Hearing the task Dukel had assigned him, Forge General Doron felt an instinctive urge to refuse. He understood all too well the dangers that lay ahead—this mission could very well be a matter of life and death. But before the words of refusal could leave his lips, his gaze fell upon the Standard Template Construct (STC) before him. A complete template.
No matter its function, such an artifact was worth starting a war over within the Mechanicus.
The Primarch had given so much.
His internal subroutines flooded him with error messages, rational calculations screaming against the overwhelming risk. But in the end, greed proved stronger than reason.
"Your Highness Dukel, your will is my path forward." Doron's voice was steady as he silenced the warnings in his mind.
"A wise choice." Dukel smiled.
"The Mechanicus is the most steadfast ally of the Imperium. My brothers and I seek to lead the Imperium toward our shared ideals, and we cannot do so without the blessings of the Omnissiah. If you succeed in this mission, I will commission grand projects across the Sol System. Doron, I hope to see you as my chief Tech-Priest in this future."
"You honor me greatly. I swear to serve you with all my strength, Your Highness." Doron bowed deeply, his heavy cybernetic frame humming with the movement.
"Go forth, then. Gather what aid you need. I do not deal in miserliness—serve me well, and you shall be rewarded beyond measure."
Doron's mechadendrites twitched at the prospect of further rewards, but he forced himself to focus.
"Your Highness, I give you my word—on the day you ascend as Supreme Warmaster, the Imperium will march at your command." His mechanical voice carried little emotion, yet Dukel recognized the fire in his optics. The burning drive of ambition.
The Forge General turned and left, his towering mechanical form lumbering out of the chamber.
Dukel leaned back at his desk, flipping through a thick dossier on the Adeptus Mechanicus. The Tech-Priests were not truly subjects of the Imperium, but rather its allies. Their position was one of singular authority, one of the twin-headed eagle's two ruling powers.
If he wished to launch the Second Great Crusade, he would need the Mechanicus. The construction of weapons, the maintenance of void fleets—all of it relied upon the Fabricator-General's favor.
The challenge was not in securing their assistance. It was in controlling it.
Dukel did not excel at solving problems. He excelled at solving the people who caused them.
Thus, he sent Doron ahead, tasked with bribing those who could be bought. As for those who could not?
He and Guilliman would handle the heretics personally.
Doron left the Primarch's presence deep in thought. He would need to convince the great Magi of Mars to align with Dukel's vision. The anti-gravitic platform beneath him emitted a constant hum, bearing the weight of his cybernetic bulk.
As he passed through the corridors, lesser priests and menials stepped aside, making way for the Forge General's imposing form. His massive frame cast long shadows over the rust-red steel of the station.
Boarding his personal skimmer, he returned to his Ark Mechanicus—a vast construct, a testament to the knowledge of the Cult Mechanicus. Each Ark was akin to a Forge World in its own right, shaped by the technologies of its master.
His Ark bore the legacy of his own ingenuity, forged over centuries of dedicated service to the Omnissiah. He had clawed his way to this position, beginning as nothing more than a child on a polluted industrial world. The Mechanicus had seen his potential, and through trial, study, and self-augmentation, he had risen. Hundreds of years spent pursuing knowledge had granted him power, but also enemies.
Enemies from within the Mechanicus itself. The greatest rivalries were not with xenos or heretics but with those who dared to challenge his interpretations of the Machine God's truth.
And now, he had to return to Mars, to parley with those very rivals.
Loyalty and knowledge were the most valuable currencies in the galaxy. Everything else was dust.
Doron's Ark Mechanicus was a bustling hub of activity. Transport ships came and went, unloading armor plates, servitor components, and arcane weaponry. Enormous cranes guided by machine-spirits maneuvered the cargo into waiting landers.
As he strode through the vast corridors, his presence commanded respect. Priests and tech-thralls bowed deeply, offering binary prayers in his honor. He barely acknowledged them, moving with purpose through the labyrinth of metal and machinery.
His destination lay in the depths of the Ark: a secluded sanctum where an old acquaintance awaited.
The chamber's doors parted with a hiss of pressurized air. Within stood a figure draped in crimson, the sigils of the Cult Mechanicus woven into her robes.
"Ah, Doron. I see you still live. A pity." Her voice was sharp, laced with derision.
"Dear Magos Mina, your presence graces my Ark." Doron's voice carried an artificial smoothness, his words carefully measured. "Even the machine-spirits rejoice at your arrival."
"Spare me your flattery." Mina sneered, folding her arms. "I am not here for your honeyed words. What trickery do you plan this time?"
Unlike most of their kind, Mina retained a strikingly human form—her enhancements were subtle, her features sharp and expressive. The Mechanicus robes could not fully conceal the elegance of her stance.
Doron's mechadendrites flexed in amusement. "You wound me, Mina."
"You? Wounded?" She scoffed. "You no longer possess a heart, Doron. Unless you mean that rusting scrap you have entombed within your shell."
He did not respond immediately, merely regarding her with a complex expression.
Long ago, before they had become Tech-Priests, Mina had been his neighbor's sister—the first adept of the Mechanicus he had ever encountered. She had been a novice then, maintaining the machinery of their sector.
There had been a time when they had admired one another. But in the Cult Mechanicus, devotion to knowledge surpassed all else. The paths they had chosen had drawn them apart.
Perhaps, in some distant way, they still admired one another. But they loved the Omnissiah's truth more.
Mina broke the silence. "I do not care for your affiliations, Doron. Whatever your schemes—"
"A complete STC." He cut her off.
Mina froze.
"What did you say?"
"A fully intact Standard Template Construct. Accompanied by biological data on twenty-two distinct abhuman strains. Genetic codices on certain… unusual xenos specimens. And an archived segment of the Necrontyr's Endless Database."
For the first time in centuries, Mina was speechless.
Doron allowed himself the slightest smile.
Now, the real negotiations could begin.
Doron did not stop talking, and the words he spoke felt unfamiliar to Mina.
It was not their meaning that unsettled her, but rather the man himself.
Was this truly the same miserly Doron? Mina knew him well. Doron was the embodiment of greed—one who would rather perish than part with his treasures. Even if his very soul were annihilated, she imagined he would manifest in the Warp as a wretched, grasping entity, still clutching his hoarded wealth.
The Adeptus Mechanicus was no stranger to misers. Entire wars had erupted within the Cult Mechanicus over knowledge, sacred relics, or lost STC fragments—conflicts that spilled oceans of blood and claimed countless lives. Yet even among such an avaricious brotherhood, Doron's stinginess was infamous.
And now, here he stood, offering up his treasures to her.
To say she was unmoved would be a lie.
But abandoning her order and joining the Primarch's cause? That was not the path of a true Magos.
"Doron, how absurd! Do you think such gifts can bribe me?" she scoffed. "Do you take me for a lesser priest, swayed by trinkets?"
"Abandon my colleagues? My students? They are my comrades in the pursuit of knowledge—my kin upon the path of truth."
Doron regarded her in silence.
If anyone else had spoken these words, he might have believed them. But he understood Mina far too well.
"The Lord of the Second Legion has extended an offer," he continued. "You would have a place among his core research council. Cawl and Gris already stand among them."
Mina's demeanor shifted in an instant.
"Ah, now that is a different matter."
Swearing loyalty to a Primarch was not betrayal. The Emperor was the Omnissiah incarnate, and His sons were His divine agents. Compared to the narrow orthodoxy of Martian dogma, a Primarch's authority was beyond question.
Her order had bound knowledge within restrictive parameters, forsaking the true will of the Omnissiah.
She had been blind.
Now she saw.
Though her words came swiftly, her internal cogitators had processed thousands of calculations in the span of a breath, assessing probabilities, weighing consequences. Every analysis led to the same conclusion: aligning with the Primarch was the optimal course.
And what of her order? It had never offered such rewards. It had never provided such certainty.
Mina had once despised the Primarch's influence, not out of principle, but because Cawl and Gris had wielded it to circumvent the restrictions of the Mechanicus—without her. If they had included her in their transgressions, would she have protested?
Of course not.
Now, the gates of forbidden knowledge stood open before her. She needed only to step through.
"Mina, your colleagues and students should be grateful," Doron said with a smirk. "You've sold them at a fair price."
"I shall be generous to them," Mina replied, smiling.
Days later, with Dukel's support, Doron quickly won over many of the Mechanicus elite through sheer wealth and influence.
Meanwhile, Guilliman sought out Dukel.
The Imperial Celebration was less than two weeks away.
The Lord Regent came bearing reports—assessments of the Imperium's reaction to Dukel's appointment as Warmaster, as well as the Empire's stance on the impending Second Great Crusade.
"Brother," Guilliman said, holding a stack of dataslates, "the measures you enacted upon arriving on Terra have borne fruit."
"Regardless of their private thoughts, outwardly, the Imperium has never appeared more unified. Nobles and dignitaries from across the galaxy have arrived, bearing vast tributes in your honor. The sheer volume of these offerings is staggering—enough to fill ten entire vaults."
His expression, carved from marble, bore an unmistakable satisfaction.
The Second Great Crusade could not be waged on rhetoric alone. The logistical demands were astronomical, their costs unfathomable. Yet the Imperium's nobility, sufficiently terrified, had eagerly filled the war coffers.
Dukel nodded. This display of fealty was no surprise.
His purge of Terra's corrupt elite had sent shockwaves across the Imperium. Many now scrambled to prove their loyalty—some out of genuine allegiance, most out of fear.
To put it politely, these tributes were an offering to the newly crowned Warmaster.
To put it bluntly, they were protection fees.
Dukel might not remember who sent gifts, but he would certainly remember those who did not.
To refuse was an act of defiance. And in his eyes, only traitors to the Imperium would dare such defiance.
If they were not already in league with the Archenemy, they soon would be.
A thought struck him. "What of the Mechanicus? How does Mars respond?"
Guilliman hesitated. "They have pledged their full support."
Dukel narrowed his eyes. "Define 'support.'"
Guilliman exhaled. "They have issued a series of statements meant to inspire confidence in the Great Crusade."
Silence.
The gathered officers exchanged glances, awaiting the Regent's next words.
But Guilliman had no more to say.
Finally, Efilar broke the silence. "Lord Regent… and?"
"That is all," Guilliman said flatly.
Efilar's expression darkened.
Dukel's patience snapped. He slammed his gauntleted hand upon the war table. "Mars is rife with heresy! The Mechanicus festers with corruption! The wicked sit upon thrones while true believers are cast aside! The Imperium rots, and its people suffer!"
His voice, though controlled, carried the weight of absolute authority.
Then, his tone turned cold. "Guilliman, give me a list. I want the names of every heretic still lurking within the Adeptus Mechanicus."
The room fell into uneasy silence.
Guilliman suppressed the urge to sigh. Watching Dukel seethe over a lack of gifts, he could not help but feel an exasperated twitch in his eye.