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Imperfect Engines – Extract

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Imperfect Engines

Avalon Irons

The Adeptus Astartes knew no fear. It was an observable truth.

But the flesh was weak, and the Emperor’s Angels were still flesh.

If the Astartes knew no fear, then the mighty skitarii legions had the very concept expunged from their neuromatrices – or so Secutor Fidelia liked to proclaim in binharic cant so fervent in its conviction it would make an Ecclesiarchy preacher’s knees weak.

Five hundred and forty-seven days, twenty hours, and thirty-seven minutes ago, that same righteous sermon of lingua-technis had filled the five-chambered heart of Iota-11 with immense pride. But five hundred and forty-seven days, twenty hours, and thirty-seven minutes was a long time to find calculated errors in such a lofty idea.

Iota-11 shifted their weight back and forth on their augmetic legs nervously. Around them, dozens of skitarii arranged themselves in single-file lines, like datawafers waiting to be sorted. Their cog-tooth-trimmed black robes were a stark contrast against the sterile white tiles of the medicae hall. The waiting cyborgs only moved to approach the assorted repair stations, or depart for whatever tasks their marshals had assigned to them.

Have they all left pain behind with the weakness of their flesh? Iota-11 queried to themself, surveying their fellow skitarii, the bright blue ocular lenses of their rebreather mask finding those identical in form to their own all around them, but all utterly implacable. Rigid postures, perfectly measured footfalls, and noospheric activity entirely committed to function made things like individual sentiment impossible to determine.

After what would have been a highly efficient wait time for any Militarum medicae facility but which sat on Iota-11’s chest with the weight of all eternity, a green summoning signifier appeared in their noospheric datastream. They approached their assigned magos biologis and moved to sit on the metal examination bench with fluidity only achievable by augmentation.

The magos before them had long since transcended the frail human form, opting instead for a slender, insectoid chassis with hypermobile limbs. It nimbly weaved itself between medical machines and servitors. Intricately layered metal formed the millennia-old shape of the caduceus, with the staff implying a nose and the curling bodies of the snakes framing its cheekbones and oculars. It rotated its head on gyros with zero resistance, slanted green emitters projecting diagnostic tables and error reports. Its six legs tapped across the pristine floor with the sound of needles clattering on examination trays.

<Skitarii Ranger Iota-11.> The magos’ code contained the dispassion intrinsic to any long-toiling administrator. <This is your third service request this month.>

Iota-11 had long since had the memory of their birth name purged from their memory banks, and despite an admirable service record, silently chafed against their given designation.

Small.

Singular.

‘Magos Bashar, I continue to log–’

The magos coiled itself around Iota-11 like a constrictor, threatening and tense, levelling its flat, diamond head with theirs. <You speak to me in flesh-voice, Skitarii Ranger Iota-11?> it hissed angrily.

<Apologetic: I did not realise I had slipped out of binharic, magos. It will not happen again.>

<See that it does not.> Bashar unravelled itself slowly, its head remaining eerily unmoving even as its body untwisted. <Why are you here for the third time?>

<Informational: I continue to log errors in my right augmetic arm. I have uploaded the report–>

<I’ve read the report,> Bashar interrupted. <I’ve also become accustomed to the hyperbole common to the refugee-origin recruits to our skitarii legions.>

<Insisting: We only seek sanctuary from the enemies of the Omnissiah and to serve Him faithfully,> Iota-11 said. <Even Secutor Fidelia says that we cannot rely exclusively on menial elevation or flesh-vats to fill out Agripinaa’s forces, now that we fight without Cadia.>

Since the fall of their sister world, little stood between Agripinaa and the forces that would pick its surface clean like half-starved predators pulling every last calorie from a carcass. Magos Bashar must understand this, thought Iota-11. Every skitarius performs an essential function in Agripinaa’s survival.

But right now, Iota-11 could not hold a rifle. Not well, anyway.

Iota-11 remembered clutching the bleeding stump of their right arm and reciting the Vows of Integration on their knees in supplication before Secutor Fidelia. Trying to recall anything before that moment usually only yielded static. Whatever planet they and many other inductees had fled from had been decimated. Their arm had been lost somewhere in fleeing, fighting, or both, they assumed. That right arm was the first augmetic they ever received.

It started slowly after they recovered, and became more pronounced over time. The sensation of lagging behind, their perception struggling to keep pace with their body’s operations. However they moved their limbs, especially their right arm, an almost imperceptible afterimage would follow. The faintest blur the colour of flesh that no diagnostic of their ocular read-outs or augmetic limbs could detect or rationalise. Sensory feedback anomalies could be compensated for.

Pain could not.

<Regardless,> Bashar continued, <this report contains no new errors or malfunctions.>

<Imperative: But my arm… hurts.> Iota-11 almost pleaded, holding the limb by their wrist and lifting it, as if closer examination would prove their dilemma.

Bashar pushed the limb away with a mechadendrite. <It is an augmetic. This limb can receive auspex inputs, but it is not designed to feel. The flesh is weak, and your clinging to its weakness is as senseless as it is a waste of time.>

<Uncertain: Yet, it hurts.> Iota-11 pulled their arm to their chest, cradling it. <My finger will go numb, and my forearm burns. It feels like every pump of its actuators pulls and tears at flesh beneath.>

Bashar’s caduceus head swung back and forth like a pendulum unaffected by loss of kinetic energy. <Phantom limb syndrome. Low priority. Conduct the Daily Canticles of Defragmentation until symptoms cease. Dismissed.>

A golden completion signifier appeared in the noosphere beside the projection of Iota-11’s error report for the third time. Within moments, urgent red deployment runes surged into their datastream.

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