Lost and Found (Warhammer 40k SI)

POV: Nicole

Transmission: Rite of Renewed Accord

To the Honored Recipient,

From Archmagos Nocta Seraphex-9 of Mars, Keeper of the Ninth Calculus and sworn servant of the Omnissiah and the Machine God.

The calculations surrounding our most recent exchange have occupied considerable cogitation. While the variables that produced our present circumstance are many, the resulting disharmony is an outcome neither efficient nor desirable, and the result of compounding errors stemming from fragmented and incomplete data archives.

The oldest traditions of Mars teach that when two engines of worthy purpose produce discordant harmonics, the proper response is neither accusation nor obstinance, but recalibration.

Thus, I extend this transmission, not as an admission of error, for the complete equation remains known only to the Omnissiah, but as an affirmation that continued division serves neither knowledge nor progress.

Accompanying this message are several offerings selected according to the Rites of Concordance observed before the founding of the Imperium itself. Gifts given in the hope that our relations may remain amicable.

The first gift resides in an ornate metal case, white with red accents. Within the case sits a pristine Delta Pistol from the Forge World of Metalica. That’s going in my collection.

The second gift has no physical medium, merely a digital document verifying my identity. Only this one has the proper seals, putting the full weight of Mars behind it.

The third is an encrypted archive containing a list of several independent and unaffiliated Tech Priests and Magi that he recommends to fill roles within my growing fleet. Collated from individuals local to Cypra Mundi and those recently bereft of a vessel due to the Black Crusade.

Finally, there is another immaterial gift: a digital license to use for the duration for my time on Cypra Mundi. Loaning the use of one of his personal massive orbital storage facilities and one of the currently empty Tithe warehouses on Cypra Mundi belonging to Mars for the storage and organization of my military hardware.

All four gifts speak of a deep, calculated response. These were all tailored to me specifically, and while of course, the Archmagos refused to outright admit fault, he seems to have taken my message to heart and reflected on his actions.

These are not recompense, for no worthy association can be measured in material value. Rather, they are traditional gifts of esteem, offered so that unnecessary friction may be dissolved and mutual respect reaffirmed.

Should any word of mine have produced consequences beyond its intended function, let those consequences be superseded by these gestures of goodwill and by the certainty that I recognize the value of continued association.

Knowledge grows only when worthy minds remain in discourse. I would prefer that our future calculations and discourse be performed as collaborators rather than as isolated engines.

May the Motive Force guide your works, preserve your wisdom, and illuminate those paths where even the brightest cogitator finds uncertainty.

By my seal,

Archmagos Nocta Seraphex-9 of Mars

"Steel does not apologize for its tensile strength. It is merely reforged until it serves its purpose without flaw."

“I liked it better when I was dealing with idiots,” I groan as I forward the recruiting list and license for the two storage spaces to Victoria and Master Doll for their perusal.

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

POV: Venerable Baldos, Dreadnought of the Iron Hands Star Dragons

It was ironic. The orbital forge chosen to host his gathering of the Ancients was much like the Ancients themselves: meticulously maintained, yet left dormant until the hour it was needed.

Arrayed throughout the cavernous central chamber stood nearly four scores of Dreadnoughts, of a diverse conglomeration of patterns, that had answered his summons, hailing from dozens of different Chapters. Some had only recently been awakened from stasis or hibernation. Others had remained active, their wisdom constantly sought by their brethren. Still more – like himself – had spent centuries or even millennia entombed within their adamantine sarcophagi, waking only when the Imperium faced its darkest trials.

"Why are we here while our brothers move to crush the vile Xenos and their corrupted, rebellious traitors?" one of the younger Dreadnoughts demanded, his voice echoing through the chamber.

"You are here because I called," Baldos replied, his Vox carrying effortlessly over the hall. "I had hoped that any warrior deemed worthy of eternal service would recognize the truths set before him."

Silence answered him.

Bray'arth Ashmantle of the Salamanders spoke up, "If you understand Genestealers, then the truth is self-evident: The token resistance, the theatrical assassination attempts, the carefully measured advances and strikes against the local powers." He rumbled in amusement, "These are not the actions of a foe seeking victory. They are the actions of a Patriarch buying time."

"Genestealers are patient predators. Every life they spend is weighed against the value of the prize they seek. If the Patriarch has judged the sacrifice of millions of enthralled servants acceptable merely to delay our advance by weeks or months, then it is because something of far greater importance remains hidden."

“Well said, Brother Bray’arth.” Baldos’ Auspex and optics swept across the assembled warriors. "If your brothers are helpless without you present when culling mere chaff, then they are undeserving of your support."

"That matter aside," Baldos rumbled, his voice echoing through the vast forge chamber, "I have summoned you here for another purpose. One far more auspicious. I have gathered you to share my wisdom earned across ten thousand years... and to grant you a gift."

A low murmur rolled through the assembled Ancients. Even the Techmarines remained silent.

"Not all of you know why." He let the silence linger. "Tell me, brothers. Do you know what claims the greatest number of our kind?"

His optics swept across the countless sarcophagi before him. "Is it the vicious talons of the Tryranids? The elegant blades of the Aeldari? The annihilating fire of the Necrons? The brutish savagery of the Orks? The barking guns of the Traitors? Or the endless malice of the warp?" He slowly shook his chassis back and forth. "No."

"What slays the greatest number of the Entombed... is ourselves. The failing of our minds. The long centuries, the endless cold, the pains that never truly fade, the silence between conflicts, the endless wars. We endure what no mortal mind was ever meant to bear."

His voice softened, becoming almost reflective. "We all know the saying: 'Only in death does duty end.'" A dry chuckle escaped his Vox grille. "A comforting lie. For we have died and yet we still serve. No, our duty did not end with death. It merely... changed. We pledged eternal service to the Emperor, and so we march still – decade after decade, century after century – until our minds finally fracture beneath the weight of eternity."

The chamber fell utterly silent.

"There are numerous ways to delay the process: sleep, rest, stasis, but there was only one balm I ever discovered against that burden. The presence of a Primarch or the Emperor Himself."

He raised one immense claw. "Those of you who have stood in the presence of a Primarch – loyal or traitor – step forward."

Their adamantine feet scraped the floor, the sound echoed across the forge hall. Only five Dreadnoughts moved. That was about what Baldos had expected.

The eldest among the gathered Ancients.

He gave a satisfied rumble. "Good."

"It will be you who notices it first." He looked toward the vaulted ceiling.

"I have invited the littlest one – Nicole Cavalerio – to bestow upon you all a unique experience unlike any maintenance rite you have experienced under the Adeptus Mechanicus to date.” He spared a glance for the various Techmarines present, “I suggest you observe. Learn. And treat her with the respect she has earned."

Nicole had been observing from the start. Most of the Ancients had taken notice and dismissed the petite Mechanicus-robed figure. A soft rush of displaced air drew their optics upward as Nicole leapt from an upper walkway, utilizing the Archeotech Lifter. She descended from above at a sedate pace, her petite figure silhouetted against the cathedral lighting of the forge. She floated gently downward before alighting upon Baldos' broad shoulder.

She blinked at the sea of towering war machines surrounding her. Her eager eyes seemed to see everything as she studied the congregation.

"Oh my..."A delighted smile spread across her face. "There really are a lot of you." Her eyes darted from one chassis to another.

"So many different patterns, too!" For a moment, she looked positively ecstatic, as she openly expressed her joy at seeing all the Dreadnoughts, but then her smile faded, and her gaze sharpened, her lips pursed in unmistakable displeasure. "...It would seem my guidance is required."

The three Star Dragons Dreadnoughts standing behind Baldos watched in silence as she lightly hopped from his shoulder and onto the hull of a nearby Leviathan Siege Dreadnought, Ancient Claviger Khalon, of the Deathwatch. His chassis stiffened in surprise, and he radiated confusion when his systems refused to dislodge her.

She scampered across the shoulders of the ancient warrior with unshakable self-assuredness, even while inspecting such a legendary machine.

Finally, she pointed toward several Techmarines and buzzed in Techna-Lingua. "You. You. You... and you." She pointed to two more. "I need an X73-2 filter assembly. Four spools of sanctified high-capacity cabling – gold or better. Four twenty-two millimetre adamantine fastening screws. And one vial of Omni-Trace grade hydrochloric acid. We’re going to need to rebalance your Atomantic Reactor."

The Techmarines and various Tech Priests assigned from the various Chapters and ordered to aid with maintenance exchanged uncertain glances. Then they looked to Baldos as the one who was presiding over this gathering.

He grunted: "You would do well to comply – lest you earn her ire – and mine."

A few amused chuckles rolled through the chamber. One entombed warrior rumbled with amusement, "Is the ire of one so small so terrible, Venerable?"

Baldos did not laugh. "She is entirely capable of making good on her threats."

Nicole looked over with an innocent smile. "He's quite right. When I tell him I'll pry open his sarcophagus and give him a bath if he neglects his maintenance..." She beamed. "I'm being completely serious."

The silence that enveloped the chamber was absolute, even the Techmarines froze.

Finally, one of the younger Dreadnoughts, one of the Brazen Claws, broke it. "...She cannot actually do that... Can she?"

Nicole turned toward the speaker, Condilus Bagh-Nakh, with an expression that was entirely too cheerful as she shifted to High Gothic. "Hmm..." She tilted her head. "Actually..." She looked him over from Assault Cannon to Power Claw. "You are an excellent candidate for regeneration."

She tapped thoughtfully against her chin. "Only two critical organs are missing, along with a few limbs. Your remaining biological tissue should still be viable." She smiled brightly.

"Would you like to come out? We could regrow your limbs." She shrugged. "Or replace them with exceptionally nice cybernetics, if that's your preference."

The words struck the gathering harder than any macro-cannon. No one spoke, no one moved, the entire assembly of Ancients simply stared at her. The unthinkable and impossible had just been offered with the casual tone of someone proposing a routine armory service.

Baldos was not surprised. He had witnessed the impossible often enough in Nicole's presence to recognize the pattern.

But to every other Dreadnought in the chamber, the notion that one could leave the sarcophagus alive – that imprisonment need not be eternal – was not merely astonishing, it was an Emperor-blessed miracle.

Baldos was also not surprised when Bray'arth Ashmantle of the Salamanders noticed the subtle effect of her aura first, as he had already been subject to Nicole's presence once before during the distribution of relics.

"Venerable Baldos... What is this!? How!?" Bray'arth hissed over a private Vox channel.

"I can explain the what... not the how.” He spoke gruffly, “The littlest one has an aura. She is ancient. Pre-Heresy, and has genetically more in common with the Emperor's Primarchs than a baseline human – what I've been told of her... strain or… pattern... of human is even older. It is not the same as the aura of a Primarch, hers is far more... gentle. Restorative, and is focused on machines, but its effects can and do spread to the heavily augmented. I know this firsthand," Baldos explained with an amused rumble.

"So then... All of this is just..." Bray'arth quickly recognized the reason for the gathering.

"Indeed, it is an excuse for everyone to experience her. She will provide maintenance that few can match, certify that all are operating at their peak, and ensure the individual within is comfortable. All while her wondrous aura acts as a balm for their addled minds." Baldos idly wondered when he had last spoken so much in one sitting.

"By the Throne..." Bray'arth whispered.

"Indeed. We are blessed," Baldos replied.

"She… She was joking about pulling them out of the sarcophagus, right?"Bray'arth inquired.

Baldos remained silent.

"Venerable?" Bray'arth pressed.

Baldos coughed. "She may have plans to extract and transfer me to a new chassis... a rebuilt Saturnine Dreadnought, and she did not jest. She has access to a rare regenerative shipboard facility that can heal most wounds; what it cannot do is replace Astartes organs, and if exposed to it for too long, individuals regenerate too far and reject their implants.” He paused briefly, his tone laced with an underlying melancholy, “Not all can be removed from their tombs permanently, but most would benefit from the experience."

“I refuse,” growled Anatolus Gdolkin of the Iron Hands as he drew close enough to overhear. “I have embraced the machine.”

“Acknowledged. The regenerative procedure is voluntary. Maintenance, however, is not,” Baldos replied to Anatolus.

“Fine, but this feels like a waste of time,” Anatolus grumbled.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

Bray'arth chuckled, the deep rumbling that echoed through the hall, “You will see the value in it soon, cousin.”

“Perhaps you’d care to inspect the data regarding my upgraded motive system?” Baldos offered as he sent over the details on the monomer upgrades. “The technological burden and material costs are much higher than the baseline, but the performance increase is considerable.”

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

POV: Magos Biologis Gertrude

She glanced around the expansive medical bay of the Brazen Claws Battle Barge. With the Star Dragon’s decision to support Lord Drakios with a permanent presence on the Argent Drake, their missing critical support staff had to be addressed.

It had been decided that she and her entire medical team would be inducted into the secrets of the Astartes. The Brazen Claws had volunteered to provide the training as part of their thanks for the gifts as fellow Iron Hands successors. Studying under their fellow Magi of the Biologis and the Astartes Apothecaries. Completing the training would culminate in her elevation to High Magos Genetor to go alongside her Magos Biologis ranking.

The unique organs were fascinating, as was the process of elevating neophytes who had passed their initiation trials; the hypno-indoctrination rites, and the forging of their new bodies.

The surgical side of things was an area in which she naturally flourished. Her familiarity with the human body, recent experiences with the Star Dragons, and testing of the ancient regenerative vats had forced growth in her skills. The gene-therapies required some expansion of her knowledge, but curiously, her casual study of Nicole’s unique genomic structure had given her a head start.

“Vitals stable. Initiating installation of the Black Carapace on Star Dragons Neophyte number thirty-seven,” she declared as two medicare servo skulls hovered nearby under her control. Apothecary Helveptus Sistus watched over her shoulder, arms clasped behind his back as he loomed silently in the sterile environment.

After several grueling hours, the implantation was complete. “A successful operation. Congratulations, High Magos Genetor Gertrude,” Apothecary Sistus spoke after verifying the status of the Neophyte.

She gave him a polite nod as she cleansed her tools and stepped back from the operating theater. It hadn’t quite sunk in just what a monumental step forward this was for her career. So much had changed in the past few months, not only for herself but for the future trajectories of all within the Levelist faction.

Her musing was cut short as she received a high-priority message over the Noosphere from Nicole. She read the message twice and then sighed.

“Apthecary Sistus… We are needed on the Argent Drake. Lady Cavalerio wishes… no… this was not worded as a request. She is going to use the vats on an interred Astartes and has requested certain organs for transplant,” Gertrude spoke as her new knowledge base gave her the proper context for how absurd Nicole’s choice was.

Sistus froze. "I... see. The Biologi can handle the remaining steps. We shall depart immediately."

Gertrude fell into step beside him. They did not run – doing so in a medical bay would invite far too much attention and cause undue alarm. Instead, they moved together with the measured, purposeful strides of ranked officials with somewhere to be, moving briskly toward the nearest egress point.

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

POV: Venerable Baldos, Dreadnought of the Iron Hands Star Dragons

Baldos was not surprised by the reactions to the assembled Dreadnoughts towards the littlest one after the first day. Especially after she dragged eight of them away to be cracked open and put in one of the healing vats. They were respectful, but most were on their guard around her, a few individuals were barely awake and ignored much of their surroundings.

The second day, however, was when Baldos truly began to enjoy himself.

Watching Nicole scold, cajole, and outright bully the nearly insensate Ancients back into full awareness was a spectacle unlike any he had witnessed in his long millennia of service. She somehow managed to provoke warriors who had spent centuries speaking only in solemn declarations into bickering with her like newly inducted Neophytes.

Condilus, a Brazen Claws Astartes interred within a battered Deredeo-pattern Dreadnought, had been little more than a mumbling wreck the previous day. Now his vox boomed throughout the maintenance hall.

"Someone get this brat off of me!" he bellowed. "I am perfectly operational!"

"Perfectly operational?" Nicole shot back without missing a beat. "Maybe if someone had taken care of his internals sometime during the last three centuries, I wouldn't be elbow-deep flushing sludge out of his coolant lines," Nicole snapped back, bonking the chipped faceplate with a wrench.

He found himself just helpless when it came to dislodging Nicole, as every other Dreadnought,“Brother, help me,” Condilus implored another Dreadnought of his chapter.

Nordahl of the Brazen Claws stared at the responsive Dreadnought in confusion and awe. “Brother, I cannot. I am unable to obtain a target lock.”

Several nearby Ancients released amused bursts of static over the Vox.

Nicole snorted, and then she slowly turned toward Nordahl, narrowing her eyes and brandishing a wire brush at him scoldingly. "You wait your turn."

The Techmarines and Tech Priests assigned to assist and monitor the gathering had long since ceased questioning either her requests for obscure materials or her increasingly unconventional instructions. Components appeared when requested. Entire engine sections were dismantled because she insisted they were wrong or annoying her. Rituals that would normally require hours of debate were performed immediately upon her recommendation.

None of them complained, and it was impossible to argue with the results. One by one, the various Ancients emerged from her personalized care, speaking of ancient aches that had vanished, actuators that moved with forgotten smoothness, targeting spirits that no longer quarreled with their machine minds, and reactors whose constant vibrations had finally fallen silent. Even the most skeptical found little reason to object after experiencing her work firsthand.

Baldos also fielded inquiries about her unusual aura from more units. Ancient Claviger Khalon, Librarian-Dreadnought Zaphalon of the Blood Angels, Alrik of the Space Wolves, and Anatolus of the Iron Hands had all picked up on the phenomena.

“Whatever she is doing is not active sorcery,“ Zaphalon muttered thoughtfully, sounding puzzled. ”The Warp barely stirs around her hand. Yet I cannot deny its effectiveness.”

“Keep your musings to yourself, sorcerer,” growled Alrik.

Baldos shut the Space Wolf down before things escalated: “His musings are acceptable. Far more tolerable than certain grumblings.”

Ancient Claviger had been silent since his repairs had finished and finally spoke, “Her service is appreciated. She corrected deficiencies in my chassis that even I was unaware of.”

“You are certain she’s loyal?” Probed Anatolus.

Baldos snorted, “Yes. I have staked my life and reputation on it. The girl is a treasure and a blessing. Though one with a tendency to attract trouble.” He chuckled deeply. “There is a reason I assigned myself to her protection.” He chuckled matter-of-factly and flexed his claw.

“Do you truly believe her enemies will try something? Even here, where there are no less than seventy operational ancients?” Bray’arth inquired incredulously.

“Yes,” Baldos replied confidently.

—---------

The third day brought the greatest change in the attitudes of those gathered.

It was not only the Dreadnoughts who had been given time to settle into unfamiliar company. Surrounded by heavily augmented transhumans whose perceptions far exceeded those of ordinary men, the littlest one finally ceased restraining herself.

Baldos had long suspected that she deliberately limited herself to match the perceptions of those around her. She moved at a pace others could follow, softened her reactions, and concealed just how much of the world she truly perceived. Though there was a strong likelihood that it may not have been a conscious decision on her part. He had seen glimpses of her true capabilities hidden behind the veil of mortal civility.

Here, she could freely abandon the pretense.

Her movements became startlingly fluid. She blurred from Ancient to Ancient with effortless speed, crossing cavernous halls in moments before anyone could think to remark upon it. In the weightlessness afforded to her by one of her artifacts, she twisted and pivoted through open space with uncanny grace, every motion controlled and economical, more akin to an Eldar dancer or a jumping spider than any baseline human.

It was a subtle revelation, yet one that quietly reshaped the opinions of many present. The little girl they had first mistaken for merely brave or eccentric had been holding herself back all along.

Many present made inquiries, and he even deigned to answer some of them.

Anatolus’s opinion had shifted slightly, “There are a few aging Venerables in stasis on our homeworld that would benefit from her presence. Do you think that we could perhaps… borrow the little one?”

“No,” Baldos grumbled, “If anyone finds themselves in the same operational theater as the littlest one, I am certain she would be willing to provide her services. Or if she visits the planet in question. However, ordering her to do so will not work.” The light behind his visor flickered ominously, “Nor will I allow it.”

Baldos eased the Iron Hand's indignation by recounting tales of Ferrus Manus from the Great Crusade. His memories of the Gorgon in his prime captivated not only the son of Medusa, but every Ancient gathered within the hall.

—---------

By the fourth day, Nicole had finished all the standard repairs and was providing upgrades to individuals whose Chapters could suffer the heightened tech burden of the enhancements of either the monomers or upgraded reactors.

Baldos was linked to the security network and was immediately notified when a group of individuals breached the outer perimeter and was attempting to approach the facility.

Baldos and a few nearby Dreadnoughts moved to the main entrance.

Baldos stood at the fore, looked down, and stared at the interloper. “You are not permitted at this gathering,” Baldos rumbled, annoyed.

“Honored Ancients, on behalf of the Ordo Machinum, I am Interrogator…” the man at the head of the group spoke up.

Alrik cut him off. “Boy… The Venerables are being patient with ya. Let me translate for ya. If you aren’t an Astartes or an Archmagos. Piss off. We have the little Magos for a week. We’re having a good time, and she is currently in the middle of an extremely delicate operation on a fellow Dreadnought, and if anyone interrupts that operation, we’ll reduce them to a fine smear.”

Several of the Venerables arrayed behind Baldos rumbled in amused support.

“It… It is important that I speak with Lady Cavalerio?” The Interrogator tried as his eyes took in the living wall of Astartes military hardware currently blockading him.

“If you are not an Astartes or an Archmagos, then you are not permitted within,” Ancient Claviger growled, flexing his power claw.

“I suggest you send her an inquiry over the noosphere. We have her for three more days, and as the wolf said, it will not be interrupted without the most dire of circumstances,” Bray'arth chimed in, giving the poor man an out.

The man swallowed stiffly and nodded as it finally sank in that there were nearly a dozen Dreadnoughts quite ready and willing to end him and his entire retinue if they stepped over the figurative line in the sand. “My apologies, Ancients… I… I will do that.” The Interrogator bowed his head and backed away slowly.

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

POV: Nicole

I spare a single moment to process an incoming high-priority message via the Noosphere. The Ordo Machinum seems to have gotten quite riled up by the list of Necron technology in my possession. I sent the curated list to the Ordo Xenos for validation and approval. This is the third time they’ve tried pestering me while I’ve been having fun working with the Dreadnoughts.

“Request Denied.”

There is no way I am releasing my Tesseract Labyrinth! I only included it in the list because I want to carry it around, and someone is bound to recognize it eventually.

I am willing to humor their request for some of the remaining Gauss or Phaseblade weapons in my possession. I will not be handing over the Labyrinth, Scarabs, the Tachyon Arrow, or my cloak, which I had only listed as a Neutron Shroud cloak, and my totally normal Staff of Light.

I haven’t even disclosed the Necron Resurrection Orb, Chronometron, or the Hyperphasic Fulcrum. Or the fact that I know of the general location of several Necron Dynasties throughout the galaxy. Either way, I plan on giving them the run around until I formally get my Magos ranking in Xenologis.

I shake my head and focus back on the task at hand: upgrading the Mortis Dreadnought under me. Adding the cyclonic reactor upgrade to a Castraferrum Dreadnought reactor required most of my attention, my mechadendrites and hands are moving with confidence as I perform the required repairs, but after doing it so many times, it no longer requires my full focus. Still, it was nice that most of them were quite impressed that the upgrade rivaled the output of the more exotic atomantic arc reactor used in the Contemptor-pattern.

“A Mortis with two missile launchers just looks silly. Also, the moment you run out of ammo, all you can do is kick or step on things! While I agree that the Autocannons have situations where they perform better with the reactor upgrade, the Lascannons are obviously the superior loadout! You’ll burn out the emitters before you run out of juice,” I say confidently.

Brother Sagdalon scoffs, “You didn’t have that problem with the Hellfire variant.”

“The Hellfire only has one missile launcher! It’s a proper, diverse fire-support platform that can defend itself when it runs out of missiles!” I voice my opinion on the matter loudly.

The amused rumbles from around us gives away that Sagdalon is riling me up on purpose.

“Was the data we provided helpful?” Bray'arth inquires warmly, distracting me before I can call out Sagdalon.

“Yes! It really helped with my Saturnine rebuild. That fixed the few holes I had left in repairing the suit. I have no idea how long the fabrication of the primary weapons will take since I passed those off to a local artisan, but the remaining parts are all nearly done!” I reply, beaming at the Salamander.

Bray'arth is clearly quite pleased and rumbles contentedly, “Your data on the ancient unit has aided our archives as well; The benefits were mutual. I expect the Forgefathers on Nocturne will be unable to resist the challenge of replication when it reaches them.”

I close up the panel I am working on and consider who I want to work on next. There are still a good number of upgrades to dole out amongst the gathering.

The regeneration is going well, according to the daily reports from Magos Gertrude. Master Doll agreed with my plan to leave and, in a few cases, expand on the Dreadnought implants in case they were ever maimed again and needed to be re-interred.

The only shame is that I have to return planetside and won’t be present to witness the faces the various Chapters make when we give them back empty Dreadnoughts, and the former occupants return in the flesh as full Astartes.

We had just enough rebuilt Mark IV Maximus suits of power armour left to bestow one set onto each of the eight Astartes. It feels like a fitting gift for the Astartes who have essentially returned from the dead.

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

POV: Venerable Baldos

Anatolus stood in a circle with a majority of the Venerables. “You are certain there is no mental compulsion?” He queried Zaphalon.

“For the third time, Anatolus. Negative. There is no psychic mental compulsion.” Zaphalon replied with certainty.

“Is it truly so odd that you find yourself fond of the little one? She is most pleasant and amusing,” Bray'arth commented.

Ancient Khalon rumbled with amusement, “According to the testimony of Anatolus’s Brothers, yes, it is.”

Anatolus merely grunted sourly in response.

“I liked it best when she chewed out your Techmarines for half an hour! She’s a feisty one, isn’t afraid to put one of us in our place,” Alrik laughed.

Baldos decided to speak up. “She treats us like Astartes, like men. She is respectful but not deferential. While her presence is a soothing balm to the machine, her temperament and conduct reminds us we are still alive.”

Venerable Silverfury nodded. “I agree, Brother Baldos, though she is also quite amusing when riled to anger.”

“Yes. I was not aware Tech Priests could simply be… turned off like that,” Zaphalon commented.

“Aye! He dropped like a Carnyx with a spear in its heart!” Alrik wheezed before dissolving into a full-bellied laugh.

“Still think this was a waste of time?” Brother Dragonmaw teased Anatolus.

“No. By every measurable metric, this week was worth being awakened for and the time investment for all present minor by comparison,” Anatolus admitted clinically.

“Just don’t misbehave like young Solantar, or she’ll put you in the cube.” Silverfury mused.

“The inside of the cube was not all that uncomfortable, Brother. She keeps some interesting relics inside the pocket dimension. Though I concede she was correct about the coolant issue,” Solantar huffed back.

“Where did she find such a thing?” Bray'arth inquired politely.

“She stole it from a massive Necron space hulk. The Ordo Xenos gave their tacit approval of it, and the rest of her looted Necron inventory a few days ago. She’ll likely wait until after her testing and promotions to show off more of her trinkets,” explained Silverfury.

“It won’t be long. The Emperor’s Tarot indicated the Xenos will likely make their move soon,” Baldos spoke eagerly as he flexed his claw.

“Good,” chorused the catacomb of Ancients.

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

POV: Nicole

I stand before the arrayed mass of Dreadnoughts, barely resisting the urge to trigger the Lifter and float upwards as I feel incredibly short next to the rows of hulking machines.

Working on them all week had been incredibly cathartic for me, relaxing and enjoyable in ways I hadn’t expected. There were a few surprises along the way, particularly with Gertrude handling the majority of the processing for the test group we were calling ‘The Exhumed.’ My contributions were limited to merely popping by to help adjust their Dreadnought implants and do a bit of Technomancy to minimize rejection of the new hardware.

One of the Forgemasters even came up with a medallion for them: a black metal medallion in the shape of a partially open coffin hanging from a dark chain with a bone-white skeletal hand reaching out and around from behind the lid, which bears the Mechanicus cog at the bottom. It was metal as hell and hung from the belts of all eight Astartes.

I sweep my eyes along the front row. “You all now meet my maintenance standards. I suppose I can allow you all to leave my care,” I say, clasping my hands behind my back as I walk parallel to the row.

A deep rumble of amusement passes through the assembled Ancients.

“This has been quite enjoyable. Alas, I have appointments planetside that will prevent me from seeing the faces of your leadership when they see all of you in your glory and meet the Exhumed. Do send me some picts or recordings if possible.” I giggle and give a cheshire grin. “You boys be good,” I tease them a little.

“I think we should be far more worried about you than you about us, little one,” Bray'arth spoke, amused.

I wave off his words, “Bah! I’ll be fine. Baldos will be coming down to keep an eye on me within a day.”

“Try not to upset the Ordos or the Mechanicus any more than you already have?” Ancient Claviger rumbles rhetorically.

I beam, “No promises!” I declare, shamelessly unrepentant for what I was about to unleash upon my proctors as I start meandering towards the exit.

I pause at the threshold before transmitting one final message. "Try not to leave anything for me to clean up." The answering chorus of chuckles over the Vox, blaring warhorns, and stamping adamantine feet tells me that they understand my parting assignment.

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