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'A blast from the past； huh？' she grinned。
'Something like that。'
'Still； it's a lo…o…ong way to come just to catch up with an old friend；' she added。
'Enough； Medea！' I said。 'You don't need to know the particulars yet。 Maybe better for you if you don't。'
She blew a raspberry at me and began to pull her flight suit back on。
'You tried to reach the Essene recently？' I asked。
'My vox hasn't got the range；' she sulked back； fiddling with the zipper。 'Gravity distortions are too much。 We expected that。 I could go
back to the cutter and use the main 'caster。'
'I need you here。 We need to scare up some answers fast。 I want you to sneak Aemos down to the Administratum archive； and see if
you can coax anything out of the data banks； if they're still functioning。'
'While you…'
'I'm going to the annex of the Adeptus Mechanicus。 Meet back here in three hours。 We're looking for any clues； but particularly any
traces of Bure's whereabouts。'
Aemos nodded。 'What if we're challenged？'
'You couldn't sleep； you went for a walk； and you got lost。'
'And if they don't believe me？'
'That's why Medea's going with you；' I said。
THE ANNEX OF the tech…priesthood lay in the western sector of Cinchare Mine…head's jumbled maze of pressurised habs and processing
sheds； about two kilometres from the plaza。 At first； I hadn't known where I was going； but the tunnels and transit ways were marked
with numbered signs and symbol…coded notices； and after a while I found a large； etched…metal directory map screwed to a pillar
beside a bank of dusty public drinking fountains。
A twist of the faucet on one of the fountains produced nothing but a dry rasp。
Approaching the annex； the whitewashed tunnel walls were overpainted with dark red stripes； and there were numerous caution signs
and warnings that demanded correct papers and identities on pain of death。
Still； the whole place was bare and empty； and thick with dust and litter。
At the end of the red…striped access tunnel； the vast adamantite blast…gates to the annex stood open。 There was an eerie silence。
The annex was a colossal tower of hewn rock dressed in red steel； filling a side chimney of the crater that housed Cinchare's
minehead。 A sealed glass dome covered the paved yard between the blast…gates and the annex； and the building itself rose up beyond
the glass to the top of the crater rim。 High above； I could see the blue rock and the starlit void beyond。 Meteors streaked overhead。
The doorway of the annex was a giant portal taller than three men； framed by thick dork columns of black lucullite。 Above it leered
the graven image of the Machine God； its eyes clearly carved in such a way that they would flare ominously with gas bum…offs piped
up from the mines。 They were cold and dead now。
And the burnished metal doors of the portal were open。
I stepped inside。 Fine sand covered the floor of the grand prothyron。 Dust motes glittered in the bars of light spearing into the high
hallway through deadlights up near the ribbed roof。 Both walls were entirely panelled with banks of codifiers and matriculators； all
dormant and powered down。 Crescents of dust bearded every single switch and dial。
I knew at once this was a bad sign。 The tech…priests treasured machines more than anything else。 If they had evacuated as Kaleil
described； there was no way they would have left such a wealth of technology here… especially as each unit was clearly designed to
slot out of its alcove in the black marble walls。
The chamber beyond the prothyron was a veritable chapel； a cathedral dedicated to the God…Machine； the uber…Titan； the master of
Mars。 The floor was creamy travertine slabs； so tightly laid not even a sheet of paper could be slipped between the stones。 The chapel
itself was triapsidal with walls of smooth； cold lucullite and a roof thirty metres above my head。 There was yet more precious
technology arranged in six concentric circles of intricate brass workstations around a central plinth。 All of it was dead and unpowered。
I crossed the chamber towards the plinth； painfully aware of how loud my footsteps rang back from the emptiness。 Chilly starlight
shone down through an opaion in the centre of the roof； directly above the massive grandiorite plinth。 The huge； severed head of an
ancient Warlord Titan hung above the plinth where the starlight shafted down。 I realised that nothing supported the head … no cables；
no platform； no scaffolding。 It simply hung in the air。
As I got close to the plinth； gazing up at the Titan's face； my hair pricked。 Static； or something like it； bristled the atmosphere。 Some
invisible； harnessed force … perhaps gravity or magnetics； certainly something beyond my understanding … was at play here； suspending
the multiple tonnes of the machine…skull。 It was a silent marvel； characteristic of the tech…priesthood。 Even with the power shut down；
their miracles endured。
On one workstation console … a brass frame full of intermeshed iron cogs； silvered wires and glass valves … I saw a length of canvassleeved
neural hose； one end plugged into the display； the other frayed and severed。 That was more than just a case of someone
leaving in a hurry。
Over the years； my dealings with the Adeptus Mechanicus had been few。 They were a law unto themselves； like the Astartes； and only
a fool would meddle with their power。 Bure … Magos Geard Bure … had been my closest contact with them。 Without the Priesthood of
Mars； the technologies of the Imperium would wither and perish； and without their ceaseless endeavours； no new wonders would ever
be added to mankind's might。
Yet here I stood； unmolested and uninvited； in the middle of one of their inner sanctums。
My vox…link pipped。 A voice； Medea's； badly distorted by gravity flux； said； 'Aegis wishes Thorn。 By halflife d—'
It cut off。
'Thorn attends Aegis；' I said。 Nothing。
'Thorn attends Aegis； the whisperless void。'
Still nothing。 What little I had caught of Medea's brief message troubled me … ''halflife'' was a Glossia code word that could be used in
phrases to disclose an important discovery or indicate a grave predicament。 But what troubled me far more was the fact she had cut
off。 My reply； if she had heard it； indicated her transmission had been incomplete or garbled。
I waited a full minute； then another。
Without warning； my vox pipped quickly three times。 Medea had test…keyed her transmitter in a non…vocal code form that indicated
she couldn't talk and that I should stand by。
I brushed the thin skin of dust off one dead workdesk and gazed at the worn； rune…marked keyboard and the small display screens of
thick； convex glass； wondering what secrets I could possibly unlock from it。
Little； I decided。 Aemos； who frankly knew more than it was healthy to know； might have a chance。 He had worked closely with Bure
years before； and I fancied he had more experience of the mysterious tech…priests and their ways than he cared to admit。
My motion…tracker suddenly clicked around； and I tensed； pulling my stub…nose laspistol。 The tracker's display on my mask's right lens
indicated a movement or contact seventeen paces to my left； but even as I turned； it flashed up more。 Multiple contacts； all around；
coming so fast that they overlapped and utterly confused the tracker for a moment。 The lens display showed a default ''00：00：00'' for a
second as it struggled to compute the vectors； and then it scrolled a tight column of coordinates in front of my eye。
But by then； I knew what it had sensed。
The sanctum was coming to life。
In swift succession； each workstation chattered into action； cogs whirring； valves glowing； screens lighting； pistons hissing。 Pneumatic
gas…pumps exhaled and communique flasks began to pop and whizz through the network of elegant glass…and…brass message tubes that
ran between the consoles and up the walls。 Several desks projected small hologram images above their hololith hubs： three
dimensional strata maps； spectroscopy graphs； sonar readings and oscillating wave…forms。 Powerful underlights ignited on the plinthtop
beneath the floating head of the Titan and threw its features into malevolent relief。
I sank down behind one of the stations； which vibrated and chattered against my back。 The sudden； inexplicable life was daunting and
alarming。 Somewhere close by； one particular machine was rattling and repeating like an old machine gun on full auto。
As suddenly as it had started； the life died away。 Stations fell silent and their lights went out。 The throb of power leaked away into the
darkness。 The Titan's underlights dimmed and died。 One by one； the holograms extinguished and the desks fell dormant。 The chirring
of cogs and servos and the throb of valves ebbed into stillness。
The last sound to go was that autogun racket。 It continued for a good few seconds after everything else had stopped； then it too ceased
abruptly。
The chapel was then as dark and quiet as it had been when I first entered。
I got to my feet。 There had been no power in this place； no feeding source。 What had started and woken the machines？ It had to have
been some signal from outside。
Using commonsense and guesswork； I went around the circle of stations nearest to me； hunting for the one that had chattered like a
stubber。 The most likely candidate was a bulky desk that seemed to have external and general gain vox functions。 But its keys were
dead to my touch。
On a whim； I got down on my knees and peered behind the desk。 There were fixings where a basket hopper should have been sitting to
catch the print…outs。 The hopper was missing。 The sheaf of print…out had fallen down into the dust under the desk。
I scooped the sheaf out。 It was about nine metres long； punch…cut by the printer's jaws into shorter sections。 Clearly this desk had been
disgorging print…outs for some time without anyone around to collect them。 The sections at the bottom of the spool were beginning to
yellow。
I looked them over； but they meant nothing。 Tabulated columns of machine code in close； regular bands。 Carefully； I laid them out on
the travertine floor and rolled them tightly into a thick scroll。
I was nearly finished when my vox pipped。
'Aegis wishes thorn。 By halflight disabused； in Administratum by heart。 Scales fall from eyes。 Multifarious； the grasp of changelings。
Pattern thimble advised。'
'Pattern thimble acknowledged。 Thorn arising by heart。'
Medea's words had told me all I needed to know。 They had found something in the Administratum； and they needed me back swiftly。
There was danger from Chaos all around。 I should trust no one。
I bolstered my laspistol and tucked the print…out scroll into my waistband。
As I ran out of the annex and down the red…striped tunnel； I tugged my combat shotgun out over my shoulder and racked the slide。
EIGHTEEN
PATTERN THIMBLE。
GOING ROCKSIDE。
GEARD BURE？S TRANSLITHOPEDE。
GLOSSIA'S NOT SO hard to understand。 It uses subliminal symbols and ''head words''。 Don't look for a mystery in it； it isn't there。 That's
why it works so well as a private code。 There is no encryption … at least no mathematical encryption … to be calculated and broken。 It is
idiomatic and visceral。 It is verbal impressionism。 It uses the uncalculable； unregulated mechanisms of poetry and intimacy to perform
its functions。 There have been times in the last … well； the increasing years of my career； let's say … there have been times when an ally
or retainer of mine has sent me a Glossia message using terms and words that have never been used before。 And still； I have
understood them。
It's a knack。 It's knowing how to use； and improvise； a shared cant。 There are basic rules of construction and metaphor； of course； but
Glossia's strength lies in its nebulous vagueness。 Its idioms。 Its resonance。 It is akin to the gut…slang of the Ermenoes； who have
replaced language with subtleties of skin…colour。
Pattern thimble； for example。
''Pattern'' indicates a course of action or behaviour。 ''Thimble'' is a qualifier； disclosing the manner or mode of said action。 A thimble is
a small tin cap that you might use to protect your finger from the short； sharp stabs of a needle during darning。 It wouldn't fend off；
say； an atomic strike or a horde of genestealers。 But； in the idiom of Glossia； it would seal you against sudden