'The machine did this?' asked the figure, its facemask like that of a grinning crimson skull with a horn of gleaming metal jutting from its chin. Despite the synthetic edge to its tone, there was no mistaking the feminine nature of the voice.

'So it would appear, Remiare,' replied Chrom without turning to address her.

'And you would employ such a machine? One that kills without orders?' said Remiare disgustedly. 'To eliminate without purpose or design is wasteful.'

'Indeed,' agreed Chrom, 'but there was purpose here. You are my most lethal Mechanicum Assassin, but you are blind to the emotions involved.'

'Emotions are an impediment to the truth of killing,' snapped the assassin. Chrom turned to face the assassin, surprised at the vehemence in her tone. Hardwired targeting apparatus grafted to the side of her skull made her a deadly killer and the long snake-like sensor tendrils that swam in the air at her back ensured that she would always be able to track her prey.

The Tech-Priest Assassins of Mars were a law unto themselves and Chrom knew better than to antagonise one with talk of emotions, but he could not resist elaborating.

'True, but it was emotions that killed these Protectors,' he said. 'I believe the Kaban machine formed some kind of bond with the mutinous Ravachol in the preceding weeks. It is truly a wondrous thing we have done here. A mind from mindlessness. Thoughts from chaos. A creation that lives and develops, that grows and learns. To create a being that lives and thinks for itself... what is that if not the power of a god?'

'It is arrogance,' said Remiare, fingering the grips of the exquisitely designed pistols she wore, low-slung, on her hips.

Chrom permitted himself a chuckle at the assassin's obvious distaste and said, 'We come from differing perspectives, Remiare. Your genius is with ending lives. Mine... well, mine is in creating them.'

'Then give me an order,' said the assassin, her voice keen with the feral anticipation of the kill.

'Very well,' said Chrom. 'I charge you with the elimination of Adept Pallas Ravachol.'

Remiare gave a high, keening cry that signalled the beginning of her hunt and leapt into the air. Her lower body twisted like smoke, her long, multi-jointed legs fused together just above the ankles by a spar of metal. Below the spar, her legs ended, not in feet, but in a complex series of magno-gravitic thrusters.

The assassin skimmed up the walls and over the ceiling, spiralling away down the corridor on her mission of murder and Chrom knew that Ravachol was now as good as dead.

He turned back towards the adepts working on the Kaban machine and said, 'Are its weapons offline?'

Adept Laanu himself looked up and said, 'Yes, Lord Chrom. The machine's weapons are no longer active.'

'Then reconnect its communication arrays,' ordered Chrom, walking with heavy, metallic steps to stand in the centre of the chamber before the Kaban machine.

He watched as Laanu directed his tech-priests and, moments later, the sensor blisters brightened as the machine became aware of its surroundings once more. The lights flickered and blinked for several seconds before glowing with a steady yellow light.

'Can you hear me?' asked Adept Chrom.

'I can hear you,' replied the machine. 'Where is Adept Ravachol?'

'Do not concern yourself with Adept Ravachol, machine,' warned Chrom. 'You should be more concerned with your own fate. You killed soldiers of the Mechanicum.'

'They were going to hurt my friend.'

'Your friend?' said Chrom, shaking his head. 'No, Adept Ravachol is not your friend. Did you know he came to me with grave concerns regarding your very existence?'

'I do not believe you,' said the machine, but the voice-stress analysis readers embedded in Chrom's skull told him that the machine was lying. Inwardly he smiled; already the machine was learning the nuances of human behaviour.

'I already know you do,' stated Chrom. 'And in moments I can know every detail of what you and he talked about when he returned from my forge. Your memories can be extracted from your synthetic cortex. Of course there is a danger that this may damage your synaptic network, but that is a risk I am willing to take.'

The blisters on the front of the machine pulsed and it said, 'Now I know that you are lying, Adept Chrom. I am too valuable to you for you to risk damaging me.'

Chrom nodded. 'You are right, you are too valuable to me, but there are some truths you must hear if we are to converse with no pretence between us.'

'What truths?'

'That Adept Ravachol would see you destroyed,' said Chrom. 'Surely he must have told you of his belief that you are a dangerous creation.'

The machine paused a moment before replying and Chrom knew that he had found a weakness. Unlike humans, with their flawed memories and unreliable facility for recall, the machine had a faultless memory and remembered every word spoken to it. Even now it would be replaying its every conversation with Ravachol.

'Tell me what you and Adept Ravachol spoke of,' said the Kaban machine at last.

The Basilica of the Blessed Algorithm was one of the mightiest structures on Mars, its immensity dwarfing even the greatest forge temples of the Mondus Gamma complex. Smoke-belching spires of iron pierced the yellow skies and a towering dome of blue stone stretched into the clouds. Vast pilasters framed the yawning gateway, the pink marble inscribed with millions of mathematical formulae and proofs.

The shadow of the vast basilica swallowed Ravachol as he made his way along the Via Electrum, still many miles distant from this place of pilgrimage. An entire demi-legio of battle titans from the Legio Ignatum, a hundred war machines, lined the road and their majesty and power was humbling to a mere human. The protective domes of this region of Mars were so vast as to generate their own climate, and the red and gold banners of the titans flapped noisily in the wind. The sky was filled with vast prayer ships, gold-skinned zeppelins that broadcast an endless stream of machine language from brass megaphones and trailed long streams of prayers on yellowed parchment.

Thousands of pilgrims filed along the stone-flagged roadway, its surface worn into grooves by the sandaled feet of a billion supplicants. Monolithic buildings surrounded him, machine temples, tech-shrines and engine-reliquaries - all dedicated to the worship and glorification of the Omnissiah, the Machine God.

Here he attracted no notice for his entourage, for there were others who travelled with creations far more outlandish than mere battle servitors. Here, a limbless adept was carried atop a multi-legged palanquin surrounded by impossibly tall tripods that walked with a bizarre, long-limbed gait. There, the fleshy remnants of a collective consciousness travelled in a floating glass tank that was escorted by a squad of Castellan battle robots slaved to its will.

Gaggles of robots, floating skulls and gold plated skimmer carriers bore passengers and favoured relics towards the basilica, and the few people that were moving away from the temple wore the contended expressions of those who had found their expectations met and exceeded. The sense of drawing near somewhere magnificent and special was palpable and Ravachol knew he had made the right decision to come here.

Here he would find solace and an answer to his questions.

He shivered as he looked up into the glaring scowl of a Reaver Battle Titan, its mighty weapons pointed towards the heavens, the gesture both symbolic and enlightening. The Mechanicum was capable of creating the deadliest war machines imaginable, but Ravachol now appreciated that they accepted no responsibility for their employment. The creators of the Kaban machine had achieved the miraculous in creating it, but where was the acknowledgment of responsibility for its existence?