Prelude

With a grinding of gears and squeal which, had his audio bafflers not auto-compensated, would have set the teeth he no longer owned on edge, the enormous ceramite and iconite door before Wyndame worked its way open. The visible mechanism was typical of designs of the Adeptus Mechanicus; great chromed and bronzed cogs and leavers spinning and hinging in overly theatrical movements, functionally opening the gateway to the inner sanctum but also impressing all witnesses with the glory of the Machine God and his works.

If Wyndame still had the capacity to sneer he would.

Smoke billowed out of the grand chamber beyond the doorway, clinging to the wrought steel deck plates. Wyndame was alone on the walkway, as the Master always wished it. He shuffled forward, away from the harsh fluorescence of the deck lights on their midday cycle and into the gloom of the room before him. Nasal filters immediately compensated for the copious smoke and incense. Analysis data scrolled across Wyndame’s eye implant HUD generating an audible tut from beneath his hood. A heady mix of opiates and “enhancers” today.  That meant the Master would be in one of his “moods”.

As the Master’s Seneschal Wyndame was his right hand; acting as major domo, counsellor, facilitator, administrator, accountant and ambassador. Over the years the Master had become increasingly reclusive and engaged within his studies leaving more and more matters in Wyndame’s manipulator appendages. That, however, was acceptable. The Seneschal was conditioned to obey and to serve as he had for decades before then but obedience still permitted a sense of resignation to one’s fate, occasional frustration at weakness  or illogical behaviours and frequent recognition of open folly. Especially when it came to the MasterMaster and his fanciful notions.

The doors to the chamber ground closed, their immense size making a grand and impressive clang as they met and sealed in place.  Impressive for the first few dozen times, perhaps, but to the jaded figure who now slowly approached the central dais they had long since lost all gravitas.

With his image intensifying optics compensating for the smoke and vapour from the brass incense burners and braziers that surrounded the centre of this vast room Wyndame could see the Master was furtively scribbling. To the left a dictation servitor was desperately trying to right itself after seemingly having been knocked down from the dais. It’s typography limbs singularly inefficient at any task other than transcription.

The Seneschal made two vocalisations in an approximation of coughs.  The Master continued his manic activity.

“M’lud?” Wyndame finally spoke. Still no obvious recognition. With a visible shrug (had there been any witnesses paying him attention) Wyndame started to drag himself up the steps of the dais but stopped suddenly as the master sat bolt upright and then whipped around to face him. The Seneschal was stuck by the fact that the Master looked more composed and in command of his faculties than he had seen him for a very long time.  “Oh dear” was his immediate thought.

Wordlessly, the Master slowly stood. Using his baroque style, bionic arm with golden filigree to dust crumbs and specks from his velvet breaches, he picked a dainty kerchief from the baroque style writing desk with golden filigree and started, in vain, to try to slowly wipe the ink stains from his still-human hand.

Wyndame remained paused. His augmented subprocessors hastily checked for viable response options but every behaviour selection previously utilized in engagements with the Master was evaluated to now carry disproportionate risk.  Silence to, for as long as this had now been, carried with it similar risk. A further audio output was increasingly necessary.

“M’lud, why are you troubling yourself so? Was the servitor malfunctioning?”

The Master’s gaze was still fixed on Wyndame.

He spoke. “Too slow.” He placed the ineffective and now only slightly ink stained cloth back on the desk.

“But Master that has never been an issue before.  It represents a significantly valuable model in terms of invested Thrones and was always satisfactory until now. Would you like the Magos to…”?

“No. Enough. Too slow now. Too much to do, too much to say.  It couldn’t keep up you see.  Was just in the way so I had to get it out of the way and do it myself, do you see? Things are happening, things are changing and it’s all becoming important again, do you see?”

Oh dear, oh dear.  Thought Wyndame. That’s it then, the years of wandering around and exploring, monitoring and measuring are done. His behavioural buffers and conditioning routines were suddenly under more pressure than they had been for some time.

"Why are you here though? Did I send for you?”

“Yes, Master, well no Master, not specifically.” Do you see what you have done? Wynadme thought, you are making me flustered.  I am never flustered. This is your doing.

“Out with it Wyndame, this isn’t like you.”

No, it wasn’t.

“Master, you wished for me to tell you when the probes and survey data was received.”

“Did I?” Oh dear…there was a gleam in the eye there, an almost perceived smile. He knows, by the Throne of Mankind, he knows, but I don’t know how.

“Have you seen the data Master?”

“No.  But you know I know what it says.”

“Master?”

“I was right, wasn’t I? My visions were correct.  I have seen it”

“Well Master, there is much to be confirmed and the data is only the preliminary scans. There is a significant margin of error, especially at this distance.”

“But? Say it”

“Say what, m’lud?” Wyndame was increasingly the furtive one now.

“Tell me how correct I was.  What have we found.”

The Seneschal fell back on what was safe, what was secure, what was reliable.  He started to recite the precis report summary in a monotone;

“At 249 days Standard 101.M42 a rogue asteroid with a mean diameter of 423 clicks, entered the current system at a speed of…”

“No!” the Master interrupted. “What IS it? What does it look like?”

“M’lud…” Wyndame was back to his usual, vocoder tinged voice.  He hated this. “…it looked a lot like a head.”

“Whose head?”

“Well, Master that data is subjective and..”

“Whose?”

“Some might liken it to a facsimile of the likness given to approximations of the mortal visage of the individual recognised within the Imperium of Mankind as his holiness the God-Emperor...”

“Told you.” The Master, a beaming smile on his face and exuding an enormous sense of victory and self-satisfaction, sat back down in his desk chair with a lump. “And now it begins… Again. Not that it ever really ended. "

“M’ud?”

With a sudden burst he was on his feet again and with a dramatic flourish he pointed up to the ceiling and the huge vista view ports that gave an unparalleled view of the stars, and the rip in reality that tore through them.

“Set sail man! All engines to full! And gather our chosen ones…you have a job for them…”