The Sapient Machine Automaton led the way through the hatch, with Wayne and his squad of four following close behind. The Stormtroopers struggled to suppress their mounting excitement, their heavy footfalls echoing in the metallic silence.
After traversing several vast, utilitarian corridors devoid of any ornamentation, a massive mechanical construct loomed before them. It bore no resemblance to any Imperial space elevator they had ever encountered.
Crude. That was the only word to describe it.
Typically, the journey from an orbital starport to a planet's surface via space elevator was a catered affair—smooth acceleration and plush seating designed for the comfort of high-born officials. Here, there was only the cold, dry reality of a metal floor and a series of utilitarian clamping mechanisms.
As the automaton led them into the lift, several floor-mounted locking stabilizers snapped shut around their greaves. Before they could even voice their confusion, the elevator plummeted. The sudden, violent surge of acceleration hit them with such force that even the protective layers of their Hazard Environment Suits could not fully dampen the crushing G-force.
The machine, monitoring their fluctuating life-signs, begrudgingly eased the descent, capping the velocity at the absolute limit of human endurance. Under normal operational parameters, this lift was designed to punch through the atmosphere and reach the surface in a mere seventy seconds.
After an agonizing ordeal of acceleration and braking that left the men feeling as though their internal organs had been liquefied, the doors finally hissed open. The automaton stepped out and waited.
Inside the car, five massive suits of armor were sprawled on all fours, their occupants retching into their helmets. It took several minutes for Wayne and his team to recover. The Inquisitor swore a silent oath to the God-Emperor that he would demand a Valkyrie for the return trip; he would never set foot in this mechanical deathtrap again.
Then, they looked out. For the first time, they beheld the dark surface of this starless system.
Beyond the metallic foundations of the facility, the ground shimmered with a brilliant, crystalline luster under the harsh glare of the floodlights. The effect was dizzying, a kaleidoscope of reflected light that played havoc with the senses.
"According to the archives, Vorchad III shouldn't look like this," Wayne remarked, his voice filtered and metallic.
"When the mothership arrived, the planet was devoid of survivors," the automaton replied flatly. "A Tyranid Hive Ship had already completed biomass extraction. The swarm had excavated all minerals of strategic value and was in the process of siphoning the planetary core."
"The mothership purged the surface with concentrated plasma fire, neutralizing the Tyranid bio-vessel. The silicic soil was flash-fused into a crystalline crust several meters thick. The minerals previously consumed and stored within the Hive Ship's bio-mass were refined and precipitated out of the wreckage by the heat of the bombardment. The atmospheric oxygen was entirely consumed during the sustained plasma saturation."
"During the construction of our facilities, we cleared only a portion of the crystalline surface. Areas containing residual mineral deposits were subjected to total-extraction mining. Every gram of valuable mineral on this planet has been smelted and stockpiled on the surface."
Wayne stood frozen as the automaton's clinical explanation sank in. "You mean... this planet is utterly worthless?"
In the Imperium, a world followed a grim but predictable lifecycle. A frontier world would be mined until its veins ran dry. Then, it would be terraformed or tilled into an Agri-World to squeeze out every drop of caloric potential. When the soil failed, it might become a Hive World, a Civilized World, or a Forge World.
Vorchad III had bypassed the cycle entirely. It was a stripped carcass. The minerals were gone, the surface was a shell of glass, and the soil was scorched beyond any hope of fertility. Furthermore, in the eternal night of this system, the cost of artificial lighting for agriculture would be astronomical. Its Hives were already recorded as ruins.
The only fate left for such a world was abandonment.
"Are there any other Imperial citizens remaining on the surface?" Wayne asked, his mind racing through the administrative nightmare of his report.
The machine shook its head. "Excluding your party, only trace microbial life exists, introduced via meteorite impacts."
The automaton led them toward an industrial zone where most of the machinery had already been dismantled. Beneath a colossal metal canopy stood empty spaces, save for rows of identical automata still laboring in the shadows. A massive conveyor belt groaned as it flickered to life.
To refine the minerals and construct his legions, Axion had ordered the factory intelligences to build a sprawling network of transportation belts. These were now the only form of "public transport" on the planet.
Wayne eyed the seemingly slow-moving belt with deep suspicion, glancing at the machine. "Is this thing going to accelerate like that elevator the moment we step on it?"
The automaton gave a slow, mechanical nod, then added, "Acceleration increases efficiency. However, due to structural limitations, the velocity is capped. It will take some time to reach the mineral stockpiles."
With lingering doubt, the group stepped onto the belt. This time, thankfully, the acceleration was manageable, topping out at a steady sixty kilometers per hour.
As they moved, Wayne watched the scenery unfold. He knew his duty, but as the hours turned into a full day, the environment remained hauntingly static. Glossy, reflective glass ground, intersecting conveyor lines, and a toxic, oxygen-free atmosphere. The only sounds were the mechanical hum of the belts and the mournful howl of the wind.
"A dead world," Wayne whispered.
The automaton did not argue. Its logic-circuits were not designed for philosophical debate.
Twenty-seven hours passed. The monotony had turned the team's excitement into a dull numbness. Finally, as jagged fissures began to tear through the landscape, the machine spoke.
"Inquisitor Wayne, we have arrived at the first Stockpile Zone."
This was the edge of the great rift where the Hive Ship had extended its feeding tendrils into the core. At the end of the conveyor belt stood a mountain.
Thousands of smelted metal ingots were stacked in perfect, towering rows. Most had been reclaimed from the scorched remains of the Tyranid bio-ships. Wayne's suit sensors swept over the piles, providing an instantaneous, staggering tally.
A data-slate's worth of information was transmitted directly into Wayne's HUD. There were nine such open-air stockpiles across the planet. Every ingot was etched with a stamp denoting its metal type and purity.
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