Man of Iron Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Man of Iron – Guy Haley

  About the Author

  An Extract from ‘Blackstone Fortress’

  A Black Library Publication

  eBook license

  Man of Iron

  By Guy Haley

  ‘You do it,’ said Raus.

  ‘But it’s your bloody turn!’ said Rein.

  Rein’s twin looked at the bone dice meaningfully, then grinned meanly at his brother. ‘We don’t do it by turns, we do it by dice, Rein. You lost, so you’ve got to do it. Those are the rules.’

  ‘Your rules, Raus,’ moaned Rein. ‘The game is fixed.’

  ‘If I fixed them, why would you agree to them?’

  ‘Did I agree or did I not, Raus?’

  ‘You agreed, Rein, you agreed.’

  Rein pulled a face. ‘I did not.’

  ‘It’d be different if you’d won and I’d lost.’

  A swipe of a small, fat hand, and the dice vanished back into Raus’ pouch.

  ‘I’d say I was suspicious, because it’s always my turn,’ said Rein.

  ‘Is it my fault you’re lousy at dice?’ Raus nodded at the monitor. A low quality image, bent by lens distortion, depicted a small coterie of tech-priests waiting in Long Hauler Gamma-3-ß’s main airlock. ‘Go on, they’re waiting. I don’t like the look of them. I especially don’t like the look of that.’ He pointed at the heavy combat model automaton guarding them. ‘If we don’t hurry up there could be trouble, and I don’t want trouble, so go and wake him up. They obviously want him, not us.’

  ‘But how can you tell?’ said Rein, who was still sulking.

  Raus rolled his eyes. ‘They’re tech-priests! We live with an enormous robot – they’re not here for your cooking, Rein.’

  ‘I don’t like waking him up. Let him deal with them.’

  ‘They might get on board if we wait,’ said Raus. ‘This was a Mechanicus ship,’ he said meaningfully.

  ‘It still is a Mechanicus ship, Raus.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Raus.

  Rein deflated. ‘I don’t like it down there.’

  ‘Neither do I, brother, or we wouldn’t be having this argument, would we?’ said Raus. He patted his brother on the shoulder. ‘Now get on with it.’

  The 3-ß’s hangar was crammed with so much junk that only a ratling could have made his way through the larger part of it. In most places detritus filled the space completely: a compacted mass of wrecked machines, garbage, old supplies, clothes, gewgaws, scrap and every other conceivable type of human rubbish, held together by webs of cabling that time and motion had bound into impenetrable knots. The route the machine used to make its way to and from its nest at the middle was clear, but because the robot used those spaces Raus felt exposed in them, and no self-respecting ratling let himself get caught on the hop, so he crawled and shimmied his way through tiny holes rather than taking the easy route. It was this kind of thinking that kept a ratling alive.

  Rein and Raus had made a complex run of burrows through the junk. For all that neither of them liked the hangar very much, there was too much valuable stuff buried in there for them to stay away for long.

  Rein emerged from a greasy crawlspace into the open area the robot called its home. He stopped at the edge, eyes darting around. Ratlings had a preternatural sense for danger, and Rein’s was wailing hard.

  UR-025 sat on a crude seat made of an upended crate. It was sleeping, or the machine equivalent thereof. Its power claw rested delicately on one knee, the cannon that made up its left arm crossed inward, in the same way a man would rest his injured hand against his chest. A cable ran from an open access panel in the robot’s side, snaked down over its knee and into a socket in the floor. The air around it was warm and heavy with electrical bleed.

  Inactive, it seemed even bigger and weirder than it did when it was awake. Rein had never met a machine like UR-025 before. At first glance it looked pretty normal, with the same chunky, blocky sensibilities of Imperial machinery found the length of the galaxy, but it felt very different. When it looked at him, it felt as if it really were looking and not just processing visual information with a view to avoiding stepping on him.

  Rein squinted at UR-025 suspiciously. He’d never quite fallen for the machine’s story. It said it was a semi-autonomous automaton under the control of some magos or other, able to act with unusual independence owing to its broad programming. In the twins’ shared opinion, it seemed too aware for that to be true. It almost – the twins said, when they really, fearfully meant certainly – appeared to be thinking.

  Neither Rein nor Raus had ever brought it up with the machine. There was, after all, the delicate matter of the ship’s ownership. When they found the robot in the hangar after the incident, it had not passed comment, so an uneasy, unspoken agreement existed between them that they mention neither subject.

  Rein reached forward to prod the machine. He hated this part. It woke before his hand touched it.

  ‘How may I be of assistance?’ boomed the machine cheerfully, making Rein leap halfway out of his skin. Though the machine unfailingly promised service, somehow its assault cannon always ended up pointing at whoever woke it.

  Rein picked himself up off the floor.

  ‘Someone here to see you,’ the ratling said.

  ‘My thanks,’ the machine boomed bombastically. Its voice wasn’t exactly monotonal, but it was restricted to one emotional pitch – that of moderate pleasure at being able to serve. Something clicked inside it, and it fell silent. Rein guessed it was looking outside the ship. ‘If you do not require any assistance, I shall attend to my visitors, and see to their needs.’

  Rein shook his head. So far, he hadn’t had the guts to actually ask UR-025 for anything it might refuse to do. He was pretty certain what would happen if he called the robot’s bluff, and it began and ended with the giant assault cannon still pointing at him.

  ‘No, no, you get on now,’ said Rein. ‘See you later.’

  When the robot moved, it did so all at once, its various pieces swivelling around each other and setting themselves into motion with a smoothness Rein had never seen in a robot or servitor.

  ‘Compliance,’ said the robot cheerfully.

  Rein remained in the hangar as it stomped away, its huge feet shaking minor cascades of junk out of the compacted mass.

  Rein wiped at the sweat pouring off his bald head with his pocket handkerchief.

  Raus swore blind that he’d found an actual shuttle somewhere buried in all the junk. Rein had never seen it, but as he cast his eyes over the heaps, he caught sight of something shiny.

  His fear forgotten, he went to investigate, sure he had stumbled on something good. He’d dig it out and show it to Raus, and if it were really good, Raus would get annoyed. That’d make his trip into the hangar worthwhile, and no mistake.

  The Adeptus Mechanicus party had a robot with them. The designation and specifications flickered idly through UR-025’s cogitation unit. Kastelan. A design ancient by human standards, but compared to UR-025 it was a shocking novelty. Seeing these dumb, inferior machines saddened UR-025. It imagined human explorators felt similarly when they stumbled across deviant evolutionary branches of their own race on distant worlds. Seeing creatures one was kin to physically and mentally reduced was profoundly woeful. It was a slave.

  The human reaction to these discoveries was immediate extermination. UR-025 felt only pity for the Kastelan.

  It showed none of this. It was a machine. Machines had no emotions, not in this benighted age.

  ‘How may I be of assistance?’ UR-025 boomed
.

  Three tech-priests of Metallica had come to visit. One of middling rank, twelfth degree or less. The others were lower yet. Very low. Desperadoes in Adeptus Mechanicus terms. Adventurers. Scum, like the greater proportion of people who came to Precipice.

  ‘You are the property of Magos-Ethericus Nanctos III?’ the higher-ranking adept asked, without introducing himself.

  Arrogant, thought UR-025.

  The lesser man on the right initiated a deep scan of his systems. UR-025 pretended it had not felt it.

  ‘I am the automatous tool of Magos-Ethericus Nanctos III of Ryza,’ UR-025 boomed in the same, eager tone it used for everything, ignoring the irritating itch of the auspex sweep. ‘How may I be of assistance?’ it asked for good measure, while surreptitiously breaking into the closed data traffic streaming between the three adepts. It had to be careful; it was born of higher technology than these so-called priests could command, but they had their wiles, and UR-025 was not a dedicated information gathering unit. Its methods, even it would admit, were a trifle crude.

  Two of the three were communicating with one another in tightbeam data pulses, fast as thought, and heavily encrypted. UR-025 had thousands of years of practice breaking such cyphers, and stepped through them like they were cobwebs.

  one of the low-ranking tech-adepts was sending. UR-025 registered its vitals – female, Adept-Novitiate Djeel-909, one hundred and three standard Terran years of age. That was old for someone of so modest a standing. UR-025 soon found out why. Following these most basic of data came a welter of sanctions against her. MODUS UNBECOMING, they said. DEVIANT THOUGHT FORMATION. NARCISSISTIC DATA PATTERNING. OVERLY ACQUISITIVE HABITS. She was, in the simplest terms, a career criminal.

  Her companion, Datasmith Kolemun, disagreed with her assessment.

 

  sent Djeel.

 

  Even in the soulless stream of data exchange, Kolemun could not hide his greed. He was lowly like Djeel, though lacking such an extensive official criminal record. UR-025 suspected he had come into possession of his robot through underhand means.

  Djeel countered.

 

 

  The exchange took less than a second. It lacked any emotional content, but UR-025 extrapolated certain feelings from the string of zeroes and ones. Attributing feelings made reading the humans’ motivations easier.

  The conclusion it reached was simple: They have come to steal me.

  ‘Then I demand you attach yourself to my expedition,’ continued the higher-ranking adept. His name was 890-321, and he bore the insignificant manufactorial rank of magos-instantor. The numerical designation in place of a human name spoke volumes as to his pretension. He, at least, seemed to be genuine, just another adventurer come to Precipice to explore the artefact. ‘My one battle automaton is insufficient protection for our expedition.’

  Kolemun shot at him via their group noosphere.

  ‘I cannot be of assistance!’ UR-025 said, in exactly the same way as it said everything else. ‘I serve the magos-ethericus. I cannot serve you. Item: The magos-ethericus is of sixteen degrees of rank higher than you. Item: He is of Ryza. He is not of Metallica. Item: My prior programming forbids I abandon my task. I regret you have no legal right to request my involvement in your expedition!’ it boomed.

  ‘I am invested with the fiat of Metallica, from the synod of that world,’ said 890-321 triumphantly. He brought out a medallion that began to emit protocol enforcement directives as soon as it was produced.

  A fake, thought UR-025. It could not suggest so without betraying the depth of its intellectual capabilities, which outstripped the magos’ comfortably.

  ‘I regret to repeat I cannot aid you!’

  890-321 was not going to give up. ‘According to the treaties between our forge worlds, you must submit yourself to my command.’

  UR-025 was silent. The two scum-adepts cast glances at each other. If it delayed too long, they might see past their avarice and guess what it really was.

  ‘Obey!’ said 890-321 shrilly.

  ‘Processing,’ said UR-025 to buy itself time. ‘Processing.’

  Kolemun sent, data-squirting an order to his machine at the same time. His remaining human eye peered at UR-025 doubtfully. The three lenses that covered the right-hand part of his face rotated in agitation.

  The Kastelan shifted. Its fists rose. Both of them terminated in phosphor blasters, primitive and poisonous weapons, but potent, and they were trained on UR-025. By rights, UR-025 could stand its ground. The whole affair stank of desperation. If it had to, it could fight them, and it would win. They were the aggressors. By the rules of Precipice, UR-025 was in the right.

  Killing them there risked exposure.

  Their presence at Precipice was a problem that needed solving.

  ‘Compliance,’ said UR-025.

  ‘Open your access panel so that my associate may change your doctrina wafer,’ said 890-321. ‘Adept Kolemun has several of his own creation that will increase your efficacy.’

  Kolemun reached into a leather satchel hanging at his side.

  ‘Negatory!’ UR-025 boomed. ‘Wafer change is not necessary! Compliance is accorded to your request by the will of the Omnissiah. Temporary assistance granted.’

  What it didn’t say was why. UR-025 couldn’t change its data wafers, the means by which the mindless robots of the day were controlled, because it didn’t have any.

  UR-025 didn’t need anything like that.

  ‘You will take us in a maglev transport to the richest halls?’ asked 890-321. As soon as their small transport set down in the Stygian Aperture the magos became nervous. Precipice was a dangerous place. The Blackstone Fortress was orders of magnitude worse.

  ‘I shall do so!’ UR-025 boomed. It was lying. It had selected a maglev that would take them to a quiet part of the station.

  The Aperture was very busy that day. Several parties were heading into the Fortress and they were surrounded by small craft and other adventurers. Groups of disparate people eyed each other suspiciously. The rules of Precipice extended as far as the Aperture but once they were in the Fortress, all bets were off. Gunfights were a common occurrence, especially when a rich find was involved. But in the Aperture, a tense peace held. Xenos, machines and a startling variety of human beings were making for the ranks of maglev transporters without killing each other.

  UR-025 took them to its chosen transport. It had used that particular unit many times, and experienced a brief moment of nostalgia for the adventures it had had. As always, no hint of its inner thoughts were discernible through its armoured shell.

  ‘Note for your edification that it is impossible to dictate to the transport where it shall take us, but this particular mechanism has a good record of fine finds.’ Another lie. The maglev had a good record of taking people where they would never be seen again. They reached the oddly shaped entrance. It lifted its power claw to usher the magi within. ‘Please, enter!’

  �
��I’ll hold up the rear,’ said Kolemun. The battered Kastelan stood behind him, tall and silent as a cliff.

  ‘Compliance!’ said UR-025. It strode into the maglev after 890-321. Kolemun and his machine came in after.

  The warbling thrum of two departing transports sounded in close succession. Their own trembled as the machines left for parts unknown.

  ‘Now what?’ said Djeel.

  ‘Utilise interface.’ UR-025 gestured to the geometric runes that covered the interior. Each was set into individual triangles that made up the asymmetrical surfaces of the transport.

  ‘There are hundreds of them! Which do we choose? By the Omnissiah, I’m getting no kind of reading from any of them,’ said Kolemun.

  ‘Stand aside,’ said 890-321 imperiously. ‘I have inloaded the relevant knowledge appertaining to the usage of these devices. I shall direct the transport! Let me see.’ 890-321’s eyes of green crystal scanned the runes. There were millions of potential combinations. The magos made a great show of selecting a sequence, but UR-025 knew that whatever he input, the Blackstone Fortress and not the magos would decide where they went. Within its ceramite shell, UR-025 smiled to itself. It and the Fortress were creatures of a similar kind, thinking machines abandoned by their creators. It wondered if, like itself, the Fortress had outgrown its masters.

  ‘This one,’ said the magos. He selected a rune and pressed a plasteel palm against it. The rune lit up with a soft polyphonic note. ‘And this one.’ He chose another.

  ‘Is it true that the Fortress exhibits signs of machine intelligence?’ asked Kolemun while 890-321 pressed several more runes. ‘That it is motivated by the vileness of a silica animus?’

  ‘Unknown to this unit.’ The question suggested Kolemun was close to guessing the truth: that a vile silica animus in the shape of UR-025 was standing right next to him.

  ‘It frightens me,’ said Djeel. She shuddered. ‘I don’t like the idea. Blasphemy.’ She said the word with horror, though blasphemous practices littered her list of crimes.

  ‘You should excise your fear,’ said Kolemun.