Chapter 32

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Fidus pulled on his jacket, straightened the cuffs of the sleeves, and checked that the tiny aquiles on the brass buttons were oriented correctly, that is, strictly vertically, not obliquely. Given his somewhat "suspended" status as either "already an inquisitor" or "not yet," Fidus chose clothing that was neutral, without obvious military-inspired motifs, but austere. Despite his rather brief period of obedience, Kryptman was used to baggy jumpsuits and sweaters, so wearing tailored ones was... strange. He felt out of place and out of place, like a stranger in a foreign country. He wanted to leave the Beacon, the system, and the sector as soon as possible, frankly. But there was still business to take care of, the last on the shortlist.

Their ships departed a quarter of an hour apart, first the Martians, then the Inquisitors. The orbital station was almost intact, but the damage to the planet could be seen even from space, through the observation porthole. Fidus was just contemplating the dark patches that had taken the place of the shining cities and industrial centers (power had not been restored everywhere, and restoration promised to take many months) when the steps of a small group echoed under the high vaults of the dock deck. Kryptman looked away from the porthole but saw the unexpected ones.

"Hmm..." he chuckled indefinitely, looking at the Astartes captain, leading a company of two space troopers and three sororitas.

"And are you with them?" Fidus clarified.

"Yes, we'll go together," replied the captain, waving to his companions. They silently bowed their heads in identical gestures, as if they understood and accepted. They moved toward the platform marked by yellow lights. Kryptman glanced at a large clock embedded in the metal wall, its faceted dial indicating the time of Terra, the Commonwealth, the Ice Port, and something else. The Martians had nineteen minutes to go.

"I thought I'd meet you here," the Astartes muttered. The Order's armor was unnecessary in this setting, and he wore a loose, pleated cloak. On someone else, this "dress" would have looked funny and feminine. But when such a garment is worn by a muscular giant three meters tall, armed with a power spear, it immediately seems incredibly masculine to everyone.

"We never had time to ... talk," Fidus sighed. "Too many reports and interviews."

"That makes sense," the sleeper said neutrally. "Considering you were in the center of it all. By the way," he changed the subject. "I hear you've made up a team of former Squadmates?"

"Rather, I offered them some time to work together," the inquisitor corrected. "I need helpers. They were all forgiven of their sins and freed, so they were free to choose for themselves. Some agreed, some didn't."

"What about the priest of the Church?" the blue-eyed giant suddenly inquired. "He seemed to me to be in a crisis of either faith or self-determination. It would be unwise to take on such a disturbed companion."

He stayed. He voluntarily accepted the penance of eight years of service as a rank-and-file purifier. His faith, he said, was not strong enough, so he should either harden his spirit by trials or answer with his own life for a moment of mental weakness. At the choice of the Emperor. By the way, received the blessing of the planetary bishop.

"Worthy," the captain approved, "I'd make a note of it and be sure to come back in eight years. If he survives, your crew might have a worthy addition."

"I did. But I suspect if he survives the obedience, he will stay anyway."

"Perhaps. I hear the Squad is going to remain?"

"Yes, more than that, it will multiply. From the experience of this... incident, it has been concluded that the landing troops are too lightly armed and too few in number. The armored train system is cumbersome and expensive, but it alone provides the ability to strike hard and fast. So the Epidemic Squad will get more men and more weapons. More connection with the Inquisition, the Church, and the arbiters."

"That's good," the giant nodded. "Risk is a noble thing, but success is better achieved by the tried-and-true means."

They were silent for a minute, then the captain asked straight out: "So you're waiting for her?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"That's my business," Kryptman snapped back with unexpected harshness.

"Fidus, you're misinterpreting my intentions," the space marines shrugged his broad shoulders. "I don't intend to interfere with your meeting."

"Really?" The inquisitor asked incredulously.

"Yes. I just want you to look at the situation rationally. And act according to reason, not the impulse of your troubled soul."

"You can't read my soul," Kryptman was still angry.

"Yes, she's grateful to you now, and quite capable of being carried away by your great dream," the captain said as if he hadn't noticed his interlocutor's remark. "If you persist... If you ignite her heart with a duty to humanity, with fear of the hidden threat, she will follow you. But... Do you really want her to?"

The giant raised his hand, decisively cutting off Kryptman's ready objections.

"Think about it. What can you offer her? What will the girl gain by following you? You know the answer to that question, don't you? Disaster. Danger. Mockery. Years of fruitless labor. And death in the end."

"But... Mars," Fidus muttered hollowly. "She will be a tech-priestess... most likely. She will be, in time."

"Yes, most likely," the marines confirmed. "It's inevitable. Theoretically, of course, it is possible to join the ranks of Mechanicus and keep the flesh in pristine purity. After all, the path of Magos Biologis is based on the perfection of living matter. But most likely Olga will step on the long path of transformation into an adept of the Machine God. And of her own free will. Gears are smart, they will not pressure her, but they will carefully, quietly show her all the advantages of artificial bodies, and these advantages are there, visible and quite weighty. Especially if you have already experienced death and the ease with which it takes people."

"Olga will lose her humanity and become... a tin can!"

"Yes," agreed with the captain. "And she will live a long, interesting life, full of amazing events. She will be exposed to the great mysteries of Mars and will communicate as equals with those who rule the world of knowledge and machines. Is that a bad thing? I'm not sure."

"She won't be happy," Kryptman said wistfully.

"And it is possible. Although it is not predetermined. But in any case, the girl will find peace, respect, and security. All the things that fate has so deprived her of before. All that she deserves for her courage. Her nobility. Kindness."

The giant sighed and placed a heavy, powerful hand on Fidus's shoulder, lightly squeezing his fingers, not as a threat, but peacefully, in a gesture of friendly encouragement.

"I'm not going to stop you. I believe in the freedom of choice of people endowed with wisdom. But I also believe in responsibility. Before you decide and do, weigh your desire on the scales of impartiality. Answer the question, what do you really want? And for whom, for yourself or for her?"

In the transition tunnel that connected the pier to the orbital station array, a group of armed skitarians appeared. They were followed by an automaton, the Geller-drone, already familiar to Fidus. The guards dispersed quickly and skillfully, with machine-like precision, on the quayside deck, blocking off all approaches. Kryptman felt a strange chill as if an invisible hand had run over his head and groped his missing pockets. It seemed that he had just been scanned, included in the control and security system. Kryptman smiled involuntarily, thinking that he was ostentatiously ignored, but if any trouble happened, the Inquisitor would be dead before he could even blink. By the way, it's curious that the Skitarians weren't interested in the angel's spear.

"They coming," commented the Astartes.

Kryptman smiled even wider, noting that for the first time he saw Olga washed, combed, well dressed. In general - quite happy with life. The girl was still very thin, but the well-made overalls no longer hung on her bones, and her face did not look haggard; the former novice was definitely well fed and treated.

Seeing Jennifer again with her head was strange and even a little creepy, because the metal sphere was different in design, color, and shape. Obviously, the Martian had used a temporary substitute. The third member of the small company was a tall and unkempt-looking tech-priest with an almost human face. Only a keen eye could tell that it was an elaborate mask with intricate actuators.

When Olga saw Kryptman, she faltered and lowered her head, then, as if making up her mind, proudly straightened up and stepped toward the inquisitor. The priestess and the tall mechanicum, without looking at each other or exchanging a sound, parted as if to show that they did not intend to interfere.

"Go on," Astartes said in a low voice of encouragement. "It's about time."

Fidus approached Olga and they stopped, looking at each other in silence, Kryptman from top to bottom of the girl with her head slightly tilted back. Martian surgeons had replaced the former miserable prosthesis with a magnificent eye, indistinguishable from the real one.

"Hello... Kryp," Olga hesitated with the name, and it sounded very kind, without the previous mockery.

"Hello..." In turn, Kryptman paused for a moment, considering whether to return "Olla" in response, but decided that it would be foolishly childish. "Olga."

On an instant impulse, he took her palms in his, feeling the thin, warm fingers that knew no rings. Olga squeezed his hands and said:

"It's all repeated."

"Yes," Fidus agreed. "It's just like before. But better."

"You promised," she said quietly.

"Yes. I promised."

Fidus felt some burning in his eyes and blinked, trying to get rid of it.

"And I kept my promise."

"You did," she echoed, and Kryptman realized that there was no mockery or irony in her words.

"Let me guess," said the captain instead of a greeting, squinting at Olga and Kryptmann talking quietly. "It's logical to assume that Doturov still looks at the world through your eyes," he pointed at Wakrufmann. "Lexik Arcanum, on the other hand, likes variety. So... I'd bet on you, Mr. Theta."

"You're wrong and you're right," Wakrufmann and Logis said in identical voices at the same time. "In fact, I am now looking at you through the eyes of both of them."

"I wonder if I'll ever get to see you in your true form," smiled the Astartes sarcastically.

"What is the true form for a mind free from the shackles of the flesh?" Doturov answered the question with a question in Jennifer's mouth. "For example, right now "I" am technically in the body of the "Warhound". Can this incarnation be considered true? And how to assess the degree of truthfulness, given that this shell was not the first and will not be the last in a long chain of wanderings? Or is my true embodiment the Temple of All Knowledge, which holds my main backup copy?"

"Scholastic," the space marine shook his head. "Well, be that as it may. I am authorized to express the united position of the Order, the Ecclesiarchy, and the Inquisition, or rather its representatives in the system. We have no grievances against Olga, and we will not interfere in any way with your intentions or actions towards her. You could say..."

The captain indicated a sarcastic smile.

"... it is now, unquestionably and solely, your prey."

"I believe the term 'prey' is inapplicable in this situation," Theta sternly corrected. The spacemarine sensed that Logis's speech had changed again. Perhaps Doturov had loosened the chain and allowed the servant his own free will and considerations. Who knows...

"You may not believe it, but Mars is not interested in Olga as a trophy of war. We don't want to "possess" her," Theta emphasized the word "possess". "Certainly, her becoming a mechanicum is preferable. However, circumstances, her background and the value of her knowledge, as well as our ethics, require that this choice be made purely voluntarily."

"What if she doesn't want to?" the Astartes inquired. "What if the way of the Machine doesn't inspire her?"

"We will not restrain Olga," Logis said firmly. "If you wish, you can control her free will personally. Think of it as a... courtesy of Mars."

The captain silently bowed his head and after a moment's pause changed the subject:

"Well, apparently that's what they call a happy ending. Everybody got theirs. Even..." The angel glanced at Fidus again. "Our wretched inquisitor, who got a clean conscience and the ability to continue catching his ghosts."

Logis, too, turned his artificial face, showing interest in the conversation between Kryptman and Olga. The young man and the girl seemed to be finishing a quiet conversation. The sophisticated drives behind the synthetic flesh displayed a complex shift of emotions.

"I have long noticed that there is a condescending perception of Kryptman Jr. as superficial, weak, and unprofessional," Theta said, and now the Astartes captain would have sworn that the logis was speaking for himself. "However, I think that opinion is inaccurate and..."

"Wrong?"

"Rush. Who knows, maybe young Kryptman will surprise us all again?"

"I doubt it," the captain said and thought about it. "On the other hand... On second thought, I'm inclined to agree. He's managed to surprise me twice. Maybe he'll do it a third time."

"Consensus," Jennifer entered the conversation.

"Truly so," Theta shook his head. "Well, I have had the pleasure of our conversation, but the flight window does not wait. With your permission, we'll continue the conversation aboard and a little later, when we leave the system."

"Goodbye," Olga said.

"I'll say "farewell," Kryptman said. "Who knows, maybe we'll meet again."

"Maybe..." Then the girl realized. "Is there someplace I could write to you?"

"I have a house, but I'm rarely there. I'll leave the address with the Martians if you want to write. I'll be glad to know that you're doing well. And in general, how's it going."

"Absolutely."

Olga rose on tiptoe and kissed Fidus on the forehead.

"Good luck to you... inquisitor."

She paused for a moment and then added: "Good luck...my Kryp."

They parted, accompanied by the dispassionate lenses of the Martian optics and the glances of the captain's retinue of Sleepless. Fidus walked to the dock, where a shuttle was already waiting for the Inquisitor. The Martian ship, which looked like a hybrid of a black sphere and a Mobius tape, opened a gate with a gilded gear symbol and extended the gangway. Logis and the priestess stood motionless, like statues of gatekeepers. When the Martians were only a few steps away, Olga suddenly turned around, and for a moment it seemed to her that instead of the athletic, shoulder-length figure of Kryptman, a hunched and very old man was gravely walking. A gown embroidered with silver symbols covered his hunched shoulders, and two scars crisscrossed the bald back of his head like the big man Essen. Each step was hard as if the years and the decisions he had made hung heavy around his neck like fetters. Olga blinked, and the vision vanished.

It seemed... Only now did she realize how tired she was.

Fidus turned around, and for a moment he thought he saw someone else entirely instead of the little short-haired girl. A tall figure in a scarlet cloak, shimmering with steel and gold. A metallic statue body of perfect, mathematically flawless proportions, the face of a dazzlingly beautiful woman with cornflower-colored eyes, hair like streams of molten copper. The posture and gaze of someone who was accustomed to not bowing to anyone. Fidus shook his head, averted his eyes for a moment, and when he looked again, of course, the vision was gone.

I need a rest, thought the inquisitor. A little rest...

And he never looked back.

At the last step, the girl stumbled and felt an attack of uncontrollable fear. As if reading her mind, the Martian, who was called "Theta," handed her a small object that looked like a large cardboard card.

"One of our mutual acquaintances sends his regards."

Olga mechanically picked up the cardboard, trying to remember where she had seen something like this before. And she remembered. And then she read it:

I was interested in communicating with you,

I'm glad you continue to exist,

I am glad that we will continue to communicate,

Eventually,

If you want it.

"After all, he learned how to put commas," Olga whispered.

She smiled, unabashedly, going over her memories like precious pearls, and asked:

"With him... with Machine..." then I remembered how to say it right. "Is everything okay with the sacred comp... Cogitator is all right?"

"Yes."

"Would it be possible for me to meet him?"

"Of course. It is the desire of the sacred cogitator, therefore it is the will of the Omnissia."

Olga raised her foot, intending to take the last step, and froze.

"I..." she said quietly and finished in an almost whisper. "I'm scared. I know it's silly. But I'm still scared."

"That's the way it should be," Theta smiled.

"Yes?" the girl asked suspiciously, putting her foot down. It seemed that Olga was ready to run like hell.

"Yes," the Martian repeated very seriously. "You have lived several lives. In your world. And then in our world, which has become yours. And none of them have been easy. All the changes promised you nothing but hardship. Now you're on the threshold of a new life, so it's logical and natural that the decision is not easy."

"And you promise me hardship, too?" the girl said after a long pause.

"It won't be easy," Theta said honestly. "The ways of Omnissia are indeed many, but they all require time, as well as painstaking work. But I can promise you exactly two things."

"Like what?"

The Martian looked into her large eyes of rich, amazingly clear color - the organ, grown by Magos Biologis of the XJ-9 Squadron to replace the lost one, had expectedly taken root without serious problems. And thought - what attentive and surprisingly trusting eyes, despite such severe trials. Not of a frightened, hunted animal, ready to fight for survival - which would have been expected and logical, but of a human being. The eyes of a very good man, filled with expectation.

And hope.

"Nothing will ever threaten you again. Unless you want to, by choosing the path of adventure and danger."

"And... The second one?"

"It's going to be interesting. Not easy, but interesting."

Olga took a gulp, took a breath, without panic and splashing in her eyes the readiness to run.

"But first I'd like to clarify something," the Martian suddenly said. "The archives of Adeptus Mechanicus and the analysis of the ancient toponymy of Mars show that the generic name " Doturov" was widespread in our world back in the times when Mankind was confined to the solar system and had just left orbit of the Drevnei Zemli," the Martian pronounced the last words in Russian. "It has been reasonably suggested that it was worn by the first man to set foot on the surface of Mars. Can you clarify this question?"

Spoiler: T.N. Doturov, Doturov. You've spent so many resources just to clarify the origin of your name.

"I don't know," Olga answered confusedly. "When I lived... well, back then, people only flew to the Moon. I think..."

"I see."

Doturov-Theta extended her open palm in an inviting gesture, Olga raised her hand unbeknownst to her, and metal met flesh.

"Come, child. Mars is waiting."

A few minutes later, as the ship departed, Olga looked out the panoramic porthole, where Beacon floated majestically surrounded by a ring of orbital complexes, and suddenly flinched, afraid to forget.

"Jennifer!"

"Yes?" The tech-priestess immediately responded.

"The song...that you played back then in "Chimera," an ancient motif for courage."

"Yes, I remember."

"Can I listen to it again?"

"Of course. Wait a minute, I'll update the library," promised Wackrufmann and complained like a real person, with lively intonations. "That new head, nothing but trouble with it!"

"What is the song about?"

"This is a very old composition. It was popularized at the time of the first colonization of Mars, but most likely the basis was created somewhat earlier. The original has been sung in many versions and many languages, we cannot vouch for the absolute accuracy of the translation, but in Gothic it will sound something like: "He who cannot understand His - that is, Omnissia's - words will never know happiness."

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