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The princeps in his amniosis, drinking liquid data, broken by the beautiful agony of being so mighty,
The skitarii roared at the sky like predators, as fearsome and bestial as Space Wolves.
his augmitted voice deep, like the plutonic grumble of a dying sun, ‘the Legio Invicta greets you both.’
Adventures, real adventures, are never fun while they’re happening.’
He could see and sense everything to a minute degree of sparkling clarity that had an almost lysergic quality: the loose weight of the munitions in the autoloaders,
He could feel the bestial needs of Morbius Sire, attack dog, the thick, wet purr of a carnivorous predator. Enough! Be patient! ‘Ahead, walk pace,’ Orfuls signalled. The power plant snorted. Zemplin uttered a benediction to god-in-the-machine. The engine began to walk, its body rocking with each heavy pace.
Distantly, hauntingly, the wild soar and squeal of sensor patterns and the strange whoops and wails of electromagnetic activity sang out. They came and went, like anguished voices, moaning for a moment, then silent, high-pitched and musical, then low and guttural. Interference, audio artefacts, bits of corrupted data and sensor noise were loose on the wind like lost souls.
He could indeed taste it: something dark, something made of black metal and rage, something that stank of aggression and filthy oil.
Glanded hormones had propelled him into a stimm-fuelled rage, but the strategic centre of his brain, delicately modified to remain intensely calm and focused, even in the pitch of battle, maintained a progressive assessment of the field.
Knowledge is power, Enhort. How often do we say that? How often do we also forget what we already know?’
