Thick black smoke spiraled out, coughed up by the tank. Its engine sputtered and groaned.
Hades scratched his head, quickly shutting off the radio transmission he had just initiated.
The tank's coughing subsided.
"Apologies?"
Hades tentatively sent a binary signal.
Black smoke spewed out again, this time directly at Hades' face.
Wisely, Hades chose not to dodge.
Coughing through the thick, oil-scented smoke, Hades took a deep breath and continued his internal communication, "Sorry about that. I thought you guys liked it that way."
"Like hell we do!"
"What misconceptions do you have about the Machine Spirit, boy?"
The tank then sent Hades a compressed packet of binary curses.
Hades wasn't offended. He had a soft spot for entities that spoke their minds directly, rather than those who beat around the bush. After all, it's better to be cursed at than bombed.
"Sorry, truly."
By the time the old vehicle finally came to a wheezing stop, Hades was still trying to soothe it.
"Kid, I don't recognize your livery. Which legion are you from?"
"Death Guard. Formerly the Twilight Raiders."
The Twilight Raiders. The tank was familiar with them. Star warriors who favored ground combat were right up its alley.
But then it looked at Hades, his face smeared with soot.
Sigh. They just don't make them like they used to.
"Just you from the Death Guard?"
Hades nodded, "Yes, we're still in our integration phase with the legion. Most don't want to come to Mars."
"Why are you here then?"
Hades scratched his head, "I have a fondness for machinery."
"You?!"
The old tank wanted to give him another blast of exhaust, but it held back. Apart from Hades' initial disrespect, he hadn't done anything wrong. He had been apologizing.
But wait! "Kid, I can't sense your soul!"
Ah, Hades paused, "I'm a unique Untouchable."
An Untouchable training as a Tech-Priest? Machine Spirits are uncomfortable around Untouchables!
The old tank, suppressing its initial irritation, took another look at the Death Guard. Aside from the discomfort of looking at him, there wasn't that nauseating feeling. But he truly couldn't sense a soul.
The old tank fell silent. Given that Hades was the first from his legion to come for training and had chosen to come on his own, only to discover he was an Untouchable, it decided not to be too hard on him.
"Here, I'll send you a compressed file. Play it whenever you use machinery. Play it at normal speed and no copying!"
The rituals of the Cult Mechanicus were just to give them some comfort. Just use them properly.
Treat your machinery with respect, let it fulfill its purpose.
The old tank sent Hades a long, encrypted message. It would be a while before Hades would understand its meaning. Until then, he just needed to play it to the machinery.
The old tank couldn't guarantee that its kin would be satisfied with Hades, but at least they wouldn't curse at him.
It's tired. It's old. Let it rest. No more of these people to torment it. "Kid, tell the wise men of the Cult Mechanicus to either retire me or dismantle me. No more using me for training."
"And tell the wise Jordan, I resent him. I should have died on the battlefield!"
Not here, draped in ridiculous fabrics, listening to their nonsense!
The tank's servitor bird rotated, and considering it had just vented at the Death Guard and now needed him to relay a message, it sent another encrypted message.
Hades blinked, "Thank you for the warning. I had noticed."
Good, the kid isn't dumb.
The engine's roar faded, and the old tank shuddered, then went silent. The sudden quiet drew the attention of the distant Tech-Priests.
Two Adeptus Astartes, one from the Imperial Fists and the other from the Iron Hands, approached, while others watched from a distance.
Except for the Iron Warriors, the two approaching Hades were elite Tech-Priests, most familiar with the Machine Spirit.
Where the Imperial Fists were, there were no Iron Warriors. So, the Iron Warriors continued their welding lessons as if Hades wasn't there.
Gold-306 nervously emerged from the pile of metal he had been hiding in. But seeing the other two Astartes, he stood back, becoming part of the background.
"Brother of the Death Guard, what happened here?" rumbled the deep voice of Imperial Fist Heslop.
"Ah," Hades hesitated, "The vehicle said it hates being put to work by the wise men."
Imperial Fist Heslop and Iron Hand Kano exchanged glances.
The servitor, Gold, displayed a question mark on its screen.
What was this Death Guard saying? Could he communicate directly with the Machine Spirit?
Terra, the Imperial Palace.
They stood deep within the earth, the cold, damp soil pressing against them. Macado felt the chill seeping through his clothes.
The grim figure of the Reaper stood within the first gate, the dark archway pressing down, imprisoning all.
The Reaper's gaze was fixed on Macado, trying to comprehend everything.
"So, the truth of the Great Crusade is a regime of psykers?"
Macado sighed, the frail psyker gestured to Mortarion, hoping they could leave this place and talk elsewhere.
But the Primarch didn't move. His right hand twitched unnaturally. Macado deduced that Mortarion probably wanted to strangle him.
Macado suppressed a sigh, lest Mortarion act on his impulse, seeing him as a treacherous psyker.
He was unarmed, facing a volatile beast with its tamer.
But Macado was wise and experienced. He knew what to say and how to say it.
"Mortarion," he began softly, "This isn't about a regime of psykers. In fact, it will end the era of psykers."
The Reaper looked at him, puzzled.
"Think about it. When humanity no longer needs Navigators to guide them through the Warp, no longer needs to navigate those turbulent Warp routes."
"This is what he's working towards—"
"I want to see the Emperor."
Mortarion cut Macado off cleanly. Even if the old man had earned some of his goodwill earlier, it wasn't a reason for Mortarion to forgive him for hiding the truth about psykers.
Macado's brow furrowed subtly.
"He's not here. He's busy with matters that require his attention."
"So, I'm not one of those matters?"
"I know what you think. I'm a potential traitor, a filthy Barbarus peasant."
"So, you imprison me here, baiting me with knowledge, threatening me with my legion."
"Right?"
The Reaper loomed closer, his shadow engulfing Macado, looking down on him.
The acrid scent of poison choked Macado.
The Reaper's hand trembled, eager to reap a life.
Any other would've knelt, trembling in the face of the Primarch's rage.
But not Macado.
He sighed again, then whispered, "If you don't believe my answer, you can ask your friend."
"Friend?"
Mortarion paused.