'I do,' nodded Ravachol. 'My former master, Adept Urtzi Malevolus.'
'Then seek him out, adept,' said the priest. 'And may the Omnissiah watch over you.'
Leaving the temple, Ravachol felt a curious lightness upon him. The priest had offered him a chance to rest, but he had wanted to press on without delay. He had, however, accepted nutrients and water, the use of a wheeled transport-skiff to hasten his journey to the forge temple of Urtzi Malevolus, which lay three hundred and nine kilometres to the east of the basilica.
The battle servitors sat immobile in the back of the skiff as Ravachol guided it expertly through the press of bodies and more outlandish vehicles that thronged the metalled roads of Mars. Avoiding collisions was easy, for the skiff broadcast a continuous electronic bow wave that registered against anyone in its way, gently guiding their steps or course away from its path and thus Ravachol was able to make steady progress through the Martian landscape.
The towering basilica receded behind him as travelled deeper into the fiery skylines that marked the territories of Adept Malevolus. His forges specialised in the manufacture of arms and armour for the Astartes, and forges hammered day and night to fashion the Mark IV battle plate of the Space Marines and the bolters by which they cleansed the stars of the enemies of mankind.
The sky above darkened as Ravachol travelled onwards, dark smudges of smoke staining the sky, and the temples that crowded in to either side of him appeared dark and threatening, their soot-stained flanks black and brooding. Huge ore carriers thundered alongside him and the beat of powerful forges filled the air with the booming, industrial peals of war.
Lightning danced between the tall towers of Mars and filled the red and yellow sky with a creeping fear of potential, the sensation of a storm about to break.
Though it never rained on Mars, Ravachol knew that this philosophical storm would wash all division from the red planet in a tide of blood.
He could see it clearly; understanding that his whole life was now pointed in one direction, and that there had never been a choice for him.
He was the Emperor's lonely man, doing what was right for that reason alone.
The Basilica of the Blessed Algorithm never closed its doors and none were forbidden the succour granted by the priests of the machine. The priest that had spoken to Ravachol knelt before his data terminal, letting the blessed music of the planet wash through him. Its subtle rhythms filled him and he basked in the harmonics of devices talking to one another from opposite sides of the planet.
The visit of the young adept had troubled him more than he like to admit and was another example of how far the Mechanicum had fallen since the glory days of the Emperor's coming. As soon as Ravachol had left, the priest had plugged himself into the temple and had spent these moments of privacy in commune with the machines of Mars.
The first indication that something was amiss was a gradual dampening of the sounds, as though, one by one, the devices of Mars were falling silent. Puzzled, he ran a self-diagnostic test, finding to his alarm that several of his primary interface systems appeared to be offline.
The glow from his sensory dome intensified and he cast a 360° sweep of his surroundings.
Behind him was a figure clad in a form-fitting bodyglove of deep red. Though the priest had long since left much of his flesh upon the surgical tables, he recalled enough to know that this was a female of the species. Two pistols hung from her slender hips, but, more horrifyingly, she held a bundle of wires in one hand and a series of delicate tools in the other.
The priest looked down at his robes, finding a wide square cut in the fabric and a host of neatly severed wires protruding from the framework of his body.
'Who are you?' he said, relieved to find that his vocabulator still functioned.
'I am Remiare,' said the figure. 'Where is Adept Ravachol?'
'Who?' said the priest, though he knew such an act of defiance was futile. Amongst the adepts of Mars, the name Remiare was well known and he understood with terrible clarity that his doom was at hand.
The tech-priest assassin smiled as she saw the effect her name had and cocked her head to one side. She tapped the enlarged portion of her skull where a multitude of sensor equipment was grafted to her death mask face and said, 'I have followed his information trail here, so do not insult me by denying you know him. Tell me where he is now'
The priest looked towards the vestry doorway, praying that one of his fellow priests would find reason to come this way or hear the silent call for aid he was eyen now broadcasting.
The assassin dropped the parts she had taken from his innards and shook her head. She waved a finger at him as though scolding a child and knelt before him.
'This is a very private vestry,' she said, lifting the delicate tools she held. 'And your Confessor Field should ensure we are not interrupted.'
'Why are you doing this?' asked the priest. 'Tell me that at least.'
'You have become an enemy of my employers.'
'What? How? I have hurt no-one, I simply pray to the Machine God!'
'No,' said Remiare. 'The time is coming when there can be no neutrality and whether you know it or not, you have chosen a side.'
The priest tried to move as Remiare reached inside his violated body, but found that his motor functions would not obey his commands.
'What have you done to me?' he cried, horrified at the idea of the assassin taking him apart from within and cutting him off from the Machine God. 'If you have followed Ravachol here, then surely you can find him without doing this! Please!'
'You are right,' agreed the assassin and the corners of her mouth twitched as she smiled.
'Then why?'
'Because I enjoy your suffering,' said Remiare.
The forge temple of Urtzi Malevolus loomed from the darkness ahead like a dark volcano, its sloping sides black and glossy. A web of glowing ore channels converged on the forge temple, carried along massive aqueducts, insulated pipes and deep channels. The branding iron heat rendered the air here hot and stagnant, the bitter taste of metallic oxides catching in Ravachol's throat.
Deafening thunder surrounded Ravachol, each mighty edifice that reared up through the smoke vented from a thousand coolant towers echoing to the sound of a thousand hammer beats and the relentless tread of millions of workers. Though proud of the vast industry being pursued here, Ravachol felt acutely exposed, the dark skies pressing down on him like a slowly lowering ceiling.
His progress towards the forge temple had slowed markedly as he drove within the high walls of his former master's fiefdom. Such was the volume of tankers, workers and bulk transporters that, passive electronic bow wave or not, he could only move at a crawl through the masses of traffic. It had taken him two hours to get this far.