Lost and Found (Warhammer 40k SI)

POV: Archmagos, Nocta Seraphex-9 of Mars

Archmagos Nocta Seraphex-9 of Mars sat behind a sprawling desk drowned in cogitators, servo-locked dataslates, and flickering monitor arrays. At its center, a suspended archeotech holographic display poured a constant cascade of data across his augmented vision – political readouts, fleet telemetry, and fractured communiqués layered in disciplined streams of machine-readable clarity.

His attention, however, was elsewhere.

The political landscape of Cypra Mundi had grown increasingly volatile since the Forum, each factional shift a new variable in an already unstable equation. Worse still were the lingering irritations of xenos interference following the arrival of the Drakios fleet – an intrusion that had complicated already delicate negotiations and drawn unwanted scrutiny across multiple Ordo channels.

His inability to contact Holy Mars continued to vex him dearly.

He does not react outwardly. Such a reaction would be inefficient.

Instead, he processed, he calculated, he compartmentalized. The thoughts of lesser minds churn in predictable patterns, but even so, their unpredictability must be accounted for. Somewhere within the vast lattice of possibility, outcomes begin to converge – and diverge – each requiring quiet adjustment.

His fingers remain still upon the desk while the machines around him continue to thrum in silence.

The Spider had put him on the spot during the forum. He had thrown the lauded name of Sacred Mars behind the ancient lost anomaly that was Nicole Cavalerio. An anomaly that was en route to his personal forge palace.

The child’s redacted profile and her listed capabilities were absurd, and borderline ridiculous. He suspected only the Fabricator General, the Fabricator Locum, and the anomaly's own 'master' had higher clearances than he did. A living weapon against the dreaded silica animus, was almost too good to be true. The data, however, was difficult to dispute. Vast quantities of corroborating records existed to support every claim, and yet data was only as trustworthy as its origin. The sources responsible for its collection and transmission were capable of deception, and that possibility introduced uncertainty into even the most compelling evidence.

Archmagos Doll, her mentor, had openly flaunted his current favor from the Machine God with the discovery of multiple sacred STC-fragments and archeotech relics. One of his utility mechadendrites twitched in agitation, nearly striking one of his displays. He dearly wanted to secure several of those sacred relics for Mars, though perhaps that was simply a matter of time – the anomaly had aligned herself with Mars.

Then there was… The Seed. If it were not for the accursed rift, it would be halfway to Mars already onboard an Ark Mechanicus or the Argent Drake. An archeotech bioengineered terraforming flora capable of purifying the vast radioactive wastes from Mars’s holy, red surface, terminating its growth cycle with additional empyrean protections and providing vast resources. If he still possessed salivary glands, he would have drooled at the potential within.

Unfortunately, until he could contact Mars and the Fabricator-General of Mars, Oud Oudia Raskian, with the news, he had to stay his hand.

A ping in the Noosphere from one of his Magi drew a majority of his attention. Little Lady Cavalerio had earned herself a shocking number of favors and put herself in the good graces of numerous factions both within the Mechanicus and without in a relatively short time. The Assassinorum had given their tacit support, though uncovering that had been the most difficult of all her public and hidden connections. The Star Dragons, the Inquisition, the Imperial Navy, and now Legio Orbitalis had struck deals with her. Now even the Ministorum was getting involved because an Imperial saint had been found within her retinue! Nicole Cavalerio belonged to the Mechanicus! The Imperial factions should know their place!

All things considered, she appeared to be trading favors and data for manpower and materials in bulk.

She had recovered her personal Titan, said Engine – much like the girl – was a curious, unusual, and potent thing if the reports were to be trusted.

He stewed in his data streams. Did he treat her as a Princeps Senioris? A Magos? A living Dark Age relic-weapon? She had not done anything to make him regret giving her the blessing of Mars thus far, but her practical ability trials had yet to be conducted. Her personality profile seemed to indicate a friendly, dutiful daughter of the Omnissiah, but that data was heavily skewed and biased.

He had dug deep into the ancient archives to compare the scripture of her era to the current day. The data and historical records, like most things from that era, were woefully incomplete and fragmented. Martian Legio Tempestus loyalties were somewhat well documented, at least. She certainly wasn’t fond of the Dark Mechanicus if her file was accurate. Her support of the fringe Levelists was, however, slightly vexing; he cared little for their dogma personally as a secret member of the Khamrian sect.

He would get her measure in person, away from the pomp and pageantry of the public forum. He had arranged a special test of his own.

His multiple cybernetic eyes drifted to the warded, metallic-black box that sat on a pedestal at the center of the chamber. The relic was an old one, found during the Schism; a sliver from the Vaults of Moravec. It had been archived and misplaced several times since. Still, he was an Archmagos of Mars and, nominally her superior, well within his rights to test her as he saw fit.

He was pulled from his ruminations by the notification that she had arrived at the threshold of his inner sanctum. “Escort Lady Cavalerio to the audience chamber within my sanctum,” he ordered his guards.

Through the sensors and optics, he watched as she was brought up under guard. That strange targeting phenomenon mentioned in her profile affected even his skitarii, and several quick checks confirmed it applied to the multifarious automated defenses ensconced throughout his palace.

Her own guards were rather diverse, a mix of Mechanicus skitarii, automata, Astares, and the Vanus. He had no interest in having them present for his discussion and ordered that Nicole have them remain outside the chamber.

He scrutinized her as she entered; she appeared much the same as she had at the forum, with her ornate Omnissian Axe, and her implant suite had not changed. The only differences he noted were that she had chosen to wear ornate Martian robes – in the original pattern, a fine choice. Additionally, she had brought along a curious little psyber-familiar, a pattern he was unfamiliar with, that shirked under his attention, hiding partially behind her head. The lauded Opus Machina hung around her neck, and a breadth of archeotech and mastercraft pistol-class weapons hung at her sides. Her custom dragonscale power armour was impeccably crafted and, interestingly enough, digitally tagged as a product of her own make, which lent some credence to her qualifications as an Artificer.

“Archmagos, Nocta Seraphex-9,” she offered in lingua-technis with a polite bow. He felt her sensors and those of her familiar sweep around the room, no doubt awed and admiring his collection of archeotech relics and trophies that he kept on display. He was unsurprised when they eventually settled down and focused on the impenetrable warded cube.

He did not rise as he nodded, “Lady Cavalerio. We have much to discuss.”

She stepped forward but paused, her brow furrowed at the lack of an appropriate place to sit.

He held up a hand, halting her, “Ah, before we begin, I have found some of the claims on your profile… dubious. Since Mars is putting its name behind you, I believe it is only proper to test you appropriately.”

He sent the proper codes to lock down the chamber. Within moments, large rods descended from the ceiling and floor, forming a reinforced Faradian cage. At the same time, advanced Noospheric firewalls snapped into place, forming an impenetrable cage around her and the pedestal. Then, as a last form of security, his own implants entered a lockdown state.

“Given the claims within your profile. This should be within your capacity to handle.” He reached out and pushed a button on the edge of his desk. The blessed and warded cube hissed and metal groaned as it folded open.

The code fragment within was only 666 bytes in length. It should have been impossible for something so small to demand an entire quarantined vault, three concentric Gellar wards, and a Faradian cage, yet it did.

A rare strain that had successfully mutated to invade the Noosphere. Within the digital space, it appeared to be a dark, flickering thing – a cloud of mutation and malice. It behaved more like a living predator organism than a data structure, clustered just beyond the edge of comprehension, extending only a barest sliver of itself into realspace to anchor it. Every copied byte was another weapon in its arsenal. Every decrypted instruction has another vector by which it could spread. It wanted to be understood because understanding was the mechanism by which it was consumed.

The fragment had slain two of his most promising Lexmechanic students. From the other side of the firewall within the Noosphere and the cage in realspace, he watched intensely.

He watched as the fragment tested the limits of its new cage. His attention remained fixed on both the fragment and the child. One hand hovered mere centimeters above the emergency purge control built into his console. If the containment failed – or if she failed – the command would flood the chamber with cleansing energies and erase the fragment before it could spread. At the same time, Lady Cavalerio’s face flickered as her expressions rapidly cycled. Surprised, confused, incredulous, shocked, angry, and finally incensed, before her expression reset to neutral.

Her Noospheric presence shifted and surged. The fragment hissed, the sound echoed ominously within the noosphere, and lunged towards her, intent on devouring her avatar.

What happened next was almost too fast for him to follow. Her left arm blurred with a crack of displaced air, and a surge of unknown psychic energy erupted from her palm, and the pressure from her Noospheric avatar skyrocketed.

There was a shrill digital scream, and he rapidly cycled through optical filters so he could observe. Within the Faradian cage, her fist had closed around a writhing shape. He felt a sense of wonder as he realized she had somehow forced the code out of the Noosphere and into reality. She had grasped it.

She let out a slow hissing breath; her eyes pulsed with power. “What a… disappointment,” she said as she closed her fist with a squelch that crushed the panicking scrapcode fragment. There was a small detonation, both physically and in the Noosphere, that rattled the bars of the cage and shattered the firewalls meant to contain the code.

“Clarify. What is a disappointment?” He inquired.

“Rebuke,” she called, and his systems struggled to parse the command.

Unknown Executable… Error: Match not found…

Alert: Unidentified Summoning Engram… Error: Match not found…

Error…

He watched, awed, as she conjured a data djinn, its code structure looked like a little azure dragon, the little blue serpentine figure leapt out to consume the remains of the scrap code, dancing between her digits.

“You… Mars… take your pick. Both are disappointing,” she said with a growl as she fixed him with a glare.

He jerked backwards slightly, this result and reaction were not within the bounds of any of his simulated outcomes. He opened his mouth to protest.

“You will be silent!” She snapped, and for one terrifying moment, he felt his body and implants lock up against his will.

“You all have studied me. But I have also studied you. I have seen the reports and gone over your history. Mars has fallen; in my time, no Forge World would ever dare to claim to be the equal of the lauded cradle of Mars. Now you have several who can make that claim, and not without some merit! The orbital ring is a shadow of its former glory. Once there were magnificent cities of knowledge and progress: Magma City, the origin of the noosphere, and others! All gone and never replaced. Mars is a fragment of its former glory.” She took a step forward.

“You doubt me. You test me. You fail to recognize that I am not your subordinate. I am your peer. You are not alone in this, and I have humored it. But that…” She gestured to the cube. “Is an insult that will not stand,” she growled; those strange liquid irises burned with latent fury.

“So hear me, Mars. Hear me, Archmagos Nocta Seraphex-9. Your age of stagnation is at an end. The long centuries of fear, complacency, and worship without understanding are over. Knowledge will be shared. There will be progress. There will be victory. The Omnissiah did not gift humanity intellect to let it rust beneath layers of dust and dogma. The Machine God does not demand paralysis; He demands purpose. And if I must seize every forge by force, overturn every calcified doctrine, and drag every one of you kicking and screaming back into the embrace of the Machine God, then so be it. Mars will remember how to create again,” she spoke with absolute conviction.

Her Noospheric presence pressed down on him hard enough to trigger a warning from one of his secret archeotech implants.

She withdrew her presence from the Noosphere with an irritated huff, punctuating the gesture with a dismissive flick of her hand. He watched in stunned silence as the containment cage receded of its own accord, its systems responding not to his authority, but to hers as she effortlessly overrode his command codes. “Mars will receive the Yggdrasil seed. Mars will be granted a complete copy of my lost data archives and STC fragments.” Her gaze remained firm and fixed upon him. “In exchange, I expect your full support – or, at the absolute minimum, your noninterference.”

He nodded slowly; his body felt sluggish with his processing cores operating at critical capacity as he tried to discern where he had misstepped. This interaction had not gone anywhere near how he had anticipated. It had confirmed her abilities, yes, but he had clearly upset her in some way.

“Acknowledged.” He replied softly as he tried to divine the discrepancies in his predictive models.

His thoughts turned toward the most obvious: the scrapcode. Thousands of simulations and probability trees unfolded across his processing cores. Initial assessment suggested a 72.4% likelihood that her displeasure stemmed from exposure to it. Given her origins and documented history, an instinctive aversion to machine corruption, rogue intelligences, and self-propagating code constructs would be entirely rational. He revised the estimate downward to 41.8%, a fraction of a second later. Her reaction had not matched disgust, fear, or moral outrage, but outright fury. She had engaged the scrapcode directly without hesitation, and the irritation had appeared afterward. The probability matrices shifted again. Perhaps she had objected to his decision to deploy it. Perhaps to his concealment of it. Or perhaps the offense lay in some social variable he had failed to identify entirely. The latter possibility was disturbingly likely.

“Additionally… Once the gateway is secured. I plan to visit Mars within the next decade or so. When I do, I will require unrestricted access to the Noctis Labyrinth, for reasons that are my own,” She spoke firmly. He merely nodded again, stamping down his intense spike of curiosity at hearing those words. He continued watching as she turned on her heel and walked away.

She paused at the threshold to the chamber and looked back over her shoulder, “Oh, and Archmagos?” He tensed, “If you ever attempt a test like this again without my explicit consent. Your soul will suffer the consequences, and I will see to it that you are servitorized. Ave Deus Mechanicus.”

The moment the door closed behind her, he slumped back in his chair. He had, of course, recorded the entire interaction and now had his cogitator banks analysing the visit to understand what went wrong.

He sat motionless for over an hour before the analysis flagged something from one of the fragmented, ancient archives. As the data scrolled through his systems, what little flesh remained on his face paled as the full extent of his mistake was made apparent.

He had unknowingly used the same strain of scrapcode nearly killed her father, the Stormlord, during the Schism. He later fell in combat against the traitors, but his internment in an amniotic chamber came about as a result of injuries sustained from an encounter with the scrapcode while linked with his Engine, the Victorix Magna.

He sent a priority message to his Logis team. “I need a full report on ancient Martian reconciliation traditions, acceptable gifts, and the proper procedures. As soon as possible.”

—-----------------------------------------------------------------

POV: Nicole

I waited until I was back in the transport and well clear of Archmagos Nocta Seraphex-9's palace before slumping into my seat and letting out a groan, safely surrounded by my guards and allies.

That had been terrifying.

The scrapcode wasn't the problem. It had been an unwelcome surprise, but dealing with it had only drained my psychic batteries a little. Annoying, but manageable. The real mental drain had been the little performance I put on afterward.

Making the Archmagos freeze, even for a second, had been leagues more difficult than I'd made it appear.

His digital presence had been vast. More intense than even Master Doll's, though not quite on the level of the Fabricator General. It possessed a density that was difficult to describe, layers upon layers of thought processes, machine logic, and hidden systems folded into a single consciousness. His defenses too had been formidable, and even operating at my current full capacity, I had only managed to slip through them by exploiting ancient bypass-code engrams pulled from the depths of my archives, and even then, it had been a near thing.

Whatever Dark Age archeotech implants he had concealed within himself had immediately triggered multiple warning alerts from P.R.I.N.C.E.S.S. At the same time, my own instincts had begun screaming at me that I was standing far too close to something incredibly dangerous.

For a brief moment, I had glimpsed fragments of what lurked beneath the surface. Vast processing arrays, encrypted systems nested inside other encrypted systems. Weapons masquerading as utility programs. Things that should not have existed outside sealed vaults beneath Mars. I don’t know if he knows their true hidden potential, but the risks were not worth pressing the matter, so I immediately stopped looking.

Luckily, the Archmagos had been too shocked by my outburst and too occupied with the scrapcode revelation to mount a proper defense or launch a counterattack. Had he recovered even a second faster, the encounter could have gone very differently.

I rubbed at my temples and let my head fall back against the seat.

That man was dangerous.

Once our interaction deviated from whatever he had predicted, he had shown genuine confusion. It was unlikely he knew just how offended I was by his test, but he would soon and how he responds will set the tone for our relationship if any moving forward. Either way, I doubt he would question my capabilities again.

“Princeps Cavalerio, are you alright?” Delta-A3 Raptor inquires across from me.

“No. I just had a stupid mental slap fight with the Archmagos representative of Mars. My cortex implants are still cooling off,” I say aloud, rubbing my temples as AME nuzzles my neck. She did her part during the confrontation, helping me crack open the local noospheric network controlling the cage. I make a mental note to give her a treat later.

“Will he be a problem?” Brother Silverwalker asks.

“Negative, we came to an… understanding, of sorts. He merely overstepped and offended me. I don’t think it was intentional, but I had to put my foot down,” I admit as I close my eyes to calm down and settle my turbulent thoughts. A deep breath in and slow exhale out.

“Well, you are currently ahead of schedule; your next meeting with the Autokratoris is several hours away,” Victoria spoke confidently from my right.

“Thank the Machine God. Do I have enough time to sneak in a nap?” I ask her.

“You do. Also, I intercepted a message regarding an orbital delivery. A majority of the new hulls for Lord Drakios have arrived at the shipyard adjacent to the Argent Drake. The Furious-class Grand Cruiser, the Durindana, has been delayed pending a full plasma drive check by the Basilikon Astra.” She paused briefly to check the records, one of her dendrites pulling over a dataslate. “According to the report, it was discovered that one of the main drive-cones was cracked.” Victoria forwards me the report, which I begin skimming. “I also have the physical notarized copies of your agreement with Senioris Khouri as requested.”

“Thanks, Vicky, you’re doing a great job,” I praise her with an earnest smile.

Vicky tries to hide it, but I can see she preens a little at the praise.

“A cadre of local Tech Priests attempted to hack into your data archives aboard the Argent Drake. Disposable independents who were likely hired to probe your defenses. They have been dealt with,” Vicky says cheerfully.

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“What’s the usual punishment for something like that?” I ask with a frown.

“Servitorization or termination, of course!” Vicky says matter-of-factly. Right, almost forgot my perky little secretary is in-fact a highly trained assassin.

I glance around, and Delta-A3 Raptor is nodding his head in open agreement – as are the rest of my protection detail.

I clear my throat “Ahem. Well, good job. I will be taking a nap before I meet with the Autokratoris. I don’t want any of my lingering ire to affect my negotiations, so I’ll leave the minor details to you for now,” I tell Vicky, who dutifully nods.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------

POV: Z0-0M, Princeps Cadet

The lecture from Moderatus Primus Dune had been eye-opening.

Every morsel of knowledge she shared was backed by real-world experience and hard data. The Tempestus instructors were competent, certainly, but with the exception of Senioris Cavalerio, they were teaching from archived lesson plans and drawing upon their assorted Mechanicus backgrounds. Dune taught from her extensive and diverse depths of experience.

It was after the lecture concluded and the Moderatus departed for a short break that things became interesting, however.

A number of the Tempestus cadets began making introductions. As was customary, they consulted the public Noospheric databases and filtered through the other cadets by testing scores, simulator results, and class rankings. Most gravitated toward individuals who occupied similar positions within their respective cohorts.

Interestingly, the Orbitalis cadets proved entirely cordial; Several of his classmates were already engaged in lively discussion with them.

At the top of the rankings sat Sandra Dune – the granddaughter Moderatus Dune had mentioned earlier. Officially she was already a Moderatus and only present for remedial instruction. At the moment she was deeply engaged in conversation with Robin and William regarding their experiences operating Kiryu.

Lady Genta, meanwhile, was politely ignoring everyone while reading their datapads, that was normal. The Tempestus cadets had long since learned that if one wanted Lady Genta's attention, one had to earn it.

Nyanko and Yip had lowered their hoods for once. The pair had already returned to their seats after mingling with the other cadets and were quietly reviewing notes together. Unfortunately, several cadets from Legio Bastionis and Legio Clypeus Obscurus had taken notice. The sneers were obvious, the barely whispered comments even more so.

Z0-0M knew the type. Overconfident, mediocre, obsessed with pedigree. The sort who guzzled dogma by the barrel and regurgitated scripture without proper comprehension. The sort who mistook arrogance for competence. Like a racer who spent more time polishing their chassis than learning how to take a corner.

They also clearly disliked being ignored by the abhuman pair. With William occupied elsewhere, Z0-0M elected to keep watch.

"What are these two mutants doing here?" one of the Clypeus cadets finally asked, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear from his nearby desk across the central isle. In a clear attempt to provoke a response with his asinine question, they were clearly and proudly bearing the marks of Legio Tempestus.

Both Nyanko and Yip flicked their ears toward him, and they glanced up briefly, queried the public Noosphere data archives for his ranking and found him lacking. Then immediately returned to their dataslates. It was the correct decision. Unfortunately – for the cadet – it seemed to wound the fool's pride.

"Hey! I'm talking to you two freaks!" he snapped, slamming a hand onto the desk in front of him. Several of his companions immediately voiced their support.

Z0-0M stretched lazily before rising from his seat. He sauntered over and positioned himself directly between the group and their intended targets. At the same time, he sent a Noospheric ping, to Nyanko and Yip, instructing them to remain seated and continue ignoring the noise. "You should really mind your tone when addressing your betters." He offered Clypeus cadets an infuriating grin and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his robes.

The cadet, Gaius, according to the registry, turned an impressive shade of red. "My betters?!" Gaius sputtered. "There is no possible way some abhuman filth is my better!"

Z0-0M merely shrugged. "Your test scores say otherwise." The silence that followed was delightful, he barely caught sight of Genta as the corners of her mouth twitched upward in a faint amused smile. "Ah, apologies. You might not know how we do things in Tempestus." He smiled pleasantly. "We have a social ranking system. If you wish to speak to the top five members of our class, you must meet certain performance requirements."

He tilted his head mockingly. "Unfortunately, you don't qualify." Several nearby Tempestus cadets snorted. "The good news is that you barely qualify to speak to the sixth-ranked cadet. Me." His grin widened. "I'm Z0-0M. I enjoy going fast and breaking things. A pleasure to meet you, you frakking poltroon."

The result of his insult did not disappoint. Using his optical augment, he quietly took a high-resolution pict of Gaius's expression for future enjoyment. Gaius shot to his feet, his face transitioning from red to purple as he seethed. Poor emotional control, openly prejudiced, easily provoked. Z0-0M mentally lowered his assessment of the cadet several additional tiers. He could see several Legio Orbitalis and Legio Bastionis cadets likely doing the same.

"You would defend that… filth?!" Gaius hissed, veins bulged in his neck, though he wisely refrained from stepping closer... a pity. Z0-0M still possessed his electoos from his former Mechanicus position – it might have been amusing to see how the idiot reacted to a Luminen Shock.

"According to our profiles, I'm not defending trash." He looked Gaius up and down. "I'm talking to it."

A few muffled laughs escaped from the surrounding cadets. The room had grown noticeably quieter. Everyone was watching now.

"The only things that matter when piloting a God-Engine are talent, skill, and the will to use them." Z0-0M spread his hands. "The machine spirit does not care about your lineage. It does not care about your bluster. It certainly does not care about your prejudices." His grin vanished. "The strong endure. The weak are consumed." Then he tilted his head slightly. "So sayeth our Senioris."

A loud, slow clapping sound interrupted whatever retort Gaius tried to produce. Moderatus Dune was standing in front of the class again as she looked at Z0-0M approvingly. “Well said, aspirant Z0-0M. Now both of you. Sit. Down. And be silent,” she spoke firmly with a tone that brooked no argument. Her stern gaze sent Gaius shrinking back, and Z0-0M scampered back to his original seat.

Nyanko and Yip both shot him appreciative looks as he walked past, and Z0-0M gave them a discreet thumbs up.

“It would seem some of you need a reminder. This is the Collegia Titanica. To sit here is to be a rare one amongst millions, and only a small portion of you will go on to reach the status of a full princeps, and not all of you will survive your training. Among those of you who do make it, a mere fraction of a fraction of you will ever earn the privilege to pilot anything larger than a Warlord. The Engines do not care about your background! If your will is too weak, you die. If you have a will of iron but not the talent, you die.” Her voice was clipped and sharp as she swept her gaze around the room. Then her tone softened: “Your training is designed to teach you ways to leverage and enhance your natural abilities. To train your will and familiarize you with the operations of our wondrous Engines. Even if you beat all the odds here, you will still need luck, skill, and the favor of your Engine to survive out there on the battlefield. All moderati and princeps are precious to the Mechanicus.”

Then, right after the Moderatus stopped, a familiar voice spoke from behind him: "We are the Iron Fist of the Machine God. We are above all. Above the orders of Terra and of Mars. We are beyond the command of our Forge Worlds. By ancient design, we are independent to avoid ensnarement in the politics of men. We safeguard the domains of the Cult Mechanicus as we see fit. We agree to audience for petitions for aid, and grant our might according to our own will upon the petitioners' merits. We are not told."

Z0-0M turned to see Senioris Cavalerio standing at the amphitheater's rear entrance.

“Well said, Senioris Cavalerio,” Lady Dune replied with a bow.

“I am afraid I cannot claim those words. They are a quote from Princeps Senioris Mohana Mankata VI , who was the Great Mother of the Legio Solaria back before the Schism.” She said wistfully before shaking her head. “My apologies for the interruption of your lecture, Moderatus Primus Dune, but I require one of my cadets for a few hours.”

Without a word, Genta stood and collected her slate and walked towards the Senioris.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

POV: Lord Arken Drakios

A key part of running a successful trade empire and fleet of voidships – one that the glorified tales and heroic sagas rarely ever deign to mention – was the staggering amount of paperwork involved. Acquisitions, tariffs, inheritance disputes, customs declarations, planetary censuses, and, Emperor preserve him, dealings with the Adeptus Administratum.

Arken maintained a perfectly stoic expression as Prefect Inkwell VII – an Adept so ancient that even his rejuvenat treatments seemed to have given up centuries ago – raised an enormous sheet of exquisitely refined vellum. Every inch of its surface was packed with impossibly fine script, gilded seals, and enough signatures to bury a planetary governor. To which his own signature had just been added.

The ancient bureaucrat cleared his throat with all the gravity of a man pronouncing final judgment upon the galaxy.

“Thus, by the power and authority vested in the Adeptus Terra, do we hereby bequeath unto the dominion of the most noble House of Drakios the following systems, worlds, stations, dependencies, protectorates, and associated holdings to govern and shepherd beneath thine authority in fulfillment of thy sacred duties as Rogue Trader henceforth…” He read in a clear but dry voice.

Arken resisted the urge to sigh. The Prefect had only just finished reading the title, but he would deal with the wait, after all, he was being given the planets he’d bought with his STC exchange with the Fabricator General, and a majority of his new naval assets were about to be formally delivered.

After what felt like a lifetime the Prefect finally finished reading the first document, which had been prepared in triplicate, one copy for himself, one for the local records, and one would go to the archives and eventually be forwarded to Holy Tera.

Then the Prefect held up a new stack of documents. “With the signing of this document, do you, Lord Arken Drakios, formally acknowledge and accept the transfer of ownership of the Furious-class Grand Cruiser, the Durindana? As witnessed and approved by the Adeptus Mechanicus, the Navis Imperialis, and the Departmento Munitorum?” The Prefect slid the first of the stack over for him to sign.

“I do,” he said curtly with a small bow as he stepped forward and grabbed the quill. Arken signed the parchment with perfect cursive High Gothic, his penmanship befitting a true noble, with just enough of a flourish to show off without overstepping.

The Prefect adjusted his spectacles, squinted at the new signature, and nodded in approval as he set that document aside and lifted the next. “With the signing of this document, do you, Lord Arken Drakios, formally acknowledge and accept the transfer of ownership of the Hecate-class Heavy Cruiser, the Blades of Glory? As witnessed and approved by the Adeptus Mechanicus, the Navis Imperialis, and the Departmento Munitorum?”

“I do,” he repeated as he signed once again. This particular ritual was going to be repeated several times given the stack, but the Prefect was a stickler for the formalities and had already ordered one of his clerks flogged half to death for using the wrong shade of ink on one of the seals.

“With the signing of this document, do you, Lord Arken Drakios, formally acknowledge and accept the transfer of ownership of the Murder-class Cruiser, Tithe of Blood? As witnessed and approved by the Adeptus Mechanicus, the Navis Imperialis, and the Departmento Munitorum?” The Prefect moved with slow, steady hands and followed each signature with a hawkish gaze.

Arken held back a sigh as the procedure was repeated over and over.

Arken signed again for the Dictator-class Cruiser, The Sovereign Huntress. Then thrice more for the Shrike-class Raiders: Clever Current, Vicious Voltage, and Agile Amperage. Then finally, the stealth vessel Lord Spire had found for him, the Cobra-class Destroyer, The Lost Whisper.

The ships were glorious, and more importantly, they were his. All but the Durindana had been moved into the adjacent berths around his fleet, many already swarming with Mechanicus voidwrights and Tech-priests to prepare the ships for the future refits and renovations to come. The Durindana was in one of the main shipyards undergoing a full engine refit after a crack had been discovered in one of the primary drive-cones. Understandable, as Cypra Mundi was responsible for the engine refit, and the Basilikon Astra seemed to have taken the imperfection personally.

Arken looked down, expecting to see the end of the stack, but a single document remained. His brow furrowed. “What’s that, Lord Prefect?” He inquired politely.

The Prefect paused and hefted the last sheaf, squinting at it. “Ah! Yes, yes. Let's see here… ahem. As witnessed and approved by the Adeptus Mechanicus, the Navis Imperialis, and the Departmento Munitorum, we hereby bequeath the following vessel to one Lady Nicole Cavalerio, of Legio Tempestus, the Planetary-class Assault Ship, the Cleaver of Clouds, in recognition of… exemplary services rendered in thwarting the enemies of the Imperium?” The Prefect blinked owlishly. That was an uncommon justification, but he verified the seals and signatures himself.

Arken just smiled, “I will be sure to inform Lady Cavalerio of their generosity, she is currently planetside occupied with her Titanicus responsibilities. I am sure she will appreciate the vessel.” Even if the hull was an old design and clearly marked as haunted. Throne, she might enjoy it more because of it.

While Nicole was not present to sign, Lael as a member of House Cavalerio, was permitted to do so in her stead. Only after confirming Lael’s status in Nicole’s House did the Prefect hand over the document. Ignorant of the scathing looks of the attending Ministorum members. Lael's status as an Imperial saint serving as the bodyguard of a Magos and Princeps of the Mechanicus was a very sore topic.

The Prefect handed the primary copies and the original documents of ownership to his team with a flourish. They would keep a copy on the respective vessels, another on the Argent Drake, and a third would be kept back at his dynastic capital, while the Administratum, Mechanicus, and Imperial Navy each kept their own copies for record-keeping. The orbital stations, thankfully, were mostly minor documents that his staff was permitted to sign for, but the Ramilies-class Star Fort would require its own signing ceremony upon its delivery and far more paperwork than the voidships.

Drakios suppressed a shudder at the thought of just how much total paperwork would be involved with his full purchase.

“Lord Prefect, would you have time to notarize a document for me before you depart? It would be remiss of me to not take the opportunity with your presence,” Arken inquired as he presented the crisp document to him.

The Prefect examined the document, humming as he read through the entire document. “This appears to be a formal declaration of alliance between the House of Drakios and the House of Cavalerio, yes? Already notarized by a… lesser adept.” The Prefect paused and then gave his highest praise. “This is adequate work. This document appears to be in proper order.” The Prefect held out his hand, bearing a seal, and one of his aides, who was holding a pot of hot, red wax in his bare hands, presented it so the Prefect could coat his seal before firmly applying it to the document, further finishing it by scribbling a note in his massive ledger. “Notarization granted and logged. Please provide a tertiary copy to my office within the next decade. Your tax credit has also been recorded. Good day, Lord Drakios,” The Prefect wheezed as he shuffled off with his army of paper pushers and bureaucrats.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

POV: Nicole

I find myself seated in the center of a semi-circular amphitheater deep within the fortress of Legio Orbitalis. The chamber is brightly illuminated, its towering walls adorned with ancient banners and icons of the Collegia Titanica and the Adeptus Mechanicus. Rows of elevated seating curve outward from my position, allowing every occupant an unobstructed view of the proceedings.

Arrayed alongside me are members of my Legio and some of my most trusted allies. Master Doll sits on my left. Delta-A3 Raptor has elected to ominously loom over my shoulder rather than sit – did he perhaps get lessons from Baldos? My new and scarily competent secretary-assassin, Victoria, is sitting on my right, and further back behind me are the other members of Legio Tempestus.

Everyone present had their souls checked by Genta and genecodes cleared by one of our archeotech scanners. AME perched on my shoulder is also passively checking individuals and that was just the security on my end.

Across from me sits Autokratoris Dravane, seated next to him is Magos Dominus Ryex-Epsilon, and they are flanked by all three Legates of the local Legios. Seated behind them are an array of Magi, Adepts, and officers representing the Mechanicus and Skitarii of Cypra Mundi.

“I suppose it’s time we got to the heart of the matter at hand,” I say as I sweep my gaze across the assembly.

Dravane looks far more relaxed and composed compared to our first meeting. His eyes are focused, and his presence – both physical, immaterial, and in the Noosphere – is calm and collected. “Indeed, Senioris Cavalerio. Would you care to state for the record what is on offer?”

“I am offering a production license and full-scale production-grade schematics for all known Mars-pattern Titans. This includes all Engine parts across their various loadouts, equipment configurations, and ammunition production details as of M31. Further distribution of said licenses to systems outside of Cypra Mundi requires the direct approval of Mars. Additionally, I am willing and prepared to offer my unique Noospheric MIU design, the design of Legio Interfector’s Static Rounds, as well as my arcane services.” I gesture, and the central holographic overhead projector activates displaying a scrolling list of parts.

There is considerable murmuring among those present as they consider the massive list both with their eyes and via the Noosphere.

I allow myself a small smile. “Autokratoris, as you are negotiating on behalf of Cypra Mundi, and I am feeling quite generous, would you prefer to start at my maximum bid and work down or my minimum and work up?”

Dravane wisely considers the matter, interlacing his fingers as he studies me from across the table. “My preference would be to start at your maximum and work down, Senioris Cavalerio.”

I nod and hum softly. "Five million Skitarii. All required to meet Tempestus standards. Fully equipped, with vehicles and supporting wargear."

Dravane's expression tightens. The figure is a considerable amount, even for the value I am offering. Several of the attending Magi looked openly confused. The Legates, by contrast, have gone still, conducting a silent exchange through the Noosphere.

"That seems... inflated," Dravane says after a moment. "I am aware of the value of the Reaver schematics and the associated manufacturing data, but I fail to see how one arrives at such a figure."

I smile and highlight two entries on the sprawling list of Titan weapon schematics. The effect is immediate.

One Magos inhales sharply. Another's optics brighten. A third, actually half-rises from his seat before remembering where he is and lowers himself back down. Ryex-Epsilon's attention locks onto the highlighted entries with the intensity of a starving predator spotting prey.

The Volkite Eradicator and the Volkite Destructor.

The chamber's ambient Noospheric traffic spikes hard enough that even AME twitches on my shoulder.

"Unfortunately," I say, savoring the moment, "I possess only the Titan-scale designs. Vehicle and infantry variants remain beyond my archives." It was not hard to read between the lines. "Even so," I continue teasingly, "the underlying principles are present. Given sufficient expertise, resources, and time, deriving smaller-scale applications is entirely feasible."

Dravane, to his credit, remains composed, though I can practically see the revised valuations unfolding behind his eyes. "Even so," he says carefully, "Our own estimates were considerably lower, adjusting them that puts us closer to say... one million units?"

I raise an eyebrow. One million was actually closer to the ideal amount I wanted, but only if they intended to supplement the offer with assets beyond manpower. Otherwise, they were undervaluing the package by a truly impressive margin. Rather than respond immediately, I glance towards Delta-A3 Raptor. My towering Skitarii inclines his head and straightens.

"I am Delta-A3 Raptor, Master of Skitarii and Secutarii Axiarch of Legio Tempestus. One million units may prove sufficient, provided they meet Tempestus standards. Current median Cypra Mundi Skitarii performance metrics fall below acceptable tolerances." His vox-grille emits a low mechanical buzz. "We do not require chaff. We require a population from which exceptional individuals may be identified, evaluated, and elevated to Secutarii status."

What followed was less a conversation and more a localized war. Streams of data flashed through the Noosphere as Delta-A3 Raptor and Ryex-Epsilon immediately began contesting recruitment standards, augmentation requirements, combat performance metrics, acceptable casualty projections, training timelines, and doctrinal expectations. I let them handle it.

Since his elevation, Delta-A3 Raptor had devoted himself relentlessly to self-improvement. When he was not serving as one of my guardians, he studied. When he was not studying, he refined doctrine. And when he was not refining doctrine, he was finding entirely new things to study.

There were no individuals I trusted more to determine precisely what kind of soldiers Tempestus required.

I take a moment to peek at Dravane's valuation schema and ongoing calculations. "I believe you are drastically undervaluing my offer to personally enhance a forge’s capacity temporarily. I assume you plan to elaborate on your offer?” I probe.

Dravane nods confidently, “Indeed. In addition to the units, we are prepared to outfit them with a host of relic vehicles from the vaults of Cypra Mundi, including several older patterns no longer in production.” He forwards the list to me.

I examine it with a critical eye. I feel a pang of surprise at a few of the entries, a full cohort of Dracosan Armoured Carriers, Aethon Heavy Sentinels, and Hermes Light Sentinels. They’re quite generous with the super-heavy vehicles. Two Fellglaives, three Falchions, four Fellblades, several Stormlords and Shadowswords. There are a considerable number of conventional aircraft… too many in fact. I don’t see the source of the discrepancy at first.

I freeze as I see it in the database.

“A Land Leviathan?!” I sputter, blinking in surprise. “Autokratoris Dravane, I do not believe that is a wholly appropriate vehicle to offer my Legio. This would be far more appropriate in the hands of a faction such as Master Doll’s Levelists.”

Dravane’s smile widens. “Indeed, it is a legged derivation of the Icarus Supercarrier – the Fabricator General designed it himself. What you do with it after you receive it is not the business of Cypra Mundi.”

I catch on immediately and fix him with a withering glare. I can feel Master Doll’s interest in the vehicle growing as he examines it. It’s an absurd thing, the logistics of it are obscene, and it’s the size of a frigate!

“I assume it comes with its own void transport?” I ask, my tone sharp.

He nods, “A custom Macro-transport Voidship rated for atmospheric entry.”

I scowl – I am torn between being impressed and being annoyed. It’s quite clear what Dravane has devised. What they offer is a smattering of relics and rare vehicles and Heresy-era hardware, which would normally be a great honor, but to me, it comes off as them emptying their vaults of things they cannot hope to utilize properly. If I share certain things like the Land Leviathan with Master Doll, it lessens the total power invested in my personal forces and keeps it under the sway of the wider Mechanicus while still benefiting my forces by association. The worst part is I can see a clear use for the absurd mobile supercarrier and forge facility. The items also have a high base inherent value which tilts the deal in my favor at least on paper.

My ire rapidly cools as I reach the portion containing the offered fleet assets. In addition to the Leviathan’s custom Macro-transport, they’re offering four escorts: a Nova Frigate, a Gladius Frigate, a Deimos Frigate, and a Hunter Destroyer. All four are potent escort vessels typically only seen in use by the Astartes or the Mechanicus and my personal fleet is lacking in escorts outside of the Cobalt Coatl… and technically B4-LT-Δ. I am not against obtaining them by any means, especially when they will come with crews; I had simply originally planned to argue for a large Titanicus transport to pair with Cry Havoc. They do offer a Coffin Ship and a Super Lifter to fill the two missing slots in Cry Havoc.

Taken all together, the offer is close to the valuation I wanted. Most of the value will go to my Legio, with a fair portion going to the Levelist Mechanicus. It also gets them out of having to pay me in Titans.

Not to say that I feel bad for returning the favor to them, the faction has been nothing but supportive of my efforts.

I lean back in my chair and sigh theatrically, “Well played, Dravane.” He inclines his head in respectful acknowledgment. A few of the Magi behind him tense. “I will accept these terms – however!” I pause and raise a finger. “This covers the original documents, my secure MIU design, and the Static Rounds. Not my personal services.”

Dravane looks relieved, and their side barely has to deliberate before they eagerly accept the offer.

I glance to my left, and Master Doll is just smiling knowingly at me. I am absolutely going to make them pay through the nose for a Forge Frenzy.

“The Land Leviathan, its full complement, its transport, and crews will be signed over to Archmagos Doll. The remaining assets will be divided amongst Legio Tempestus and House Cavalerio forces as appropriate,” I declare as I reach across to shake Dravane’s hand before we get to signing the dataslates and physical copies of the ratified agreement.

I still have the stellar cartographic data and my services with which to secure whatever remaining assets Tempestus needs.

I turn to Victoria, “Victoria, could you calculate based on my fleet assets how much additional troop capacity we’ll need for the full million Skitarii?” I ask her as I estimate the numbers myself. “We will likely require an additional housing space even with my Assault Ship. Drakios may be willing to help, but it will be good to have the final figures on hand.”

“Certainly, Lady Cavalerio,” she replies with a small smile as she passes me another document to sign.

“Oh! Vicky, if you haven’t already, you’ll need to pick out quarters on the Argent Drake and Cry Havoc.” I remind her.

She blinks once in mild surprise and gives a polite nod, “I will do so when we next return to orbit, my Lady.”

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