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|TRAITOR|
Bonar watched the figure before him in silence.
The figure was young, childlike innocence written across that face, alongside something else, an aura that defied easy naming.
White robes.
The same eyes as Bonar.
|You are a traitor|, the figure said.
“No.
I’m not.” Bonar’s voice was quiet.
|You are.|
|Horus was not the greatest traitor.
You and I both know that.
You are.|
|Traitor Bonar.
The first to ignite the great heresy.
The one the Chaos Gods made a fool of.|
|Even ten thousand years later, the Imperium of Man never escaped the shadow of that heresy.
It became exactly what you least wanted to see.|
|You destroyed Father’s dream.|
Bonar did not argue.
He only watched the figure in silence.
The young figure kept speaking.
|You killed Uncle Malak with your own hands.
He died trying to wake you.|
|You drove Grandfather Malcador to his death.
He labored for humanity his entire life and never had a moment’s rest.|
|You destroyed the dream Father worked so hard for.
To this day he sits on that instrument of torment, enduring endless suffering, and you rest here without a care in the world.|
|For ten thousand years, every single second across the galaxy, countless humans have died because of what you did.|
|You are a traitor.|
More dark shadows rose behind the young figure, and they spoke in unison.
|You are a traitor.|
|You are a traitor.|
“Your Highness…”
“Your Highness.”
Bonar woke.
His vision was blurred.
He waited for it to clear, and then made out Captain Dakan standing over him, expression urgent.
“Your Highness, forgive my impertinence — your face looked pained just now, so I woke you.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Your Highness, we are still some distance from the Asdenak system, and you have rested for less than three standard Terran hours.
Do you need to sleep a little longer?”
“No.
I can’t sleep.
Where is Magos Dokson?”
“Magos Dokson is in his quarters.”
“Good.”
Bonar moved to dress, and caught his own reflection in the mirror.
A massive, terrible scar ran across his chest.
Those dark eyes stared back at him.
The reflection opened its mouth.
|You are a traitor.|
Bonar did not respond.
He pulled on his white robes and walked out.
He made his way to Magos Dokson’s quarters, or more precisely, the Magos’s designated area.
Admiral Spire had accorded the Magos considerable respect.
Losing an entire force and having one’s ship destroyed did not change the fact that Magos Dokson was still a Magos of the Adeptus Mechanicus, not one of the Tech-Priests practically exiled into the ranks of some military unit.
“Magos, are you there?”
Bonar stopped outside and waited.
Nothing.
“Magos?”
“Then I’m coming in.”
The moment he stepped inside, mountains of draft paper greeted him, every sheet covered edge to edge in dense formulae.
Bonar picked his way carefully through the stacks, then noticed thick black smoke billowing from deeper in the room.
Had Gakkas wandered in here to work on one of its bizarre inventions?
“Magos?”
Stepping through into the inner room, Bonar came face to face with a massive mechanical shape.
Not a creature, Magos Dokson.
More than a dozen mechadendrites extended from the Magos’s back, never stopping, scrawling across draft paper at blinding speed.
And Bonar could see it with his own eyes: black smoke was rising from Magos Dokson’s brain.
“Magos!
What are you doing?”
Magos Dokson finally stopped the frantic calculations and turned to look at Bonar.
There was not a scrap of flesh on that face, but Bonar could still tell, the Magos was in a manic state.
“%…$#…%!&%*%$!”
“Magos, please speak in Low Gothic.
I cannot make out your Binary.”
“State your purpose.
You have already wasted exactly three seconds and two marks of my time.”
“I wanted to remind you that it’s time to return my book.”
Magos Dokson spun around.
A dozen mechadendrites braced against the bulkhead and thrust that oil-reeking face directly in front of Bonar’s.
The Magos examined Bonar through a monocular sensor.
“This book is a supreme treasure.
It is worth an entire fleet’s worth of lives.
I cannot simply hand it back.”
“But its origins may not be entirely wholesome.
It may not hold as much benefit for you as you think.”
Magos Dokson studied Bonar, and in an instant had calculated everything.
The veiled meaning landed.
“In that case, I can return it to you.
However, I will need to retain it for approximately five Terran days.”
“Agreed.
I only ask that by then, Magos, you will be standing on my side.”
The Magos’s observation lens rotated slightly.
“Of course.
That is part of our contract.”
“Though I should warn you: the probability that the local Archmagos will agree is less than 7.18461%.”
“Yes, yes, Magos — that is something for me to worry about.”
…
The Righteous Guardian reached the Mandeville Point and translated out of the Warp.
Forge World Asdenak.
A Forge World newly established fifty years prior.
Enormous smelting facilities sat at the planet’s north pole, drawing on the magma beneath the crust to feed a ceaseless supply of thermal energy.
From those great smelting works at the core, relay stations and vast open-cast mining sites spread outward across the planet’s surface.
Archmagos Antona, the Adeptus Mechanicus Planetary Governor, was the sole authority ruling this newly risen Forge World.
If the Eastern Fringe was already considered remarkably remote, then the Asdenak system was a place not even a ghost could find.
In that forsaken corner of the galaxy with nothing for leagues in any direction, Archmagos Antona harbored deep and simmering resentment.
As an Archmagos who had lost a power struggle within a Forge World, Antona was, strictly speaking, an unlucky exile.
Former colleagues had conspired together to seize the technical archives Antona had personally assembled, driven Antona out of Stygies VIII, and had Antona placed on the Inquisition’s watch list.
It had done nothing good for Antona’s already volatile temper.
Antona grew intolerant of the smallest error — even errors that caused no real harm, and more than a few unfortunate Tech-Priests and apprentices had been converted into Skitarii as a result.
Then Antona’s own apprentice came hurrying over.
“Instructor, there is an Imperial Lunar-class Cruiser requesting permission to land.”
Antona set down the work at hand and looked at the apprentice with an irritated expression.
The apprentice looked back with visible tension.
“Imperial Navy?
Have they stated their purpose?”
“They say they have a transaction they wish to conclude with you.”
Antona grew more puzzled, rapidly calculating through every possibility.
The most likely scenario: the Imperial Navy in the nearby Sector had suffered heavy losses and been forced to seek assistance from a newly established Forge World.
As it happened, Antona also needed certain materials.