The chamber was stark, yet refined—too polished for a warship, too spartan for a palace. A place meant for instruction, not comfort. Cogitators and dataslates lined the walls, each containing information she barely had time to process before being shoved onto the next lesson.

  Elissa sat at a reinforced desk, a too-tight formal robe pulled around her shoulders. It was an uncomfortable thing, the high collar scratching at her neck, far too tight across her chest, the feel of the fabric unfamiliar compared to the practical gear she had worn all her life.

  Across from her, Envoy Lorian Ephil—her mentor, tormentor, and the man responsible for turning her into something resembling a proper Imperial diplomat—regarded her with the same unreadable patience he had carried since her lessons began three days ago.

  "Recite it again," Ephil commanded, his voice even.

  Elissa sighed, rolling her shoulders. "When addressing a representative of the Adeptus Mechanicus—"

  "Incorrect," Ephil cut in, shaking his head. "Try again."

  Her lips pressed together. "When petitioning a representative of the Adeptus Mechanicus, one must—"

  "Better."

  She took a breath. "One must acknowledge their station in accordance with their rank. A Magos must be addressed with full titles if standing on Mechanicus ground; aboard an Imperial vessel, certain abridgments may be tolerated. However, under no circumstances may one refer to a Tech-Priest's knowledge as mere expertise or suggest their understanding is imperfect unless prepared for consequences."

  Ephil made a small motion with his hand. "Continue."

  Elissa fought back another sigh. "If negotiations fail, avoid invoking the Omnissiah unless sanctioned by an authority recognized by Mars. Under no circumstances should one suggest the superiority of human intuition over calculated logic—"

  "Unless?"

  "…Unless the discussion pertains to matters of faith and spirit, at which point a measured invocation of the Emperor's divine guidance may be tolerated. But only if one is prepared to endure three to five hours of theological counterarguments regarding the Omnissiah's divinity."

  Ephil nodded once, signaling approval. "Good. You have the rote memorization down. Now, let's apply it."

  He tapped a dataslate. A vox-chime crackled, and suddenly the chamber was filled with a distorted, metallic voice. "Query: This unit inquires as to why you have failed to deliver the necessary components allocated to Mechanicus assets aboard this vessel. Is this inefficiency intentional?"

  Elissa straightened. She knew the scenario—Ephil had been drilling her with them for days. A simulated negotiation, forcing her to apply her lessons in real time.

  She cleared her throat. "Honored adept, be assured that no delay was made with intent to disrupt the Mechanicus' sacred work. However, matters of resource allocation fall under Imperial purview, and the redistribution was made to maintain operational effectiveness aboard this vessel. I am prepared to discuss alternative solutions."

  Ephil's lips twitched, almost amused. "A little stiff, but serviceable."

  The vox continued, the mechanical voice tinged with impatience. "Counterpoint: Efficiency has been compromised. The Omnissiah's works demand priority. You propose 'alternative solutions'—state them."

  Elissa hesitated. This was where things always became difficult. She could lead people—command them, inspire them, push them to action. But diplomacy was a different beast. It wasn't about being right; it was about maneuvering between rigid traditions, political dangers, and the egos of people who could crush her without a second thought.

  She took a breath. "Then allow me to present a compromise—"

  Ephil held up a hand, silencing both her and the vox. "No. You've already lost."

  Elissa blinked. "What?"

  "You hesitated," he said simply. "A Mechanicus representative would recognize that moment of uncertainty and exploit it. Confidence, Lady Brandt. You must present solutions before they demand them."

  Elissa clenched her jaw. "And if I don't have a solution?"

  He leaned forward, folding his hands. "Then you manufacture one."

  A long silence passed between them. Finally, Ephil exhaled through his nose and stood. "We're done for today. Review the formal petition structures before our next session. You need to be able to cite them without thinking."

  Elissa remained seated, shoulders stiff, fists clenched tight under the table. She had survived the horrors of Dusthaven, raised two daughters in a world that wanted to kill them, and held a dying town together with sheer stubborn will. And yet, this—the weight of words, the constant battle of posturing and maneuvering—felt like a new kind of war entirely.

  And she wasn't sure if she could win it.

  -

  Rubbing her eyes, Doc sifted through the security reports from the last three days. Voss had been, by all accounts, an unremarkable man—a standard member of the gunnery crews, no outstanding debts, no illicit dealings beyond the occasional black-market trade that was common aboard Imperial vessels. His quarters had revealed nothing incriminating—no heretical texts, no blasphemous symbols, no hidden compartments concealing anything more sinister than ration packs and a few trinkets from home.

  His circle of friends had been shocked by his death. They had prayed for his soul, their words swift and sincere, and when questioned, none had exhibited the telltale signs of corruption or demonic taint. Doc had learned to recognize the subtle cracks in a person's psyche that indicated the Warp had touched them—but here, there was nothing.

  Of course, I was trained with a focus on hunting xenos, not demons. She chided herself as she glanced at the worn tomes stacked beside her—Liber Heresius, Liber Malleus, and the Catechisms of Hate. Ancient repositories of knowledge, painstakingly compiled over millennia of warfare against the entities of the Warp. She had read them before, but it had been many a year.

  Hours bled away as she poured over the reports, the text blurring slightly as fatigue clawed at her mind. She sighed, rubbing her temples, and checked the chrono. Nearly eight hours had passed since she sat down.

  "Alright, recaf break," she muttered, setting the boiler to heat.

  Idly scanning another dataslate as she waited, a sharp knock echoed through her small chamber. Grumbling, she stood and opened the door to find Elissa standing there, her long, vibrant red hair a stark contrast to the cold metal walls.

  "Hey," Elissa greeted, hands on her hips, a soft smile tugging at her lips. "Haven't seen you down in the hab block. Got sick of once-a-week shared showers and nutrient paste?"

  Doc exhaled a short laugh, stepping aside to let her in. "No—well, yes, actually. But there's more to it than that."

  Elissa stepped inside as Doc shut the door. The chamber was small, like all aboard the vessel, but functional. A desk cluttered with dataslates and parchment, a narrow cot pressed against the far wall, shelves lined with reference texts and equipment, Doc's armor and bolter standing out against the bare walls. The faint scent of recaf filled the air as the boiler began to hiss.

  Doc turned back toward the steaming pot. "Got a dead man with Warp-taint. Signs are vague, but I'm worried there's some manner of demon on board."

  Elissa's body tensed. Her hand instinctively fell to the grip of her pistol. "Are we in danger?"

  Doc sighed, rubbing at her face. "Yes. Always, with demons. But specifically? I wish I had an answer for you. This isn't my area of expertise. You want tactics for fighting Orks, Eldar, Tau, Tyranids? I can give you that. But demons? Best I know is preventative measures and a whole lot of holy flame. And this one is acting strange."

  "How do you mean?" Elissa picked up a dataslate, scanning it. After a moment, her expression shifted—her eyes flickered, as if listening to something unseen. "Alright," she said finally. "Sasha is asking if she can help with your investigation."

  Doc blinked. "Sasha? I thought she left with Koron."

  "She did." Elissa hesitated, then waved the slate. "But they left us some gifts before they went. A copy of Sasha in a mini-cogitator was one of them."

  She said it so casually, as if it were nothing.

  Doc's breath hitched. Her gaze snapped toward the closed door. Moving quickly, she reached for her desk, fingers tapping out a swift command. A faint hum filled the room as the privacy systems activated.

  Then, slowly, she turned back to Elissa, her lips pressing into a thin line.

  "Honey," she said quietly, "you cannot let anyone else know about this. Ever. If the cogboys find out you have something like that, they will skin you alive to get it. And that's if they don't execute you for heresy first."

  Slowly, Elissa nodded. "I know. But, sorry. Didn't mean to throw another problem onto your pile."

  Rubbing her temples, Doc waved it off. "No, it's fine. Just gotta be careful. Never know who's listening on a ship like this. That's why I turned on the privacy systems—we should be okay for now. Nobody's going to question an Inquisitorial agent wanting some secrecy."

  A faint chime cut the air—the recaf was ready. Doc poured herself a cup as Elissa pulled up a chair, taking a cautious sip before grimacing. "Emperor's teeth, I swear this gets worse every batch."

  "And here I was grumbling about the paste." Elissa piped up with a slight grin before she smothered it. "So, Sasha," She said, seemingly more to herself than to Doc. "You said you could help?"

  For a moment, Elissa's gaze went distant as she listened to the AI. Then, activating the slate, Sasha's warm tones—higher-pitched now due to the smaller speaker—emerged. "Sure can, sugar. Doc, if you want, I can link into your systems and rapidly scan the reports if you touch them with your interface port."

  That caught Doc off guard.

  "You're offering to hop into my armor and cybernetics—?"

  "No darlin, just link in. Like watching through a camera. I wouldn't be able to access your systems, but I could see what they see and sort through this way faster than Elissa holding up the slates one by one. Or I could just link into your cogitator and be way faster."

  Doc remained silent for several long seconds. Pros: Sasha is an abominable intelligence. She would process these files far faster than I ever could. Would more than likely help in catching a demon. Cons: She is an Abominable Intelligence. Letting her into the ship's systems would be heresy.

  She paused, a thought occurring. Well… techno-heresy. Which, technically, is not in my job description to police.

  A grin threatened to tug her lips up. And fuck the cogboys in general.

  Setting her cup down, Doc pulled out a cable, hooking the slate up to her cogitator. "Have at it, girl. Just don't get me in trouble."

  "Oh, darlin', you're no fun." The cogitator flashed a pixelated face sticking its tongue out at her. "But don't worry, sugar, I'll play nice. Now, let's see—Oh. Uh, ladies? I just finished reading the reports. I've seen this before."

  Doc's heart picked up. She leaned forward. "Hit me."

  Sasha replied, quick, clinical. "This behavioral decay matches the incidents aboard the Unto the Unknown when it was stranded in the Warp. The crew exhibited erratic behavior, compulsions before their deaths. Reports described deeply personal, intimate forms of violence. Your dead man's intestines being pulled out through his rectum? That matches several cases from my ship's records."

  Elissa met Doc's eyes. "You don't think—"

  "That it followed us?" Sasha finished. "…I wish I could say that was impossible."

  Doc took a steadying breath. "What do we do?"

  "Most victims died within three days of their symptoms appearing. We start there. I can help with data analysis, but I can't go near the ship's main systems—the Hammer's AI would eat me alive."

  "Got it. Elissa, you're on my hip for this. Between the three of us, we might have a shot."

  Before they could continue, Doc's vox crackled to life. Rael, the ship's Master-at-Arms, spoke.

  "Interrogator? We have another corpse for you."

  -

  The stench struck first—a dense, suffocating mix of old blood, voidship grease, and the sour tang of fear-sweat clinging to the air like an oppressive shroud. Even before stepping inside, Doc knew whatever lay beyond wouldn't be pleasant.

  Garran Veyne's quarters were scarcely more than a metal box, identical to the countless other crew berths aboard the Hammer. But here, the walls bore the grime of decades, condensation pooling in rivulets along rusting seams. The flickering lumen strip overhead buzzed weakly, casting a sickly yellow glow over the carnage.

  His bunk was a charnel house. Blood drenched the mattress, soaking the standard-issue blanket until it adhered to the metal frame like a second skin. Crimson droplets spattered the ceiling in grotesque arcs, painting a silent testament to the violence that had unfolded. The floor beneath her boots was slick, each step peeling faintly as she moved forward.

  Garran himself was a ruin. Slumped against the berth, his body told a story of methodical savagery. His hands had been severed at the wrists with unnerving precision—no frantic tearing, no crude hacking, just clean, calculated cuts. His sightless eyes had been gouged from their sockets, leaving yawning voids in his face. And worst of all, a blood-soaked deck of playing cards had been jammed into his gaping mouth, the edges curling from the damp as though fate itself had dealt him his last hand.

  His severed hands were not missing. They rested neatly on the berth's rickety table, fingers curled with eerie gentleness around a single throne gelt. The coin gleamed, untouched by the surrounding carnage—pristine amid the chaos.

  Doc had seen demons, xenos, and plenty of human insanity. She knew in an instant.

  This was no ordinary murder.

  This was a message.

  Her auspex hummed, filtering out extraneous emissions before confirming the worst.

  "Warp taint detected," Doc muttered, glancing toward Elissa. "This bringing back any memories?"

  Elissa remained silent for a moment, her braid swaying as she chewed her lip. Then, slowly, she shook her head.

  "Shit," Doc exhaled. She turned toward the doorway, where Rael stood, his hellgun held at the ready, his stance taut with barely contained fury. "Master Rael, we need to go through this all over again. Focus on this berth and its occupants—particularly the last four days. Look for behavioral shifts, compulsions that weren't there before. I want this entire block quarantined, along with the neighboring berths. Find whatever cogboy is on duty and get his metal ass down here for video retrieval. I don't care if it's authorized—if they have a problem, they can take it up with my Inquisitor."

  Rael snapped a salute and barked orders, his men scattering to carry them out.

  Stepping back from the carnage, Doc checked the corridor before speaking. "Thoughts?"

  "I think it's preying on addiction," Elissa said, arms crossing. "The money, the cards, the dismemberment of his hands and eyes? He might have had debts, and the demon twisted that into his death."

  "Possible," Sasha interjected. "But it doesn't align with the first victim. He wasn't killed in a way that suggests an obsessive compulsion—unless humanity has developed new… fetishes in the last twenty-four thousand years that I'd rather not know about."

  "Oh, just wait until you hear about She Who Thirsts," Doc muttered. "And I'm kidding. I strongly suggest not delving too deep into knowledge of the Ruinous Powers. It tends to backlash—badly."

  "Back to the matter at hand," Elissa cut in, firm. "If this thing feeds on emotions or that's just its method, it seems to drive people to extremes before killing them. Why? More energy gain? Pleasure?"

  "No idea," Doc admitted. "Demons are, from what I've read, manifestations of emotion. We don't know exactly how they feed, hell, if they eat, but this isn't normal. Normally, when demons get involved, the signs are obvious—mutations, grotesque trophies, ritual scarring, erratic behavior, warpspawned anomalies, screaming and rifts in reality. These men? Aside from being mutilated, they were perfectly normal beforehand."

  If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  "And the footage?" Elissa asked.

  "Sporadic," Doc sighed. "Lower decks like these don't get maintenance priority. Flickering lumens, broken vox relays, malfunctioning auspex feeds—it's a perfect hunting ground for something that doesn't want to be seen."

  "How bad could this get?" Elissa's voice lowered, her gaze flickering toward the bulkheads leading to the deeper decks where their people were housed. "And can we protect them?"

  "There are protective wards," Sasha said, her tone sharpening with purpose. "I've compiled the designs and mapped optimal placements for the hab block and other critical areas."

  "I'll assign servitors to get them placed," Doc said. "And I'll do the same for my own quarters once our people are secure. No one leaves unless necessary, and we institute shift-based sleeping, at least six people per rotation."

  The trio began their long walk back toward Dusthaven's designated block, their boots ringing against the metal deck plates. Conversation drifted as Elissa recounted her latest diplomatic lesson, gesturing animatedly as she relayed her frustrations with a simulated Munitorum clerk, happy to put the weight of a demonic threat to the side, even if only for a moment.

  "I swear, if I had to sit through another hour of that machine-spirit droning on about 'proper tithe documentation'—" Elissa groaned.

  "Too bad Koron isn't here," Doc quipped. "Bet he could rewire it into something more personable. Though if he were here, I'd probably be getting even more gray hairs worrying about him getting himself executed."

  "True," Elissa conceded with a chuckle. Her expression sobered slightly. "Still, I hope the dumb bastard's okay."

  "…Do you want to talk to him?" Sasha's voice carried a teasing lilt.

  Elissa blinked. "Wait, you can do that?"

  "Of course," Sasha said breezily. "He's practically next door on the Forge-Tender."

  Elissa and Doc exchanged glances as a pregnant pause filled the air.

  "Why yes, Sasha," Elissa said with exaggerated politeness, her teeth bared in a feral grin. "Why don't you connect us to him right now? I have some words for him."

  Sasha barely restrained her laughter over the neural link.

  -

  The tiny, teardrop-shaped drone hovered silently, rendered undetectable to the sensors inside the command chamber of the Indomitable, its presence unnoticed amidst the shifting glow of holo-displays and the quiet hum of processing cogitators. Within the chamber, six Adeptus Mechanicus priests worked in a near-constant blur of mechadendrites and cybernetic limbs, the flickering green and red of their optics reflecting off polished brass and iron. The air was thick with the rapid bursts of binaric cant, a warbling symphony of data streams and machine-logic, unintelligible to unaugmented ears.

  Most of their efforts remained focused on the mundane necessities of the Forge-Tender's systems—power consumption calculations, servitor status reports, forge output reviews, and the endless quota tallies that dictated the ship's operations. Yet beneath the surface of duty-bound discourse, quieter, more fervent conversations flickered across the noosphere in encrypted bursts of machine-speak.

  +Mars calls us still.+ The transmission came from Magos Explorator Ferrum-4, his mechanical vox betraying an intensity that even augmetics could not entirely mask. +To have been present at such a moment—at such a turning of the Great Work's wheel—only to be pulled away…+ A slight distortion followed, an effect of emotional interference his neural implants had not fully suppressed. +It is inefficiency incarnate.+

  +The edict of duty holds us to the fleet.+ Another, Magos Logis Veneris-0, sent the thought with the cold precision of one who had long since severed their emotional connections to the flesh. +Deviation is illogical. The accord with the Salamanders is binding until their mission parameters dictate otherwise.+

  +Irrelevant to the desire for analysis.+ Ferrum-4 countered, his data-stream pulsing with impatience. +The xenos Harvester was obliterated. The golden spear that struck it from the planet was unlike any known Imperial ordnance. That knowledge must be ours.+

  A brief ripple passed through the noospheric web, an unspoken agreement.

  +Analysis of battlefield telemetry is incomplete.+ Another voice entered the conversation, this one belonging to Artisan-Lex Omnid V. A specialist in the preservation of archeotech, his fascination with the event was palpable even through the emotion-dampening protocols of the noosphere. +The energy discharge patterns do not match lance strikes or plasma-based munitions. The spectral readings align with no known Imperial technology… or xenos. The signature is anomalous.+

  +The anomaly cannot remain unexamined.+ Ferrum-4 interjected, his binaric tone carrying an undercurrent of urgency. +Every second wasted is a potential loss of the Machine God's wisdom.+

  Enginseer Prime Dax-17 tapped into the network, his presence calculated and deliberate. +Statement: Magos Karthis-Omnis' astropathic communique and Fabricator-General Raskian's conclusions are clear. A Standard Template Construct. An Abominable Intelligence. A survivor of the Dark Age.+

  Silence. Within the ceaseless dataflow of the noosphere, hesitation was rare. Yet here it was.

  +The answer is evident.+ Magos Veneris-0 finally transmitted. +A warship, or a planetary defense system from the Dark Age. Functional.+

  The dataflow rippled with the weight of shared realization. A discovery of this magnitude had no precedent in recorded Mechanicus history.

  +The construct and the survivor initiated the energy discharge.+ Omnid V stated. +The output does not match any recorded Mechanicus design, nor any classified Dark Age technology within our archives. This suggests direct access to an advanced, undocumented technological framework.+

  There was a pause as the implications settled. The patterns were undeniable, the data conclusive. This was not merely a lost relic; this was a functioning technological marvel, a living testament to the Machine God's will—if one chose to see it that way.

  +And the human anomaly.+ Veneris-0 added. +If its claimed origins are accurate… if it is a remnant of pre-Imperial civilization… then it, too, represents a repository of lost data beyond estimation.+

  Another ripple, but this one was less uniform. Fractures.

  +Addendum.+ Ferrum-4 amended, his signal sharp. +It represents a trove of heretical data.+

  A counter-wave surged through the noosphere, sharp and immediate.

  +Incorrect.+ Omnid V responded. +If the construct operates within the Machine God's will, then it is proof of His divine order. To discard such knowledge would be to commit sacrilege.+

  +Correction:+ Ferrum-4 snapped back. +It is an intelligence beyond human control. A thinking machine that acts upon its own volition. The very thing our order was founded to eradicate.+

  +Do you claim to know the Machine God's will better than the Omnissiah's own relics?+ Another priest interjected, this one lesser-ranked but emboldened by the moment.

  +These are not relics.+ Ferrum-4's transmission was clipped, each pulse precise and unyielding. +It is contamination.+

  Dax-17, usually a neutral observer, entered the dispute. +Correction: It is power. The Dark Age construct eliminated a xenos capital ship with a single strike. If we cannot control it, another will. If the Priesthood of Mars rejects it, the Archmagos of Stygies or the Lords of Ryza will not. If we do not claim it, someone else will.+

  More ripples, more fractures forming beneath the surface. Some priests withdrew from the exchange, unwilling to expose their thoughts. Others lingered, silent observers, absorbing the debate.

  Veneris-0, always measured, finally spoke again.

  +It matters not. We remain bound to the Salamanders until released from service.+ His statement was deliberate, though not without weight. +However, the retrieval of the anomalies is paramount. The construct. The human data-bank. The knowledge left behind. To abandon them is to abandon the Machine God's directive.+

  A pause. Then, slowly, from Ferrum-4:

  +We are bound by duty, yes. Unless… necessity dictates otherwise.+

  -

  The tiny drone hovered in perfect silence, invisible to the multitude of sensors, its micro-thrusters compensating for the subtle tremors of the Indomitable's life support systems. Below, the command chamber of the ship remained a hive of digital noise, a storm of noospheric data flickering between the six gathered priests. Their discourse pulsed through the network, a mix of raw logic and barely restrained fervor—more akin to a theological debate than a tactical analysis.

  Koron sat inside a pitch-black maintenance alcove nearly a mile from the command center, metal fingers gliding over the interface of a data-slate, harvesting access credentials with meticulous precision. Nearby, Sasha's holo-projection flickered softly from a concealed console, her pixilated face upon the golden sphere split between the ongoing argument and the slow, methodical subversion of the ship's security systems.

  +Do you claim to know the Machine God's will better than the Omnissiah's own relics?+

  Sasha let out a quiet sound, somewhere between a scoff and an amused hum. "Ain't they just precious, sugar? Standin' in the shadow of the unknowable, arguin' like they got a personal appointment with the Omnissiah himself."

  Koron didn't look up from his work. "That's faith for you. Good in some ways, bad in others." He keyed in another access request, bypassing another layer of the Indomitable's stubbornly archaic security. A fresh stream of data filled his slate—voice authorizations, genetic markers, command overrides. The machine spirit slumbered still, the pair's growing keyring expanding their reach.

  "Oh, now this is jus' gettin' interestin'." Sasha mused, parsing through the coded noospheric transmissions. "They're already splittin'. Lex and Prime wanna retrieve, study, maybe even control. But Ferrum and Veneris? Oh honey, they're sharpenin' their lil' digital knives for a full-blown purge." She tilted her face toward Koron, the golden ball flickering like candlelight. "And the others?"

  Koron's fingers never paused over the slate as he replied. "Indecisive. They fear taking the wrong stance. To them, this moment is a test of faith—a trial by data." He tilted his head slightly. "They won't stay neutral forever."

  A fresh ripple passed through the noosphere.

  +The anomaly cannot remain unexamined.+

  Ferrum-4's binaric signal pulsed through the noosphere like a hammer against steel.

  +Every second wasted is a potential loss of the Machine God's wisdom.+

  Koron chuckled under his breath. "Impatience and ironclad assurance. That's a mix I want no part of." He returned to his work, implanting subtle code sequences into the ship's biometric registry. "They cannot decide whether we are revelation or heresy."

  Sasha's holoform shifted, leaning against the console with deliberate casualness. "More like they can't decide if we're a gift wrapped all nice 'n pretty or a disease that needs curin'."

  A moment of noospheric silence—an uncertainty, a hesitation, almost unheard of in their rigid machine-born discourse.

  +The answer is evident.+ Magos Veneris-0 finally transmitted. +A warship, or a planetary defense from the Dark Age. Functional.+

  +The construct and the survivor initiated the energy discharge.+ Omnid V added. +The output does not match any recorded Mechanicus design, nor any classified Dark Age technology within our archives. This suggests direct access to an advanced, undocumented technological framework.+

  Koron exhaled slowly. "And now the questions shift."

  Sasha's little ball bounced up and down, a slow grin spreading across her face. "They don't waste time, do they? Already gone from 'What happened?' to 'How do we claim it?"

  Koron's eyes gleamed in the low light. "Which, of course, is immediately going to be followed by 'Do we allow it to exist at all?'" Sighing, he shook his head, resuming his work. "Don't even need the predictive algorithms for that one."

  Another silent pulse in the noosphere.

  +And the human anomaly.+ Veneris-0 continued. +If its claimed origins are accurate… if it is a remnant of pre-Imperial civilization… then it, too, represents a repository of lost data beyond estimation.+

  A sharp ping from Sasha's console. Another security layer breached. The ship's internal cogitator cores—three down, two to go.

  "Aaaand now I'm a treasure chest," Koron muttered dryly. "I wonder if I count as a mimic?"

  Sasha smirked. "Not enough teeth, sugar. Now, you wanna swap that title for abomination, I can oblige."

  Another ripple passed through the noosphere.

  +Addendum.+ Ferrum-4 interjected. +It represents a trove of heretical data.+

  Koron tapped a command into his slate, rerouting another command hierarchy into their growing arsenal of backdoors. "Aaaaaaand there it is."

  Sasha hummed, tiny fireworks and confetti sprouting into existence around her digital form. "Well now, ain't that somethin'? Congratulations, sugar, we're officially a schism."

  Then, a shift in tone. A measured voice, calm yet weighted with finality.

  +It matters not.+

  Veneris-0's transmission cut through the debate with the precision of a scalpel.

  +We remain bound to the Salamanders until released from service.+ A pause. The statement hung in the noosphere, deliberate and heavy. +However, the retrieval of the anomalies is paramount. The construct. The human data-bank. The knowledge left behind. To abandon them is to abandon the Machine God's directive. Barring… necessity, that is.+

  Koron's expression darkened.

  This wasn't just academic anymore. This wasn't just theological.

  Another voice followed, slower, but no less dangerous.

  Ferrum-4's transmission pulsed with something just beneath the surface. Something waiting.

  +…Yes. A necessary event...+

  The noosphere flared like wildfire, the priests' biometrics flaring as cogitators began to churn with a new direction.

  Koron felt his stomach drop.

  Sasha, usually the picture of confidence, was utterly still. Her bouncing stilled, as if deep in thought, before she spoke. "Oh, sugar… they're rationalizin' it."

  Koron's grip tightened on the slate. "They're looking for an excuse."

  They had already found justification in their faith. Now, they just needed cause.

  If necessity dictated otherwise…

  Then the duty to remain with the Salamanders would cease to matter.

  Then the Dusthaven survivors, the human lives they had sworn to protect, would be nothing more than acceptable losses.

  Koron's hands moved faster, keying in new access points, forcing the security locks open.

  Sasha spoke first, her voice low. "We need to move this train along, sugar."

  Koron was already moving. "Way ahead of you."

  Another line of code scrolled across her display—biometric scans overridden. Servitors primed for deployment.

  She brightened, dedicating more processing power toward the servitors, hands manifesting on her form as she cracked her knuckles.

  Without another word, the servitors were released.

  In the depths of the Indomitable, the silent march toward true control began.