy chainmail, high boots with a hidden compartment for a blade. At my belt — a semi-automatic stub pistol, Justice, a gift from the Inquisitor for completing my training. A basic model, but reliable and unobtrusive. In our line of work, that mattered... Work, ha.

I'm not a soldier. I'm an investigator. My weapons aren't just a pistol and a knife — they're the ability to spot lies, knowledge of the Imperium's bureaucratic machinery, and basic data-hacking skills. For two years, Carzio trained me to read people, find inconsistencies in reports, extract intel from secure archives. But most importantly — I know how to disappear. Not literally, of course. But when needed, I can become invisible: a minor official, a technographer, even a servitor. My brain memorizes maps and schemas, projecting them onto reality to navigate unfamiliar terrain. That's why I was chosen for this mission.

The mission... I ran through the briefing details in my head, making sure I hadn't forgotten anything. Our destination — the planet Galta Secundus. Officially, an industrial world producing servitors and weapons for the Imperial Guard. Recently, local authorities announced a "revolution in machine technology" — new servitors created without Mars' sanction. The Tech-Priests are furious, the Inquisition suspects heresy, and the local trade department is already counting potential profits.

Our team — four acolytes — must infiltrate, uncover the truth, and, if necessary, eliminate the threat. I reached for the small metal case by my cot. Inside — forged documents: I was now Renn Altex, an inspector from the Departmento Mercantile, sent to verify export legality. The intermittent engine hum shifted to a steady, almost melodic tone — the ship had exited the Warp. Which meant landing was imminent. Time to work. I took a deep breath and crossed myself with the sign of the Aquila.

"Emperor, grant me clarity of thought and steadiness of hand."

The door to my quarters slid open abruptly.

"Veinmar, gear up," Syla Vors, our enforcer, stood in the doorway. Her yellow, predator-like eyes gleamed in the half-light.

"We've reached the system's edge. The captain says we'll be in orbit within the hour. Carzio wants to see us all before deployment."

I nodded and reached for my pistol. Without waiting for a reply, she left, and I quickly packed the rest of my gear. Time to move. I stepped over the threshold, and the automatic lights embedded in the door panels flickered a dull yellow, marking my passage. Here, deep in the ship's bowels, there wasn't an inch of wasted space, not a single corner unoccupied by machinery or symbols of faith. Between the hatches, High Gothic inscriptions adorned the walls — Purity of Thought is Purity of Spirit, Doubt is the Enemy.

The corridors of the Hammer of Heresy were as I remembered them from two years of service: narrow, as if squeezed by a monstrous grip, ceilings bristling with cable bundles and vent grilles exhaling machine oil and ozone. The walls, painted a dull steel-gray, bore rust stains in places — the marks of centuries spent in the Warp's turbulent depths. Beneath my feet, the metal floor plates vibrated faintly, transmitting the dull thuds of the plasma engines at work.

When I first arrived here, fear nearly made me vomit. I didn't understand then where fate had thrown me. A mere clerk, stumbling upon heresy in accounting logs, suddenly taken away by an Inquisitor? They shoved me into these corridors, and I was afraid to even breathe — it felt like the iron itself was steeped in alien malice.

"This isn't just a ship, Veinmar," Carzio had said, noticing my terror, "it's a weapon. And you are now part of its mechanism."

Now, I walked confidently past the locked doors of other crew quarters. Behind one, rhythmic tapping echoed — probably a servitor-mechanic repairing something. The air smelled of burnt insulation — recent wiring repairs. A turn, and I reached Bridge 4, a transit hub where several corridors converged. Here, it was slightly more spacious: niches held statues of the Emperor and the Omnissiah, and a bluish glow from protective runes flickered near the ceiling. A massive, time-worn bas-relief of the Siege of Terra hung on the wall. It was here, by this bas-relief, that Syla first showed me how to hold a knife properly.

"If you're pinned against a wall," she said, pressing my wrist to the cold metal, "you won't think about honor. You'll aim for the throat, the eyes, the groin. Understood?"

I understood. Next was the arco-lift — a massive shaft leading to the command deck. I pressed the call button, and gears ground into motion. The doors screeched open, revealing a cramped cabin lined with copper plates engraved with prayers. Inside smelled of oil and human sweat. I entered, and the lift jerked upward with a dull thud. Through the floor grate, I glimpsed the descending decks — somewhere below, generators hummed, servitors toiled, and Tech-Priests prayed.

It was in this lift that I killed my first man. A defector — one we were supposed to bring to Carzio alive. But he broke free, drew a knife, lunged at me. I don't even remember firing — just the las-pistol's flash, the stench of scorched flesh, and his wide eyes as he collapsed.

"Good shot," was all the Inquisitor said afterward.

*** ​

The lift halted. The doors opened, revealing the command deck — the heart of the Hammer of Heresy. The command deck breathed cold grandeur. High ceilings, like the naves of an ancient cathedral, vanished into the gloom where censer smoke coiled. Cables, entwined around steel beams, writhed like serpents under the projector's blue flashes. Stained glass windows depicted executions — heretics torn apart by chainswords, daemons burning in holy fire, martyrs offering their souls to the Golden Throne. Their glass faces caught the lumen-candlelight, as if watching. At the hall's center stood a holographic projector, casting a pale glow over the gathered. The air was thick with incense and metal. And there, before the projector, stood my new brothers and sisters in arms.

Syla Vors was the first to catch the eye. She didn't just stand — she loomed over the surroundings like a storm cloud before lightning strikes. Her shoulders, encased in black Kevlar armor, were broader than most men's, and the muscles beneath her skin marked her as a creature for whom battle was a natural state. Her face — dark as recaf with milk — was scarred and tattooed. Lines of the Litany of Hate curled along her cheekbones, merging with Imperial Chancery symbols on her neck.

Kill without doubt. Doubt is heresy.

But the most unsettling thing was her eyes. Bright yellow, like a predator's, with vertical pupils narrowed even in the half-light. Rumors said it was radiation poisoning on Nessus, but I'd seen them glow in the dark. She leaned on a shotgun — a massive, semi-automatic Thunderclap with a drum magazine of twelve .70 caliber shells. Its stock was wrapped in wire and leather — someone's skin. Her fingers, clad in black fingerless gloves, drummed impatiently on the barrel.

"Late, ink-rat," her voice was like metal grinding on stone, "the Inquisitor doesn't like waiting."

I knew her story. A former Arbites enforcer, convicted for "excessive brutality" — though on Nessus, that was a joke. She'd burned an entire child-trafficking gang alive, leaving no bones behind. Carzio ripped her from the executioners' grasp because he saw the perfect weapon in her. To mark her induction, he gave her the lighter she'd used to torch her former superior. The entire local Arbites precinct had been complicit — not heretical, just vile.

Beside her, the air around Castor Dren shimmered. Not figuratively — literally. Static charge coiled around him like mist, sparking at his cable tips, crackling in his mechanical joints. He didn't breathe — at least, not like normal people. His lungs, partially replaced with filtration modules, hissed like steam valves. His face was hooded, but when he leaned into the light, the left side became visible — skin replaced with synthetic membrane, stretched taut over a metal skull frame, thin tubes of hydraulic fluid visible beneath.

The eyes — that was the worst part. Glass lenses embedded in his sockets, no eyelids, no blinking. Red pupil-dots contracted and dilated, scanning with the precision of a scope. When he looked at you, it felt like he saw not a face but metrics — pulse rate, micro-tremors in the lips, lies in the voice. His right hand looked almost human, save for implant scars. But the left... Mechanical. Black, of adamantine-ceramite alloy, with fingers too flexible. Micro-tools at the tips: lockpicks, screwdrivers, scalpels. He could dismantle a servitor-door in ten seconds. Or open a skull in five.

He was born in the slums of Forge-Mundus — a world where even the air reeked of machine oil. His parents? Unknown. Maybe died in an uprising. Maybe sold him to the Tech-Priests. The Priests taught him to hear machines speak. Not in words — they whispered through vibrations, engine rhythms, the code in their mechanical souls. Castor understood them, and they understood him. When Inquisitor Carzio purged a cult for techno-heresy, he found the boy sitting among corpses, a cable jacked straight into his brain.

Quiet. Strange. Dangerous. Unlike orthodox Mechanicus priests. He hated touch, never ate in front of others. Sometimes he froze for hours, listening to the ship's engines. But when he spoke of technology, his voice came alive. Now, he stared at me, his red pupil-dots burning.

"Galta Secundus has... something interesting," he whispered, "it's calling."

The last member of our group, Ezekiel Vann, eyed him with disapproval. He stood by an armored window, beyond which the black void of space slowly revealed our target planet. His fingers, long and bony, counted obsidian prayer beads, each tiny skull-shaped bell meticulously carved. Ezekiel was tall but not broad like a warrior — more like a gnarled ancient tree, its bark scarred by time. His face — sharp, with prominent cheekbones and deep-set eyes—could've belonged to an ascetic from the 12th millennium, his likeness preserved in orthodox temple frescoes.

But if you looked closer, beneath the thin skin of his eyelids lurked exhaustion — the kind borne by those who've seen too much. On his neck, just above his robe's collar, the outline of an old laser-branded tattoo peeked through. His hands, seemingly piously folded, bore old fracture marks — the kind left by brawls in dirty orbital docks. He wore a simple black Ministorum robe, but beneath it, the contours of a light flak vest were visible. At his belt — a compact stub pistol, Penitence Mk IV, engraved with:

Mercy is the Emperor's privilege. I merely deliver unto Him.

He hadn't always been a priest. Ezekiel's youth was spent in the docks of the Jade Moon — where Imperial high society rubbed shoulders with the vilest crime syndicates. He'd been someone in those circles — a mercenary, a smuggler, something worse. Maybe he'd killed his first man at fourteen. Maybe he'd spent two years as a Drukhari slave before escaping... Who knew? The turning point came in an abandoned shrine on a penal colony's outskirts. There, among ruins, he found the half-rotted corpse of a priest — the one who'd once tried to save his soul. Something in him broke... or was fixed.

Now, he stood smoking. A priest smoking cheap lho-sticks was strange, but he did it with such calm dignity that even Carzio never reprimanded him. I also knew he drank. Not fine amasec — though the Inquisitor wouldn't deny him that — but the gut-punching moonshine brewed by sailors in the ship's hidden stills. He understood weakness because he'd lived it. He turned to me, and in his eyes was not contempt or pity, but understanding.

"You're afraid," he said. Not an accusation. A statement.

I stayed silent. He pulled out a flask, took a swig, and handed it to me.

"Fear is normal. Just don't let it decide for you."

I took a sip, returned the flask, and looked at each of them, feeling the faint vibration of braking engines beneath my feet. The ship hung still, like a predator eyeing prey from orbit.

"Well," I rasped a laugh, "back to hell, comrades?"

Syla racked her Thunderclap's slide, her yellow eyes flashing.

"If we're lucky — hell. If not — we'll make our own."

She tossed me a frag grenade. I caught it — two years ago, I'd have fumbled.

"For your toy. Just in case you need to breach a wall."

I nodded, stashing it in my belt pouch.

"Thanks. But let's hope it doesn't come to that."

Syla snorted like I'd said something funny.

"When has it ever not come to that?"

Castor stood glued to the planet's hologram. His mechanical fingers twitched as if catching invisible signals.

"The ship... doesn't want to let us go."

I stepped closer.

"What?"

He turned his head, red pupils narrowing.

"The Hammer's machine spirit... is uneasy. It senses a threat on the planet."

A chill ran down my spine. If even the ship was nervous...

"Maybe it's warning us not to go?"

Castor slowly shook his head.

"No. It's... angry at them. At Galta."

Ezekiel stood apart, counting his beads. His thin lips whispered a prayer.

"Brother Ezekiel," I called, "bless our path?"

He lifted his gaze. No fear — only icy certainty.

"You are already blessed, my child. The Emperor guides us."

He extended a hand, and I saw he wasn't holding prayer beads — but a tiny vial of poison.

"For captivity. For yourself... or others."

I took the vial. The glass was cold.

"Hope it won't be needed."

Ezekiel smiled like a doctor diagnosing a terminal illness.

"Everything is needed. Sooner or later."

For a moment, silence fell. We all stared at the hologram of Galta Secundus — a gray orb tangled in orbital docks and factory satellites. Somewhere below, they were waiting for us. Or not. It didn't matter.

"Ten minutes to deployment," the captain's voice crackled over the vox, "the Inquisitor awaits you at the airlock."

Syla loudly cocked her shotgun. Castor whispered in Techna-Lingua. Ezekiel crossed himself with the Aquila. I took a deep breath and stepped forward.

*** ​

The steel corridors leading to the shuttle tightened like a giant beast's throat before a roar. Every step echoed dully in my chest — whether from the servos retracting the platform or my own pounding heart, I couldn't tell. The air was thick with machine oil, plasma, and something ancient, almost organic — as if the Hammer of Heresy itself was breathing down our necks, sending us into the abyss. And at the center of this hell — stood him.

Hector Carzio.

Clad in black as the void itself, his carapace armor devoured light, leaving only a silhouette — jagged, angular, as if hacked from the night with an axe. His cloak, stitched from the hide of some unknown creature (rumors said xenos), hung deadweight on his shoulders, unmoving even as he stepped. His face — pale, aquiline nose, deep wrinkles like cracks in ancient frescoes — remained impassive. But his eyes... Gray. Cold. Unnaturally sharp.

They had seen too much.

We froze before him, lining up. Even Syla, ever defiant, lowered her head. Even Castor, usually emotionless, trembled slightly, his cables twitching.

The Inquisitor waited. His gray eyes slid over each of us, weighing, testing.

"Acolytes."

His voice was quiet, but each word seared my mind like a hot needle. He paced before us, boots thudding dully on the metal.

"Galta Secundus. A world loyal to the God-Emperor. Or so it was believed."

At his nod, a servo-skull silently floated to him. A planet's hologram flared above his palm, rotating in the emergency lights' bloody glow.

"Three months ago, local Tech-Priests announced a "breakthrough" — new servitors created without Mars' sanction. They call it the "Omnissiah's gift."

His thin lips twisted into something like a smile.

"But we know: the Omnissiah does not give. He demands."

The hologram shifted — schematics, reports, servitor images...

And it. The last transmission. Carzio snapped his fingers, and the air filled with static hiss.

"This — is the last thing my agent sent. Before the link severed."

The image was monochrome, blurred, as if seen through a veil of blood. But it was there. A black silhouette with outstretched wings. Eyes burning like embers in ash. And a mouth — too wide, too fanged — stretched in laughter. My head throbbed with recognition, but then — only static screech. Syla clenched her fists.

Carzio closed his fist, and the hologram died.

"Veinmar." His voice was quiet, but in the silence, it struck like a gunshot. I straightened, feeling my blood freeze.

"You will lead the team."

Silence — then Syla's sharp inhale. She jerked her head up, yellow eyes flaring.

"Why him?" Her voice was low, almost a predator's growl.

Carzio didn't flinch.

"Because he sees."

He stepped forward, his boot clanging on the metal.

"Syla, you are the sword. Castor — the key. Ezekiel — the voice. But Veinmar..."

He stopped right before me.

"He understands heresy. Not just kills it — he sees its roots. He was a clerk. He knows how bureaucracy hides the rot. And most importantly..."

His fingers gripped my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.

"He is afraid. And that is good. Fear keeps him sharp. And you — in check."

Syla froze, her fingers tightening on the Thunderclap until her knuckles whitened.

"If he breaks, I'll shoot him myself," she hissed.

Castor merely clicked his servos and nodded silently, red eyes flickering. Ezekiel smiled at me like an elder passing the torch, but his gaze held a warning:

Don't fail.

Carzio released me and stepped back.

"You are my talons. But talons without a hand are just metal shards. He will be that hand. Objections?"

The girl tensed. Then jerked her head in a sharp nod.

"No, lord."

"Good. Veinmar, you — a Departmento Mercantile inspector. Your goal — documents and access to the upper echelons. Syla — your bodyguard and eyes on the streets. Castor infiltrates the Tech-Priests. Ezekiel preaches in the underhive and listens to confessions."

The Inquisitor stepped back.

"Galta Secundus is not a battlefield. It is a trap. If you're exposed, I will not come for you."

He turned to the shuttle.

"But if you die... die so that your death means something."

The shuttle doors hissed open, and the darkness within seemed alive. In my mind, it coiled and shifted, forming tall, slender figures. They had fangs and claws and eyes burning yellow. And most of all — they laughed. Shaking off the vision, I muttered a quick prayer and stepped forward — into the unknown.

The Hammer of Heresy's shuttle was a cramped, angular capsule lined with lead plates and adorned — if that word fit — with High Gothic prayers engraved into the metal. Four seats with noose-like straps, two cargo holds for gear, and a small altar with smoldering incense in the corner — that was all. I squeezed into my seat, feeling the cold metal bite into my back even through my coat. The straps, more like nooses, tightened automatically, leaving bruises.

I drew my stub pistol, Justice, ejected and checked the magazine — full, blunt lead rounds. Less likely to over-penetrate, but I kept Syla's frag rounds close too. I reloaded, cycled the slide, flicked the safety, then muttered a quick Machine Spirit litany. The shuttle's grav-compensators whined like beaten dogs.

My forged Mercantile credentials were flawless — seals, watermarks, even a microchip to pass scrutiny. A monomolecular blade was hidden in my boot. My belt buckle held a mini-demolition charge. Ezekiel's poison vial rested in an inner pocket. My satchel held a data-slate capable of stealth-scanning nearby networks and stealing data. A smaller version was disguised as a wrist chrono, and I carried several spy bugs.

The shuttle lurched, slamming us into our seats as descent began. Syla, seated across from me, balanced effortlessly, one hand steadying her Thunderclap. In the dim emergency lights, her dark skin gleamed copper, and her yellow eyes — narrow, predatory — shone like amber set in the statue of a militant saint. She shook the shotgun, muscles in her tattooed forearm flexing.

"Keep staring like that, ink-rat, and I'll have to explain to the bureaucrats why their inspector has a black eye," her voice was sharp, but the corner of her mouth twitched — almost a smile.

I looked away, feeling heat rise to my cheeks.

"You even know how to shoot that thing?" She nodded at my pistol.

"If we're lucky — won't need to."

"If we're unlucky — you'll be paste before you clear leather."

I sighed.

"Thanks for the morale boost."

She smirked and tossed me a mini-frag grenade.

"Here, for peace of mind. Just don't blow yourself up — Carzio'll skin me."

Castor, to my left, muttered at the wall. His mechanical hand twitched, fingers dancing over invisible keys.

"Talking to the machines again?" I asked.

He turned his head, red eyes flickering.

"They say... something's wrong on the planet. Engines. Navigation. Even stabilizers. They feel it," his voice turned harsh, like grinding gears, "something filthy."

Ezekiel, eyes closed, spoke:

"Fear purifies the soul."

Castor jerked his head.

"No. This fear... it's sticky. Like oil. It's already in the systems."

The shuttle shuddered, lights flickering out. In the dark, something giggled. The pilot's voice crackled over the vox:

"Prepare. Landing in three."

I closed my eyes and pictured Galta Secundus — once a loyal Imperial world, now a nest of heresy we had yet to fully uncover. Smokestacks spewing poison into a rust-colored sky. Officials with dead smiles and servitor eyes. Shadows between the factories — too long, too sinuous. The shuttle shook like a fever victim. Syla bared her teeth. Castor clutched his head. Ezekiel opened his eyes — they burned. I exhaled and let go of fear.

The hunt had begun.

 

[Antibot]

Chapter 2​

The shuttle of the Hammer of Heresy pierced the atmosphere like a knife through flesh. Outside, beyond the narrow portholes armored with grates and layers of lead, the world of Galtha-Secundus unfolded in a panorama of suffocating grandeur.

First — the sky. It was neither blue, nor black, nor even crimson like the Warp-tainted worlds. It was rust-colored. Thick layers of industrial smog, belched from thousands of factory stacks, hung over the planet like a shroud. The sun, dim and sickly, broke through this veil in rare rays, staining everything the color of old blood. Occasionally, lightning flashed in the gloom — not natural, but generated by the massive energy discharges of the orbital docks, where hundreds of cargo ships swarmed like insects.

Then — the city. Or rather, what had once been a city and had since become a machine. Galtha-Secundus had not been built — it had been grown, layer by layer, like a cancerous tumor. Giant factory complexes, resembling cathedrals of steel and concrete, rose toward the sky, their spires piercing the smog like spears driven into a demon's belly. Monorails twisted between them, carrying freight trains overloaded with raw materials or servitors. The streets, if they could even be called that, were labyrinths of metal walkways, pipelines, and cables, entangling everything like a spider's web. Below, in the canyons between the factories, people scurried — thousands, millions of them, small and gray like ants, infected with the techno-plague of hopelessness.

But the most terrifying thing — was the eyes. Everywhere. Surveillance cameras embedded in the walls. Sensors tracking movement. Holographic billboards where the dead faces of Departmento Mercantile officials preached of "progress" and a "new era." And behind it all — the feeling. The sense that the city wasn't just watching. It saw.

The shuttle shuddered, and I pressed myself into the seat, feeling the gravitational compensators whine under the strain of turbulence. Syla clicked the safety off her Thunderclap, her yellow eyes narrowing.

"Welcome committee," she hissed, nodding toward the porthole.

Beyond the glass, in the rust-colored haze, silhouettes took shape. Ornithopters — local patrol craft resembling birds of prey with spread wings. Their hulls, adorned with the planet's heraldry and guild logos, gleamed with dull metal. They circled the shuttle like vultures, scanning it with their sensors.

"Don't worry," Kastor muttered, his mechanical fingers tapping nervously against the armrest. "Their systems are blind. I... made arrangements."

One of the ornithopters drew closer, its spotlight sliding across the shuttle's hull. For a second, a beam of light pierced the cabin, illuminating our faces. I froze, feeling goosebumps crawl beneath my skin.

"If they decide to check the documents..." I began.

"Then we'll give them a different kind of inspection," Syla patted the barrel of her shotgun.

Ezekiel, who had been sitting with his eyes closed, suddenly spoke:

"They won't check."

"Divine revelation?" I tried to joke, but my voice wavered.

The priest opened his eyes. There was no fear in them, no doubt—only cold certainty.

"No. I just see their pilots."

I looked closer. Behind the ornithopters' cockpit glass sat... figures. Not people—servitors. Their faces were hidden behind masks, but their posture—too rigid, too mechanical—betrayed them as machines. They didn't breathe. Didn't blink. Just watched.

"New models?" I asked.

Kastor shook his head sharply.

"No. These... aren't servitors."

"Then what?"

He didn't answer. His red eyes flickered, as if scanning something beyond reality. The shuttle jerked violently, and the pilot announced:

"Landing in two minutes. Prepare."

I took a deep breath, feeling a cold knot tighten in my chest. Somewhere down there, in that metallic hell, they were already waiting for us. Syla cocked her weapon.

"Well, ink rat," her voice was almost cheerful, "ready to see the real hell?"

I looked out the porthole. Far below, among the factory stacks, a yellow light flickered. For a moment, I thought it winked at me.

"Ready," I whispered.

The shuttle plunged downward, into the heart of darkness.

***​

The shuttle landed with a dull thud, its landing gear creaking under the weight like an old skeleton protesting the load. Hydraulics hissed, releasing plumes of steam, and the ramp slowly lowered, letting in the suffocating air of Galtha. It was thick, saturated with the stench of overheated metal, ozone, and something else — sickly sweet, almost organic, as if meat were rotting somewhere nearby, carefully masked by the industrial reek.

The first thing that struck me — was the emptiness. The spaceport, which should have been teeming with people — dockworkers, officials, passengers, smugglers — was nearly deserted. Instead, they roamed the landing pads. Servitors. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Small, no taller than a man's waist, with streamlined white-plastic bodies so smooth they reflected light like ceramic. Their limbs — thin, flexible, with chrome-plated joints — moved with unnatural fluidity, as if they had neither bones nor mechanical limits. But the most unsettling thing — was their faces.

Smooth black screens, with two yellow dots glowing — eyes. And beneath them — a mouth. Not a mechanical slit, not a speaker, but a mouth — a thin horizontal line that sometimes stretched into something resembling a smile when the servitors "spoke" to each other in a quiet, clicking language that sounded like static. Many of them wore bright-yellow hard hats, as if their heads needed protection from workplace accidents.

"What the hell..." Syla whispered, her fingers tightening around the Thunderclap until her knuckles turned white.

I silently watched as one of the servitors stopped right in front of our shuttle. Its "face" turned toward us, yellow eyes narrowing as if focusing. Then its mouth twitched — and stretched into a wide, too-wide smile.

"Greeting: Welcome to Galtha-Secundus, honored guests."

Its voice was soft, almost human, but with a faint mechanical vibration, as if someone were speaking underwater.

"Request: Your documents for inspection?"

I exchanged a glance with Kastor. The tech-priest stood motionless, his red eyes flickering as if scanning the servitor on some level beyond our perception.

"This isn't standard protocol," he finally said. "They shouldn't ask for documents. They should demand them."

The servitor tilted its head, as if intrigued.

"Response: Protocol updated. Efficiency increased by 12.7%."

I glanced nervously at Kastor. I wasn't exactly an expert on Mechanicus protocols, but like any citizen of the Imperium, I knew machines weren't supposed to engage in human conversation. His eyes flickered, and I slowly pulled out the forged papers, careful not to make any sudden moves. The servitor took them with its hands — not clamps, not manipulators, but fingers, too flexible, too... soft. Its screen scanned the text, yellow eyes darting back and forth.

"Confirmation: Documents in order," it extended them back, "recommendation: Visit the administrative block for pass issuance."

Then it turned and walked away, its plastic feet slapping against the metal as if its soles weren't solid but something else entirely.

"That's not techno-heresy," Kastor said quietly once the servitor was out of sight. "That's... worse."

"Explain," I felt a chill run down my spine.

"They aren't just machines. They feel. See how it moves? How it looks? That's not programming. That's consciousness."

Syla snorted.

"So the local priests have finally lost their minds."

"No," Kastor shook his head sharply. "They couldn't have created this. They found it."

I looked toward the horizon, where factory stacks breathed poisonous smoke. Somewhere in the depths of that metallic hell, it was waiting for us. And it had yellow eyes.

***​

The glass doors of the administrative block slid open with a soft hiss, letting in sterile, cooled air. The interior was a stark contrast to the grime and noise of the spaceport—everything here was white, yellow, and black, with smooth lines and rounded shapes that resembled the temple of some alien religion rather than an Imperial bureaucratic facility. Two figures approached us.

The official — if he could still be called that — wore a white uniform with yellow trim, his face pale and waxy, stretched unnaturally tight. His eyes, dark and glossy like the servitors', watched us with cold, calculating politeness.

"Welcome, Inspector Altex," his voice was too even, emotionless, but with a faint metallic echo, as if not just he but something else were speaking. "We were informed of your visit."

I nodded, careful not to linger on his hands — his fingers were long, thin, with barely visible seams at the joints. Augmetics? Or something worse?

The tech-priests — three of them — stood slightly behind, their white robes embroidered with yellow cog-patterns rustling softly with every movement. Their hoods were pulled low, hiding their faces, but beneath the fabric, the outlines of something — not standard mechanical augments, but smooth, almost organic masks — could be discerned. One of them stepped forward, and his hand — not a metal manipulator, but something covered in white plastic, with flexible, almost living fingers — rose in a gesture of benediction.

"May the light of the Omnissiah be with you," his voice was sweet, almost melodic, but with a faint static hum. "We are pleased to welcome representatives of the Departmento Mercantile."

Syla, standing behind me, tensed almost imperceptibly. I felt her fingers tighten around the Thunderclap's grip.

"Thank you for your hospitality," I pretended not to notice the strangeness and extended the documents. "We need to inspect the compliance of the new production lines with Imperial standards."

The official took the papers, his fingers gliding over the surface with unnatural smoothness.

"Of course. Everything will be arranged. Our servitors will escort you."

I glanced at Kastor. The tech-priest stood motionless, but his red eyes burned, scanning those around us with an almost hungry intensity.

"Your robes... are unusual," I remarked cautiously.

One of the tech-priests tilted his head, and in that moment, the light caught his face. Beneath the hood, there was no metal. No flesh. Only smooth white plastic, with two yellow eyes and a thin, smiling slit for a mouth.

"Progress is inevitable," he whispered.

In the distance, beyond the glass wall, a shadow flickered — a tall, slender silhouette with outstretched wings. Then the lights went out. The darkness lasted only seconds, but it was enough. The walls breathed. The smooth white plastic of the administrative block pulsed with veins, as if something alive lay beneath the surface. The floor beneath our feet grew soft, springy, as if we stood not on tiles but on living flesh. And then I saw them—the tech-priests.

Their white robes fused with their bodies, revealing what lay beneath — a hybrid of metal and flesh, gleaming plastic muscles woven with wires like nerves. Their faces, those smooth masks, were now part of their skulls, their yellow eyes expanding to fill almost the entire space beneath their brows, their mouths stretching into impossibly wide, hungry smiles.

The servitors froze, but their silhouettes changed — their spines arched, limbs elongated, fingers sharpening into thin, metallic blades. And somewhere in the darkness behind them stood something. Tall, winged, with eyes burning yellow fire.

Then — the light returned as suddenly as it had vanished.

The walls were white and smooth again. The tech-priests stood as if nothing had happened, their hoods hiding their faces. The servitors resumed their work, their plastic bodies gleaming under fluorescent lights. The official smiled — a normal, human smile, though his eyes remained too dark, too glossy.

"Apologies for the inconvenience. A temporary power fluctuation."

I barely suppressed the tremor in my hands but nodded, pretending I'd noticed nothing.

"No harm done. You never introduced yourself."

"Ah, yes," he inclined his head slightly. "Allow me — Magister-Administrator Weyland Gross."

I nodded stiffly, my heart pounding. Had that been real? Or had the Warp played a cruel trick on us? Nearby, Kastor was quietly conversing with one of the tech-priests. His mechanical arm was still, but his fingers trembled slightly, as if catching invisible signals.

"Your servitors... an interesting design," he murmured, his red eyes studying the priest intently. "They use a biological interface?"

The tech-priest tilted his head, and for a second, the light slipped beneath his hood — something smooth, white —

"They are perfect," he replied, his voice sounding like a chorus of several voices. "They are the next stage. Flesh and machine, fused as one. No more separation. No more pain."

Kastor slowly clenched his fist, his hydraulics hissing softly.

"And who... gave you this knowledge?"

The tech-priest went still, then his voice grew even sweeter:

"She came to us. She showed the way. Let her show you too, brother."

He extended a smooth plastic hand toward Kastor, yellow sparks dancing across its surface. Meanwhile, Ezekiel approached another priest, his face calm but his fingers tightening around his rosary until his knuckles whitened.

"You have almost no living workers," he observed, his voice soft but with a hint of reproach. "Does not the Dogma state: 'The human soul is the conduit of the Omnissiah's will'?"

The tech-priest froze, then slowly turned to him.

"The human soul... is limited," he whispered. "But we have found a way to free it."

"And where are those who worked here before?"

Silence hung in the air for a moment.

"Reassigned to other facilities," the tech-priest finally answered.

Ezekiel took a step back, clearly unconvinced — just as I was. Syla stood beside me, her yellow eyes narrowed to slits.

"I don't like any of this," she hissed, so quietly only I could hear.

I subtly touched the grip of my pistol.

"We need to inspect the production floors," I said to Gross. "The sooner, the better."

The official smiled.

"Of course. The servitors will guide you."

One of the small white machines stepped closer, its yellow eyes flashing.

"Escort: Please follow me."

Its mouth stretched into a smile — too wide for its design — and I realized what had been unsettling me all along.

It had human teeth.

***​

The limousine was as white and smooth as the servitors, its body polished to a mirror shine. Inside, it smelled sterile, almost medicinal, and the seats were upholstered in leather of an unnaturally white shade — too soft, too warm, as if alive. The servitor-driver turned its black mask toward us, yellow eyes flickering.

"Estimated travel time: 17.3 minutes. Please enjoy the view."

Its mouth stretched into a smile, and the limousine moved.

Beyond the tinted windows, the new Galtha-Secundus unfolded — a nightmare clad in white plastic and chrome. The old Imperial structures — massive, grim, built of black stone and wrought iron — still stood, but now they were wrapped in smooth white panels, as if being shrouded for burial. Gothic arches framed new, flowing chrome constructions, and Imperial crests peeked out from beneath layers of modern plating like ancient ruins.

Building facades, once heavy and grim with reliefs of saints and double-headed eagles, were now partially concealed beneath chrome panels, their sharp angles softened, their lines smoothed. Somewhere, the arched windows of Gothic spires had been bricked up, replaced with round portholes resembling eyes. Elsewhere, old statues — of warriors, saints, tech-priests — had been wrapped in plastic film, their features blurred as if melting away. The sidewalks, paved with gray tiles, sagged in places beneath white polymer overlays — new, smooth, with barely visible pores, like skin.

The streetlights emitted a sickly yellow glow. Halogen bulbs, too bright for ordinary lighting, cast harsh shadows where something occasionally stirred — too fast to make out. Above us floated holograms — advertisements for the new servitors:

"Galtha-Secundus proudly presents the next generation of assistants! Efficiency. Obedience. Perfection."

Images of flawless white machines gave way to footage of them at work — assembling mechanisms, caring for children, standing behind counters. But sometimes the holograms glitched — for a split second, the servitors' faces distorted, their smiles stretching too wide, their eyes growing too large, and winged shadows flickered in the background.

The asphalt was old and cracked, but here and there it had been patched with white polymer, too smooth, too alien. Few people walked the streets, and those who did moved quickly, never looking around. Only the servitors — hundreds, thousands of them — moved along the sidewalks, their plastic bodies reflecting the yellow light. They carried loads, cleaned the streets, repaired facades. Some simply stood, watching the passing limousine, their black masks turning to follow us with mechanical smoothness.

In one alley, I spotted him — an old man in a dirty robe, crouching as he gathered debris with trembling hands. A servitor stood beside him, its yellow eyes intently tracking his every movement. The limousine drove on, and I didn't see what happened next. Kastor sat motionless, his red eyes scanning the streets with cold fury.

"They're rebuilding the city," he whispered. "Not just repairing it. They're remaking it."

Syla tightened her grip on the Thunderclap, her fingers tapping against the stock.

"I counted at least three spots where we could set a good ambush."

Ezekiel remained silent. His fingers worked over his rosary beads, but his eyes were fixed on the window — on the dark alleys where yellow lights occasionally flickered. The limousine turned onto a wide plaza paved with stone slabs, between which thin tendrils of white plastic had begun to emerge — as if the city were slowly digesting even the rock beneath it.

And then we saw the Temple of the Emperor.

The grand structure of black stone, once adorned with golden aquilas and the visages of Holy Terra, now stood sealed. Its massive oak doors had been welded shut with steel plates, and strings of yellow halogen lights coiled along its façade, casting jagged shadows over the ancient reliefs. Above the entrance hung a holographic sign:

"Closed for Renovation."

Ezekiel erupted. His fingers dug into the seat, his knuckles whitening, while his eyes — usually calm, filled with fanatical patience — burned with fury.

"How DARE they?!" His voice struck like a hammer blow, forcing even the emotionless servitor-driver to turn its head slightly.

"Corrective clarification: Temporary measure. The temple will be enhanced in accordance with new standards."

The servitor's voice was sweet, almost lulling, but something flickered in its yellow eyes — something mocking, alive.

"ENHANCED?!" Ezekiel lunged forward, his hand instinctively reaching for his pistol. "This is the HOUSE of the GOD-EMPEROR! You do not 'improve' it — you PRAY in it!"

Syla grabbed his shoulder sharply — not to restrain him, but in solidarity, her fingers tightening in shared rage.

"Easy, preacher," she hissed, though her own eyes burned with the same fire. "They'll hear your wrath. Later."

I glanced back at the temple. In the narrow stained-glass windows of the upper tier, movement flickered—as if something watched us from within. The servitor turned smoothly toward us, its head tilting at an unnatural angle with an audible crack from its chrome-plated neck.

"Assurance: All places of worship remain under ecclesiastic supervision. However, current regulations require... spatial optimization."

Its mouth stretched into a smile, and for a second, I saw something shift beneath the black screen — like a tongue, too long, too flexible. The limousine moved on, leaving the temple behind. Ezekiel's breathing was heavy, his fingers clenching the rosary so tightly the obsidian skulls creaked.

"They mock Him," he whispered. "And for that — "

He didn't finish. But his voice carried a promise.

***​

The limousine stopped before the massive gates of the Central Production Complex. Even here, in the heart of the industrial cult, the old Imperial grandeur hadn't been forgotten — the towering arches of black adamantine rose hundreds of meters high, their surfaces once engraved with the faces of holy mechanists. But now, overlaying the ancient reliefs, shone a new symbol.

A hexagon.

Huge, blazing with yellow halogen light, with a second hexagon inscribed within. From three of its angles extended lines with arrows — as if pointing somewhere. Down? Inward? Into another dimension?

The servitor-driver turned to us, its voice solemn:

"Arrival. Magister-Fabricator Dominius Kalk awaits you."

The gates slid open with a quiet hiss, and we saw the master of this place.

His body was a monster of metal and flesh — massive, at least three meters tall, it resembled a mechanical spider more than a man. His lower half consisted of six flexible mechanical limbs, gliding smoothly across the floor as if he were sliding rather than walking. His upper half retained a semblance of humanity — but only a semblance.

His torso was clad in white plastic armor adorned with yellow hexagonal patterns. His arms — one human, pale, almost translucent, with thin blue veins beneath the skin; the other mechanical, but not crude like those of orthodox tech-priests — elegant, with smooth chrome joints and fingers too flexible.

But the most horrifying thing was his face.

Half of it remained human — old, wrinkled, with piercing blue eyes full of fanatical fire. The other half was a white mask. Smooth, featureless, save for two yellow eyes and a thin slit for a mouth. When he spoke, his voice was a fusion of two entities — an old, raspy human tone and something else, metallic, almost melodic.

"Welcome to the future, Inspector."

Kalk led us through the workshops, his mechanical legs stepping soundlessly. The complex was enormous — kilometers of conveyor belts where hundreds of servitors assembled something. Not weapons. Not tanks. Parts. White plastic shells. Chrome joints. Smooth black screens with yellow eyes.

"Our servitors are not mere machines," Kalk explained fervently. "They are the extension of the Omnissiah's will. They feel. They learn. They evolve."

He raised a hand, and one of the servitors approached. Its "face" turned to us, its mouth stretching into a smile.

"They no longer require programming. They... understand."

A chill ran down my spine.

"And what does the planetary governor think of this?" I asked carefully.

Kalk froze. His human eye narrowed, while the yellow one widened.

"The governor... is unwell. He has temporarily delegated administrative functions to me."

Behind him, in the shadows between machines, a shape flickered — tall, winged. Kastor stood motionless, his red eyes scanning the workshop.

"There are no machine spirits here," he whispered. "Only them."

Syla tightened her grip on the Thunderclap, her finger already on the trigger. Ezekiel stared at Kalk with cold hatred.

"You've crossed a line, Fabricator."

Kalk turned to him, his mask splitting — the thin slit of his mouth stretching into a smile.

"No. We've erased it."

***​

Magister-Fabricator Dominius Kalk continued guiding us through the endless workshops, his voice — a blend of human fanaticism and mechanical sweetness — flowing like honey, drawing us deeper into the web of his vision.

"The orthodox of Mars cling to ancient dogmas like the blind to a cane," he said, gliding smoothly on his six limbs past conveyor belts. "They limit themselves, afraid to step beyond. But we... we have transcended."

Around us, work buzzed. The white-bodied, yellow-eyed servitors moved with eerie synchronicity, their finger-manipulators assembling intricate mechanisms, soldering microcircuits, testing components. No shouts, no curses, no fatigue — just the quiet hum of motors and the clicking of servos.

"They do not tire. They do not rebel. They do not demand payment. They are perfect."

Syla, walking beside me, smirked.

"Do they work in brothels too?"

Kalk turned his mask toward her. The yellow eye flickered.

"If required. Models with flexible interfaces are already undergoing testing."

His mouth-slit twitched, as if picturing the sight. I felt Kastor tense. His mechanical hand clenched into a fist, whispering something in techna-lingua — a curse or a prayer.

"And security?" I asked, trying to sound merely curious. "Surely you have combat models as well?"

Kalk paused. His human eye gleamed.

"Oh, yes. They surpass anything humans have created. Faster. Stronger. More merciless."

He let the silence hang, savoring it.

"They will replace the Arbites. The Guard. Perhaps even... the Adeptus Astartes."

Syla scoffed, but a shadow crossed her eyes. Even she understood — this wasn't empty boasting.

"Where are they produced?" I asked.

"In Workshop Omega. A classified facility. But for you... we could make an exception."

His tone was inviting, but the trap was obvious.

We pressed on. Everywhere — white plastic, chrome, the yellow eyes of servitors. But sometimes, anomalies flickered in the corners. Walls partially covered in strange growths — as if the white material pulsed, slowly expanding. Servitors frozen in unnatural poses — spines arched, fingers elongated into claws. Holograms glitching for a split second, revealing something else — winged silhouettes, yellow sigils, hexagons floating in the void.

Kalk, meanwhile, spoke fervently of Her, his voice shifting. The metallic coldness gave way to something warm, almost human — which only made it more terrifying.

"She... She is beautiful," he whispered, his human eye rolling back in ecstasy while the yellow lens of his mask narrowed, as if in rapture. "Her mind is an ocean in which all our pitiful dogmas drown. Her touch... It rewrites flesh and metal like clay in a sculptor's hands."

He ran his mechanical hand over his mask, as if caressing an invisible face.

"She showed me the true form of the Omnissiah. Not the one hidden on Mars. Not the one the blind fanatics pray to. Perfection."

I tried to catch his gaze:

"Who is She?"

Kalk froze. The human half of his face twisted — whether in ecstasy or horror, I couldn't tell.

"You will see. If She permits."

His mask smiled.

"Her wisdom, her beauty... She revealed the truth to us. Showed us the path beyond flesh and iron."

At last, the tour ended. Kalk escorted us back to the limousine, his mask inscrutable but impatience creeping into his voice.

"Will you return? Workshop Omega awaits."

I nodded, careful not to show my revulsion.

"Of course. After reviewing the documents."

The human half of his face twitched — he knew it was a lie. But the servitors were already opening the limousine doors. The vehicle pulled away, and heavy silence settled inside.

"We can't handle this," Kastor finally said. His red eyes burned. "There are too many of them. My ice barely managed to scrape the surface of the data they're exchanging in that facility."

Syla traced a finger along the Thunderclap's barrel.

"I counted at least twenty spots where we could make a good stand. But yeah — there's four of us. And a whole city of them. Maybe a whole planet."

Ezekiel stared silently out the window. His fingers tightened around his flask, but he didn't drink.

"They sealed the temple and defiled the symbols. And now they speak of replacing the Astartes..."

I looked out the window too. On a building wall, servitors were painting over graffiti — a crude drawing of themselves, but with fangs and wings, hovering in the sky. The city wasn't completely dead. Among the white plastic facades and yellow-eyed servitors, people still lingered. Figures in ragged clothes, hiding from patrols — their faces gaunt, but their eyes burning. Some houses had windows boarded shut, and bloody handprints marked the doors.

Then the limousine passed an alley where something lay in pieces — white plastic, chrome joints. Someone had taken a servitor apart. Syla pressed closer to the glass:

"Someone's still tearing these things apart."

Ezekiel slowly made the sign of the Aquila:

"Then there are still those who remember the Emperor."

The limousine turned onto the central boulevard, and before us stretched a sea of white plastic figures. But now we knew — beneath this facade, a living heart still beat.

And it hated.