56: Chapter 56 The Invitation from the Blue Planet

"Communication signal," Elena said.

But Sister Superior Ludmilla caught the subtle hesitation in her tone.

She could understand.

When such a blue, vibrant planet unfurled before one's eyes, no one could completely conceal the excitement deep within their soul.

"Put it through," Sister Superior Ludmilla ordered in a low voice.

The communication channel hissed at first, then with a "beep," it went completely silent.

There was none of the numb static of typical communication noise, nor the dull, viscous, monotonous screeching of Warp interference.

It was abnormally clean, not at all like a radio transmission.

A male voice slowly sounded, carrying the electronic modulation characteristic of the Adeptus Mechanicus—either the vocal cords had been modified, or a vocoder had been implanted in the throat.

But the tone was surprisingly relaxed, the kind of genuine, unguarded ease.

"Unidentified vessel, this is the Forge World Vulcan-IV."

"I am Archmagos Helmut von Neumann."

This name landed on the bridge like a stone thrown into stagnant water, instantly shattering all calm.

Sister Superior Ludmilla's mechanical left hand gripped the console tightly, her fingertips almost embedding into the metal crevices.

She even vaguely felt phantom pain from this mismatched mechanical limb—this was not just physical discomfort, but an instinctive repulsion at the soul level.

In the doctrine of the Order of the Tears of the Martyr, the form gifted to humanity by the Emperor is sacrosanct and inviolable.

Machines can be tools, but they must never replace flesh and blood.

Those Tech-priests who had modified themselves beyond recognition were, in her eyes, walking a dangerous path—in the name of the Omnissiah, they were erasing the last shred of dignity the Emperor had bestowed upon humanity.

Her intuition was screaming in alarm.

In the Imperium, if something looks too easy, it must be a trap.

The relationship between the Adeptus Mechanicus and the Ecclesiarchy had never been harmonious; they each served their own "god," maintaining a fragile, pragmatic alliance only under the vague consensus that "the Emperor is the Omnissiah."

Both sides knew that without the other, the Imperium would collapse, but that certainly did not mean trust.

What kind of people were Archmagos? They lived deep within sanctuaries year-round, surrounded by the smoke of censers and binary canticles, with orders passed only through hundreds of relay nodes.

They often modified themselves to be completely non-human—perhaps only the brain and a few nerve tissues remained, with the rest being cold machinery.

To the Battle Sisters, this was a pathetic and detestable state: they were actively abandoning the humanity the Emperor had bestowed, to embrace a "perfection" she could not understand.

Such a person would never personally communicate with an unknown vessel.

Even less likely would they offer help voluntarily—the rift between the Battle Sisters and the Adeptus Mechanicus was long-standing and deep.

Sister Superior Ludmilla had seen it too many times: Tech-priests eyeing the Battle Sisters like tools to be inspected, and the Battle Sisters looking back at those half-mechanical "people" with wary eyes—in their view, it was a desecration of the Emperor's creation.

They were just allies, nothing more.

"We are the Order of the Tears of the Martyr, Zaragoza Squad," Sister Superior Ludmilla responded cautiously, deliberately emphasizing the name of the Order.

This was a reminder and a probe—reminding the other party of her identity, and testing their reaction.

"We have detected that your vessel is severely damaged," Helmut's voice sounded again, his tone carrying a trace of something strange.

It was full of concern and curiosity, but it was also like a craftsman seeing a damaged tool and instinctively wanting to repair it.

"Permission granted to dock at Moon Three, Watcher's Moon. Do you require any assistance?"

The doubts in Sister Superior Ludmilla's heart grew heavier.

There was no probing, no scrutiny, not even the condescending patience the Adeptus Mechanicus usually showed toward members of the Ecclesiarchy.

He was simply helping, like someone who would extend a helping hand without needing any reason.

In any corner of the Imperium, this was abnormal.

In her experience, the Archmagos of the Adeptus Mechanicus only cared about three things: STC Templates, production efficiency, and how to use machinery to make themselves less human.

They would never care about the life or death of an unknown vessel, unless there was something on the ship they wanted.

Much less would they speak in such a relaxed, even slightly warm tone.

Oh, Emperor.

Sister Superior Ludmilla recited silently in her heart, her lips unmoving, the voice echoing only within her skull.

Please tell me, have you guided us here—is it a blessing, or a test?

Her gaze swept quickly across the bridge, landing on her team members.

Elena's hand was already pressed against the firing switch of the melta cannon, her expression remaining calm, but her body had already entered a state of combat readiness.

Vera remained curled up in the corner, her light gray eyes closed tight, the prayer beads between her fingers spinning rapidly—she was "listening" with her psychic powers, probing for the secrets hidden behind this voice.

Sister Superior Ludmilla took a deep breath, suppressing the unease in her heart.

Whatever this "Archmagos" was—a heretic who had deviated from the teachings of the Adeptus Mechanicus, or a fallen one corrupted by Chaos—it did not matter.

The only thing she needed to know was that the Emperor had sent her here.

"We require supplies and repairs," her voice was steady and firm. "Additionally, we have three members who need to descend to the surface."

"Of course. I will notify the ground personnel to receive you," Helmut's voice was prompt.

"However..." He paused, as if weighing his words. "I suggest you check the status of your landing craft's machine spirit. Recently... uh, the machine spirits have been quite active."

The communication was abruptly cut off.

The bridge fell into dead silence once again.

A moment later, Sister Superior Ludmilla even felt she might be hallucinating—the faint buzzing of the auspex and the crisp sound of the metal hull of the Tears of the Martyr contracting seemed to carry a hint of cheer.

She closed her eyes, carefully examining her mental state, checking for any Warp contamination.

Not until her breathing returned to the steady frequency expected of a Battle Sister did she slowly open her eyes and turn to her team members.

"Elena, Vera, come down with me. The rest of you remain on the ship and maintain maximum alert."

She turned and walked toward the airlock; as she passed the porthole, the blue planet came into view once again.

It was still gently blue, so blue that it made her nose ache, almost bringing her to tears.

"Follow closely," Sister Superior Ludmilla's voice was not loud, but carried an unquestionable power.

Thirty local stellar hours later, the Tears of the Martyr successfully docked at Watcher's Moon Port Three, and with the assistance of the Tech-priest servant Cassius Vitruvius, officially initiated the repair procedures.

And the three-member Battle Sisters squad led by Sister Superior Ludmilla had already boarded the Thunderhawk Gunship, speeding toward the main planet of Vulcan-IV.