38: Chapter 38 The Silent Expedition

In the lightless sea of the Warp, Skullcrusher Mogg's flagship, "Da Kill-Ship," was gliding silently.

This fleet was much quieter than it had been on the way here—though, of course, "quiet" was relative when it came to Orks.

This meant there were only occasional roars, rather than the usual clamor that was enough to shatter the hull plating.

Mogg sat in its command chair, an iron throne forged from the wreckage of three human frigates, which now caused it a strange sense of discomfort.

This was not right.

The memories of that war gnawed at its brain like parasites—those fleshless metal constructs, those machines that knew not what fear was, those production lines that continued to operate with precision amidst artillery fire.

No thrill of blood spraying.

No crisp sound of bones shattering.

No wailing of enemies before they died.

Only the roar of machinery, only the coldness of metal, only those iron shells that were forever tireless, forever unafraid of death—not knowing what death was—and endlessly regenerating, repeating "exterminate, exterminate, exterminate."

Mogg felt its stomach churning.

"Aaaargh!"

It stood up abruptly, punching through the bulkhead beside it.

Several passing Ork Boyz screamed like Gretchin, scrambling away in terror.

Mogg did not punish them.

It merely stared at the hole its fist had punched, looking at the exposed cables and pipes inside, as if gazing at a gaping wound.

They had left that world which was so boring for Orks.

This time, they had jumped through the Warp, following the psychic fluctuations of the Astropaths on Vulcan-IV.

They had expected a massive "WAAAGH," a grand ritual of sacrifice to Gork and Mork.

Mogg had even rehearsed it countless times in its mind—when its Boyz flooded into the Hive City like a green torrent, when its fleet crashed onto the surface, when those weak shrimps screamed in terror—

But the process of the war now caused them severe psychological and physiological discomfort.

Discomfort.

An Ork Warboss actually feeling "discomfort."

Mogg recalled a story once told by an old shaman of the Blood Axe Clan—in the distant past, in an era when they were called "Old Orks," their ancestors had fought an eternal war against a certain metal race.

The old shaman said it was the only war that made Orks feel "unhappy."

Because there was no flesh to tear, no fear to savor, only endless metal and energy beams.

Gork and Mork above, had they encountered something left behind by that metal race?

Mogg did not know.

It only knew that its fleet needed to search again, to find a world that would let them forget those metal machines and let a "WAAAGH" make the Boyz' blood boil once more.

It turned its gaze to the eastern galaxy, to the other side of the Great Rift.

It did not want to operate on this side anymore.

Or rather, it was afraid.

Afraid of encountering those mechanical constructs again, the ones that made even Orks feel unable to "WAAAGH." That was torture for an Ork soul.

The fleet continued its voyage.

The wailing of Gretchin echoed in the corridors, the result of being used by the bosses to vent their anger.

Mogg did not stop them.

It just sat on its throne, staring at the unknown region on the star map, waiting for the next jump.

Meanwhile, at the top of the Hive City on Vulcan-IV, Helmut was disconnecting from his neural implants.

Servitors mechanically unplugged the insertion plugs, each cable disconnection accompanied by a slight "click," like some ritualistic conclusion.

The head of the Cogitator Array ceased its high-speed calculations, the mouth that had been forced open due to overheating slowly closed, and cooling steam permeated the control room into a white mist.

This defensive war was over.

This world would be able to continue to survive.

He had preserved a human world for the Imperium of Man and for Ultramar.

This thought should have brought him comfort, but Helmut only felt a profound exhaustion—like a machine that had been running for too long, with every gear worn down by gaps that should not exist.

The post-war processing was already beyond the limits of his capacity.

He had to contact his teacher, Cawl, now.

He had to do it before news of Icarus reached the interior of the Imperium of Man, and before the Imperium of Man discovered that Vulcan-IV was integrating alien corpses into its circular economy.

He did not even need to think to foresee everything—the Fabricator-General of Mars would come to seize it.

They would come under the banner of "recovering sacred technology," using the most high-sounding excuses to carry out the most naked plunder.

The High Lords of Terra would dispatch armies to requisition it.

They would say "everything belongs to the Imperium of Man," as if this world had not been protected and built by him, Helmut, and Icarus from the ground up.

The Ecclesiarchy would define Vulcan-IV as heretical.

Those priests in purple robes would wave holy icons and burn everything they did not understand to ash.

And the Inquisition would come to execute an Exterminatus—this was the worst-case scenario, and also the most likely one.

Even, if there were already assassins from the Officio Assassinorum on Vulcan-IV, they might have already begun their operation.

Assassinating him, the Archmagos of Vulcan-IV, would be the optimal choice.

As long as he died, Vulcan-IV would become their finest prize—a world with a complete industrial system, no disputes, and no heirs, like a cake laid out on a table.

Helmut's mechanical fingers were trembling, making crisp sounds of metal clashing.

He was restraining his emotions, avoiding attracting the gaze of the Warp.

But those people—those decaying High Lord families, those greedy Fabricator-Generals of Mars—did not understand one thing.

Icarus—that entity that called itself a light industrial mech—did not care about any of this.

Helmut recalled the scene when he first met Icarus.

That entity, which would be judged as "xenos technology" by Imperial standards, had not even looked properly at any Adeptus Mechanicus priest.

It merely scanned the surrounding environment, and then—

Then it began to build.

No prayers, no burning incense, no anointing with holy oils, no chanting of binary hymns to the machine spirit.

Only precise calculations, only efficient actions, only that rational thinking which made even Helmut, an Archmagos of the Adeptus Mechanicus, feel ashamed.

It did not care about the fury of Mars.

It did not care about the edicts of the High Lords.

It cared even less about the so-called curses of the Ecclesiarchy.

It only cared about one thing: establishing a production cycle and developing production capacity.

Now, its industrial cities had already taken shape on the surface of Vulcan-IV.

Those Ork fleets that, in the eyes of the Imperium of Man, were enough to trigger an apocalyptic war, were forced back by its casual intervention.

"Casual"—this word sent a shiver through Helmut.

It was like a person swatting a fly, like a machine executing a cleanup task according to its program.

No glory, no sacrifice, no heroism.

Only calculation, only execution, only results.

Helmut began to review the .ed file he had written while learning from Icarus—the compilation file that replaced the hammering, the oiling, and the praying.

He read it word by word, and suddenly a thought occurred to him, one that he himself found absurd:

Was it possible that as long as any machine spirit came near Vulcan-IV, it would yearn for it?

Once this thought was born, it could no longer be suppressed.