The Eisenhorn TrilogyXenos(科幻战争)-第35部分

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The　annex　was　a　colossal　tower　of　hewn　rock　dressed　in　red　steel；　filling　a　side　chimney　of　the　crater　that　housed　Cinchare's
minehead。　A　sealed　glass　dome　covered　the　paved　yard　between　the　blast…gates　and　the　annex；　and　the　building　itself　rose　up　beyond
the　glass　to　the　top　of　the　crater　rim。　High　above；　I　could　see　the　blue　rock　and　the　starlit　void　beyond。　Meteors　streaked　overhead。
The　doorway　of　the　annex　was　a　giant　portal　taller　than　three　men；　framed　by　thick　dork　columns　of　black　lucullite。　Above　it　leered
the　graven　image　of　the　Machine　God；　its　eyes　clearly　carved　in　such　a　way　that　they　would　flare　ominously　with　gas　bum…offs　piped
up　from　the　mines。　They　were　cold　and　dead　now。
And　the　burnished　metal　doors　of　the　portal　were　open。
I　stepped　inside。　Fine　sand　covered　the　floor　of　the　grand　prothyron。　Dust　motes　glittered　in　the　bars　of　light　spearing　into　the　high
hallway　through　deadlights　up　near　the　ribbed　roof。　Both　walls　were　entirely　panelled　with　banks　of　codifiers　and　matriculators；　all
dormant　and　powered　down。　Crescents　of　dust　bearded　every　single　switch　and　dial。
I　knew　at　once　this　was　a　bad　sign。　The　tech…priests　treasured　machines　more　than　anything　else。　If　they　had　evacuated　as　Kaleil
described；　there　was　no　way　they　would　have　left　such　a　wealth　of　technology　here…　especially　as　each　unit　was　clearly　designed　to
slot　out　of　its　alcove　in　the　black　marble　walls。
The　chamber　beyond　the　prothyron　was　a　veritable　chapel；　a　cathedral　dedicated　to　the　God…Machine；　the　uber…Titan；　the　master　of
Mars。　The　floor　was　creamy　travertine　slabs；　so　tightly　laid　not　even　a　sheet　of　paper　could　be　slipped　between　the　stones。　The　chapel
itself　was　triapsidal　with　walls　of　smooth；　cold　lucullite　and　a　roof　thirty　metres　above　my　head。　There　was　yet　more　precious
technology　arranged　in　six　concentric　circles　of　intricate　brass　workstations　around　a　central　plinth。　All　of　it　was　dead　and　unpowered。
I　crossed　the　chamber　towards　the　plinth；　painfully　aware　of　how　loud　my　footsteps　rang　back　from　the　emptiness。　Chilly　starlight
shone　down　through　an　opaion　in　the　centre　of　the　roof；　directly　above　the　massive　grandiorite　plinth。　The　huge；　severed　head　of　an
ancient　Warlord　Titan　hung　above　the　plinth　where　the　starlight　shafted　down。　I　realised　that　nothing　supported　the　head　…　no　cables；
no　platform；　no　scaffolding。　It　simply　hung　in　the　air。
As　I　got　close　to　the　plinth；　gazing　up　at　the　Titan's　face；　my　hair　pricked。　Static；　or　something　like　it；　bristled　the　atmosphere。　Some
invisible；　harnessed　force　…　perhaps　gravity　or　magnetics；　certainly　something　beyond　my　understanding　…　was　at　play　here；　suspending
the　multiple　tonnes　of　the　machine…skull。　It　was　a　silent　marvel；　characteristic　of　the　tech…priesthood。　Even　with　the　power　shut　down；
their　miracles　endured。
On　one　workstation　console　…　a　brass　frame　full　of　intermeshed　iron　cogs；　silvered　wires　and　glass　valves　…　I　saw　a　length　of　canvassleeved
neural　hose；　one　end　plugged　into　the　display；　the　other　frayed　and　severed。　That　was　more　than　just　a　case　of　someone
leaving　in　a　hurry。
Over　the　years；　my　dealings　with　the　Adeptus　Mechanicus　had　been　few。　They　were　a　law　unto　themselves；　like　the　Astartes；　and　only
a　fool　would　meddle　with　their　power。　Bure　…　Magos　Geard　Bure　…　had　been　my　closest　contact　with　them。　Without　the　Priesthood　of
Mars；　the　technologies　of　the　Imperium　would　wither　and　perish；　and　without　their　ceaseless　endeavours；　no　new　wonders　would　ever
be　added　to　mankind's　might。
Yet　here　I　stood；　unmolested　and　uninvited；　in　the　middle　of　one　of　their　inner　sanctums。
My　vox…link　pipped。　A　voice；　Medea's；　badly　distorted　by　gravity　flux；　said；　'Aegis　wishes　Thorn。　By　halflife　d—'
It　cut　off。
'Thorn　attends　Aegis；'　I　said。　Nothing。
'Thorn　attends　Aegis；　the　whisperless　void。'
Still　nothing。　What　little　I　had　caught　of　Medea's　brief　message　troubled　me　…　''halflife''　was　a　Glossia　code　word　that　could　be　used　in
phrases　to　disclose　an　important　discovery　or　indicate　a　grave　predicament。　But　what　troubled　me　far　more　was　the　fact　she　had　cut
off。　My　reply；　if　she　had　heard　it；　indicated　her　transmission　had　been　incomplete　or　garbled。
I　waited　a　full　minute；　then　another。
Without　warning；　my　vox　pipped　quickly　three　times。　Medea　had　test…keyed　her　transmitter　in　a　non…vocal　code　form　that　indicated
she　couldn't　talk　and　that　I　should　stand　by。
I　brushed　the　thin　skin　of　dust　off　one　dead　workdesk　and　gazed　at　the　worn；　rune…marked　keyboard　and　the　small　display　screens　of
thick；　convex　glass；　wondering　what　secrets　I　could　possibly　unlock　from　it。
Little；　I　decided。　Aemos；　who　frankly　knew　more　than　it　was　healthy　to　know；　might　have　a　chance。　He　had　worked　closely　with　Bure
years　before；　and　I　fancied　he　had　more　experience　of　the　mysterious　tech…priests　and　their　ways　than　he　cared　to　admit。
My　motion…tracker　suddenly　clicked　around；　and　I　tensed；　pulling　my　stub…nose　laspistol。　The　tracker's　display　on　my　mask's　right　lens
indicated　a　movement　or　contact　seventeen　paces　to　my　left；　but　even　as　I　turned；　it　flashed　up　more。　Multiple　contacts；　all　around；
coming　so　fast　that　they　overlapped　and　utterly　confused　the　tracker　for　a　moment。　The　lens　display　showed　a　default　''00：00：00''　for　a
second　as　it　struggled　to　compute　the　vectors；　and　then　it　scrolled　a　tight　column　of　coordinates　in　front　of　my　eye。
But　by　then；　I　knew　what　it　had　sensed。
The　sanctum　was　coming　to　life。

In　swift　succession；　each　workstation　chattered　into　action；　cogs　whirring；　valves　glowing；　screens　lighting；　pistons　hissing。　Pneumatic
gas…pumps　exhaled　and　communique　flasks　began　to　pop　and　whizz　through　the　network　of　elegant　glass…and…brass　message　tubes　that
ran　between　the　consoles　and　up　the　walls。　Several　desks　projected　small　hologram　images　above　their　hololith　hubs：　three
dimensional　strata　maps；　spectroscopy　graphs；　sonar　readings　and　oscillating　wave…forms。　Powerful　underlights　ignited　on　the　plinthtop
beneath　the　floating　head　of　the　Titan　and　threw　its　features　into　malevolent　relief。
I　sank　down　behind　one　of　the　stations；　which　vibrated　and　chattered　against　my　back。　The　sudden；　inexplicable　life　was　daunting　and
alarming。　Somewhere　close　by；　one　particular　machine　was　rattling　and　repeating　like　an　old　machine　gun　on　full　auto。
As　suddenly　as　it　had　started；　the　life　died　away。　Stations　fell　silent　and　their　lights　went　out。　The　throb　of　power　leaked　away　into　the
darkness。　The　Titan's　underlights　dimmed　and　died。　One　by　one；　the　holograms　extinguished　and　the　desks　fell　dormant。　The　chirring
of　cogs　and　servos　and　the　throb　of　valves　ebbed　into　stillness。
The　last　sound　to　go　was　that　autogun　racket。　It　continued　for　a　good　few　seconds　after　everything　else　had　stopped；　then　it　too　ceased
abruptly。
The　chapel　was　then　as　dark　and　quiet　as　it　had　been　when　I　first　entered。
I　got　to　my　feet。　There　had　been　no　power　in　this　place；　no　feeding　source。　What　had　started　and　woken　the　machines？　It　had　to　have
been　some　signal　from　outside。
Using　commonsense　and　guesswork；　I　went　around　the　circle　of　stations　nearest　to　me；　hunting　for　the　one　that　had　chattered　like　a
stubber。　The　most　likely　candidate　was　a　bulky　desk　that　seemed　to　have　external　and　general　gain　vox　functions。　But　its　keys　were
dead　to　my　touch。
On　a　whim；　I　got　down　on　my　knees　and　peered　behind　the　desk。　There　were　fixings　where　a　basket　hopper　should　have　been　sitting　to
catch　the　print…outs。　The　hopper　was　missing。　The　sheaf　of　print…out　had　fallen　down　into　the　dust　under　the　desk。
I　scooped　the　sheaf　out。　It　was　about　nine　metres　long；　punch…cut　by　the　printer's　jaws　into　shorter　sections。　Clearly　this　desk　had　been
disgorging　print…outs　for　some　time　without　anyone　around　to　collect　them。　The　sections　at　the　bottom　of　the　spool　were　beginning　to
yellow。
I　looked　them　over；　but　they　meant　nothing。　Tabulated　columns　of　machine　code　in　close；　regular　bands。　Carefully；　I　laid　them　out　on
the　travertine　floor　and　rolled　them　tightly　into　a　thick　scroll。
I　was　nearly　finished　when　my　vox　pipped。
'Aegis　wishes　thorn。　By　halflight　disabused；　in　Administratum　by　heart。　Scales　fall　from　eyes。　Multifarious；　the　grasp　of　changelings。
Pattern　thimble　advised。'
'Pattern　thimble　acknowledged。　Thorn　arising　by　heart。'
Medea's　words　had　told　me　all　I　needed　to　know。　They　had　found　something　in　the　Administratum；　and　they　needed　me　back　swiftly。
There　was　danger　from　Chaos　all　around。　I　should　trust　no　one。
I　bolstered　my　laspistol　and　tucked　the　print…out　scroll　into　my　waistband。
As　I　ran　out　of　the　annex　and　down　the　red…striped　tunnel；　I　tugged　my　combat　shotgun　out　over　my　shoulder　and　racked　the　slide。

EIGHTEEN
PATTERN　THIMBLE。
GOING　ROCKSIDE。
GEARD　BURE？S　TRANSLITHOPEDE。
GLOSSIA'S　NOT　SO　hard　to　understand。　It　uses　subliminal　symbols　and　''head　words''。　Don't　look　for　a　mystery　in　it；　it　isn't　there。　That's
why　it　works　so　well　as　a　private　code。　There　is　no　encryption　…　at　least　no　mathematical　encryption　…　to　be　calculated　and　broken。　It　is
idiomatic　and　visceral。　It　is　verbal　impressionism。　It　uses　the　uncalculable；　unregulated　mechanisms　of　poetry　and　intimacy　to　perform
its　functions。　There　have　been　times　in　the　last　…　well；　the　increasing　years　of　my　career；　let's　say　…　there　have　been　times　when　an　ally
or　retainer　of　mine　has　sent　me　a　Glossia　message　using　terms　and　words　that　have　never　been　used　before。　And　still；　I　have
understood　them。
It's　a　knack。　It's　knowing　how　to　use；　and　improvise；　a　shared　cant。　There　are　basic　rules　of　construction　and　metaphor；　of　course；　but
Glossia's　strength　lies　in　its　nebulous　vagueness。　Its　idioms。　Its　resonance。　It　is　akin　to　the　gut…slang　of　the　Ermenoes；　who　have
replaced　language　with　subtleties　of　skin…colour。
Pattern　thimble；　for　example。
''Pattern''　indicates　a　course　of　action　or　behaviour。　''Thimble''　is　a　qualifier；　disclosing　the　manner　or　mode　of　said　action。　A　thimble　is
a　small　tin　cap　that　you　might　use　to　protect　your　finger　from　the　short；　sharp　stabs　of　a　needle　during　darning。　It　wouldn't　fend　off；
say；　an　atomic　strike　or　a　horde　of　genestealers。　But；　in　the　idiom　of　Glossia；　it　would　seal　you　against　sudden；　spearing；　close　attacks。
It　is　also　quiet　and　unremarkable。
And　so；　quietly；　unremarkably；　I　slipped　down　the　tunnel　ways　of　Cinchare　Minehead　towards　the　officium　of　the　Administratum。　I
was　stealthy　and　secretive；　and　my　motion　tracker　and　shotgun　were　my　thimble。
Pattern　thimble。　Gideon　Ravenor　had　coined　that　particular　phrase；　adding　it　to　the　vocabulary　of　my　Glossia。

I　thought　of　Ravenor；　alone　in　his　plastic…sheeted　cot　on　Thracian。　My　anger；　dimmed　these　last　few　months；　welled。
MY　MOTION　TRACKER　warned　me　into　cover　at　a　junction　of　transit　tunnels　about　half　a　kilometre　from　the　plaza。　Hidden　behind　a
stack　of　empty　promethium　drams；　I　watched　as　two　electric　buggies　buzzed　past；　heading　towards　the　concourse　area。　Bandelbi　was
driving　the　lead　one。　There　were　two　miners　with　him；　and　three　more　in　the　buggy　behind。　They　all　looked　grimy　and　slovenly。
THERE　WERE　MORE　buggies　in　the　plaza；　parked　out　in　front　of　the　security　office。　I　saw　a　couple　of　labourer…types　lounging　in　the
building　doorway；　smoking　lho…sticks。