58: Chapter 58 Exquisite War Machines

Sister Superior Ludmilla nodded; she lacked that talent and could not understand the world of a Psyker.

But she could confirm that the youngest sister had already entered the realm of psychic power, establishing a psychic shield for them that could briefly protect them from attacks from the Warp.

She turned her head to look at Elena.

"Vehicles." After exchanging a glance with Sister Superior Ludmilla, Elena spat out those two words.

Her tone did not change, but her body had already entered a combat stance—she closed her faceplate, the muzzle of her melta cannon lifted slightly, ready to fire at any moment.

A convoy was approaching from the direction of the industrial facility.

They saw three chimera armored vehicles, standard Imperial models, but the paint job was not the common olive green or desert yellow.

They were reddish-brown, almost the same color as this wasteland.

They were maintained extremely well, with no rust or bullet marks. There was also no sense of disrepair caused by a lack of maintenance.

The rivets on the hull were uniform, the tracks had been finely adjusted, and even the headlights—parts usually regarded as "unimportant" and ignored on Imperial vehicles—were polished until they gleamed. Even the gun barrels were tied with ribbons, and prayer parchment sealed with wax was pasted on the cabin for decoration.

The way they moved inexplicably gave her the illusion of meeting Imperial nobility; only nobles would allow war machines to be decorated in such a parade-like manner.

But this excessive "exquisiteness" and "tidiness" was often more unsettling than filth and disrepair.

It usually implied order, discipline, sufficient resources, and perhaps—the cold arrogance that belonged to the nobility.

The convoy stopped a hundred meters away.

The engines cut out. The doors opened. The soldiers disembarked.

Skitarii. The conventional troops of the Adeptus Mechanicus. This did not exceed Sister Superior Ludmilla's expectations.

Usually, these soldiers, who had been modified into half-machines, wore respirator masks on their faces, had one eye modified into an optical sight, and walked with the stiff gait characteristic of hydraulic joints.

But these Skitarii were different from those in her memory.

Their equipment was very new—no, "new" was not the right word to describe it. It was "well-cared-for." Every buckle was fastened, every cable was neatly secured to the energy pack, and every weapon was polished until it shone.

But the scratches and signs of use on this equipment indicated that this was not brand-new gear fresh off the assembly line; a more reasonable explanation was that they meticulously maintained their weapons every single day.

The morale of these soldiers was high. They no longer resembled the Skitarii of a traditional Forge World.

They lacked the numbness and sluggishness of those driven forward; instead, they seemed to know what they were doing and what they had to do.

They were strange, but Sister Superior Ludmilla felt that she seemed familiar with that demeanor.

Ah, right, she had seen it; she had truly seen it—that was the demeanor of an Astartes!

These Skitarii possessed a confidence like that of the Emperor's angels, rather than the typical cautiousness of mortal Skitarii.

Their gazes swept the surroundings—vigilant, but not overly so, as if they, the three Sisters of Martyrdom, were of no concern.

Some were "rescuing" the crashed Thunderhawk Gunship? Their posture was as gentle as old friends who hadn't seen each other in a long time.

Some were looking at the sky, seemingly pondering how their gunship had crashed.

Others were looking at them, staring intensely with a judgmental gaze, as if questioning what kind of operational error could have caused the Thunderhawk Gunship to crash?

Right here, at this very moment, they faced the fully armed Sisters of Martyrdom in power armor. No one was afraid. No one raised their weapons. No one was whispering protective prayers.

Leading them was a middle-aged man.

He wore a standard Skitarii uniform—but the uniform was stained with oil, the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he had undergone limited mechanical modifications.

His face had wrinkles, sunspots, and the rough marks of long-term labor; his mechanical ocular implant emitted a blue light different from Imperial standard issue.

The energy pack on his back was neatly arranged, a Rad-carbine was slung across his chest, and his hands hung naturally at his sides. A casual demeanor of a well-educated Commander rushed toward Sister Superior Ludmilla; he did not look like a Skitarii veteran, but more like a scholar.

His face bore an expression she could not quite understand. Curiosity. It was like seeing an unfamiliar insect for the first time—wanting to get closer to look, but afraid it might bite.

Sister Superior Ludmilla gripped the hilt of her power sword. She took a few steps forward, shielding the vigilant Elena and Vera, who was kneeling on the ground with her hands supporting her, weeping and muttering prayers of praise to the Emperor.

She lifted her mechanical left arm slightly—her fingers slightly curled, ready to grasp anything that needed grasping at any moment.

The man walked to a perfect distance of ten steps in front of her and stopped; this distance would not make her feel threatened, yet allowed for better communication.

He looked her up and down, took off his helmet, and performed a hat-tipping salute.

Then his gaze lingered for a moment on the mechanical prosthetic on her left arm—and then he shook his head slightly.

He could tell it was a crude, occasionally malfunctioning prosthetic, with scratches from combat and repair weld marks on the surface. It was not pretty, nor was it elegant. It was a tool, installed on her stump after she lost her right arm, allowing her to continue fighting.

And he could also tell that whoever had made this mechanical arm for her had been very perfunctory; he had barely ensured it did not cross the bottom line of Adeptus Mechanicus dogma, struggling to complete the work.

That was right; the servants of the Adeptus Mechanicus did not like the sisters of the Order of the Martyred Lady. They always despised the servants' pursuit of "perfection" and always condemned them for modifying themselves until they were no longer human. So, when she needed the servants' help, the fact that they could give her such a piece of work was an unimaginable "sacrifice."

Then he looked up. He smiled. It was a tired but sincere smile.

Unlike the trained, hypocritical smiles of Imperial nobility, where the curve of the mouth was precise to the millimeter and the eyes squinted at the perfect angle—looking beautiful, but with no warmth in the eyes.

She could feel that this was a busy person, someone bearing a burden, instinctively showing kindness to "allies" who were not particularly friendly.

"Welcome to Vulcan-IV," he said.

His voice was hoarse but steady. His accent carried the Low Gothic variants common to a Forge World, but every word was enunciated clearly, as if he were accustomed to speaking to people from different backgrounds.

"I am Gluck, Skitarii Commander. The Archmagos sent me to collect you."

Sister Superior Ludmilla stared at him for a long time. She was evaluating her first impression of this strange world—a world with blue skies, a breathing earth, and Skitarii who could smile.

Finally, she asked the stupidest question. "Is this still Imperial territory?"