'I'm not sure,' confessed Ravachol. 'But I know I have to get away from this temple. Perhaps I can claim Sanctuary in another Master Adept's temple, one of my master's rivals perhaps.'
'My motor functions are not yet active, Pallas,' said the machine. 'I will not be able to protect you beyond this chamber.'
'I know,' replied Ravachol, 'but I have these battle servitors, so I should be safe. At least for a time.'
'Will I see you again?'
'I hope so,' said Ravachol, 'but I just don't know. Things have just become... complicated.'
'I hope I will see you again,' replied the machine. 'You are my friend.'
Ravachol had no answer for the machine and simply nodded and turned to leave.
'Servitors, follow me,' he said, and the cyborgs fell in behind him as he left the chamber of the Kaban machine without so much as a backwards glance.
He just hoped that four battle servitors would be enough to protect him from whatever other agents Adept Chrom might send after him.
Losing yourself on Mars was easy.
One of the unofficial rites of passage in joining the Priesthood of Mars was the certainty that you would, at some point, become lost in the vast hinterlands of monstrous industry that was the surface of Mars. Ravachol remembered spending an entire week attempting to reach the forge complex of Ipluvien Maximal, sustained only by the protein dispensers spread throughout the Martian complex and the thought of the punishment that would be meted out to him should he fail to deliver the message he had been entrusted with.
Upon leaving the chamber of the Kaban machine, Ravachol had quickly sealed the door behind him and made his way towards the mighty forge temple's exit. If anyone thought it odd that four battle servitors accompanied him, none remarked upon it, for a tech-priest powerful enough to have such an entourage was clearly not someone to be trifled with.
His thoughts were tumbling over themselves as he made his way through the twisting, steel walled corridors of the forge. His sandals slapped on the marble floor as he hurried to put as much distance between himself and the dead Protectors.
He passed into the Halls of Devotion, the mile-long canyon of red stone the forge temple had been built around, its bas-relief walls adorned with schematics of ancient machines and algorithms that were ancient when humans had first trod the Martian soil. The first tech-priests had brought with them the lost secrets of mankind and guarded them jealously as far away Terra had descended into anarchy and war.
Above the walls of the canyon, the faint orange glow of sodium vapour lamps glittered from the vast crystalline dome that spread its protective cover over the entire complex and kept the hostile atmosphere out.
Trails of smoke and streaks of light crossed the smeared sky and the low-orbiting moon of Phobos glimmered some three thousand kilometres above him. Its cratered surface was home to a vast surveyor array; its rapid orbit making it perfectly suited to perform multi-spectral sweeps of surrounding space.
The second moon of Mars, Deimos, was not yet visible, its wider orbital trajectory carrying it in a longer circuit of the red planet.
Ravachol kept his head down, as though fearing that the sensor arrays of Phobos could discern him amid the masses making their way along the canyon.
For all he knew of their capabilities, perhaps they could...
'This is a situation and no mistake,' he said to himself as he finally reached the end of the Halls of Devotion and climbed the steed stairs laid into the canyon walls that led towards one of the transport hubs that linked the various forge temples and manufactorum.
Itself a vast complex of tunnels, glass and steel bridges, rotating turntables and blaring klaxons, thousands of figures flowed in and out of the hub, travelling along horizontal mass conveyors or embarking upon the silver skinned trains that slithered across the surface of Mars like twisting snakes.
If there was one sure-fire way to lose yourself on Mars, this was it.
From a hub, a person could travel anywhere on the surface of Mars within a few hours.
As he pondered where he might travel to, he realised that he was attracting a number of inquiring stares from passers by. Within a forge temple it might be odd, but not remarkable, that an adept of his rank might travel with four battle servitors, but mingling with the general populace of Mars was a different matter entirely.
Ravachol realised that he would need to find somewhere to hide quickly before the very things that would protect him from harm would be the things that would give him away.
He set off into the mass of robed servants of the Machine God, heading towards one of the silver trains, knowing that his best chance lay in getting as far from Chrom's forge complex as he could.
Once he had some distance, he would decide on a more permanent solution to his dilemma. He mounted the funicular conveyor that led into the belly one of the silver trains and pushed his way through the crowds of robed adepts and menials disembarking.
Ravachol hurriedly made his way along the swelteringly hot length of the train, finding an empty compartment and ushering his servitors inside before closing and sealing the door. Inside, there was a plain metal bench and a window aperture filled with a shimmering energy field that allowed passengers to see, but kept the environment out.
Silently, he sweated in the heat and prayed that no-one would attempt to force their way into his compartment. Eventually, a light winked above the door and he held on as the train sped from the hub and out into the Martian landscape.
Mars...
Ravachol knew that in ancient myth, Mars had been the father to the founders of the great Romanii empire, a centre of culture and technological innovation that was said to have spanned the globe. For millennia, Mars had squatted in the imagination of the people of Terra as a fearful place of invaders or long dead civilizations, but such notions had long since proved to be ridiculous.
Such ideas were said to have come about due to a long forgotten astronomer's discovery of the channels in the planet's surface, which had then been mistranslated as ''canals'', suggesting engineered waterways rather than natural features.
Ravachol watched the landscape of Mars speed past him in a grey, iron blur. Where once Mars had been known as the Red Planet, virtually nothing remained of the iron oxide deserts that had earned it its name.
Technical texts Ravachol had read spoke of the terraforming of Mars many thousands of years ago when the southern polar icecap had been melted with orbital lasers in order to release large quantities of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. This had raised the temperature to the point where water could exist in a liquid form and formed a viable ozone layer. Genetically modified plant life had then been introduced, enriching the atmosphere with more carbon dioxide, oxygen and nitrogen.
But he knew that all that visionary work had been undone within a few hundred years when the Mechanicum had spread like a virus across the surface of Mars and begun the construction of its massive forge complexes, continent sized refineries and weapons shops.