Soon the atmosphere of Mars was as polluted as that of Terra, the mountains hollowed out in the search for minerals and the surface paved over with metal roads, strip mines and towering monuments to the glory of the Machine.
The train sped past the Ascraeus Mons, a shield volcano with a diameter of over three hundred kilometres that was now home to the Legio Tempestus Titan Legion. A mighty golden gateway had been cut into the flanks of the volcano, a pair of the mighty war machines standing sentinel to, either side of it, their massive height rendered tiny by distance.
Sprawling metallic complexes spread around the volcano, domes and spires of glass and steel that defied the polluted climate of Mars with humankind's ingenuity. Pillars of smoke clogged the sky and plumes of fire blazed from countless refineries as they produced the raw materiel required by the Emperor's Great Crusade.
Only the very tips of the mountainous regions of Mars outwardly remained untouched, though even the mightiest peaks had been carved hollow and turned into temples or manufactoria. Even the shadowy ''face'' located in the Cydonia Mensae region of the northern hemisphere had been obliterated, flattened and built upon to house the towering temples of the Technotheologians.
Ravachol peered through the energy-shielded aperture as the train described a gentle eastward curve to catch a glimpse of the vast holy complex. Its temples, shrines and reliquaries covered millions of square kilometres and was home to billions of faithful priests.
'Perhaps there I can find guidance,' he said to the servitors.
The servitors twitched at the sound of his voice, but did not answer him.
Master Adept Chrom watched impassively as a crew of waste servitors cleaned the bloody remains of the Protectors from the Kaban machine's chamber. He spared them no more than a glance. What remained of their mechanical components would be salvaged and their flesh would be rendered down into proteins to feed the technomats and servitors.
The Kaban machine itself sat dormant at the far end of the chamber, its sensory blisters glowing a dull red, indicating that the tech-priests of Adept Laanu that swarmed over the scaffolding had disconnected its vocal, aural and visual apparatus.
He stepped down into the chamber, followed by a slender figure in an all-enclosing bodyglove of a gleaming synthetic material that rippled like blood across its skin. The figure was athletic and toned through a vigorous regime of physical exercise, genetic manipulation and surgical augmentation.
'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.'