Chapter 408: Piloting a Squire-Suit
"Then our agreement is settled."
Magos Boothe declared.
Clang!
Clang!
Clang!
Atop the Titan Temple, the great brass bell rang out.
What did the bell ring for? For the sacred machine spirit.
To the drawn-out toll of the bell, a stellar forge ground slowly open, and molten adamantium, glowing white-hot, poured out toward the waiting forging equipment. A colossal hydraulic hammer, the kind of tool a Titan itself might wield, dropped from dozens of stories overhead, slamming down onto the glowing metal ingot with each stroke.
Each impact went off like an artillery shell, and every time the hammer fell, the tech-priests kneeling around it broke into another round of binary chant.
The steam hammer struck once every minute, fourteen hundred and forty times in total. That was the length of a full day on Terra, and this divine machine had been marked with humanity's own rhythm from the moment of its forging. The machine spirit born from it would carry an unbreakable bond with humanity forever after.
Once the finished armour plate rolled off the forge, it was placed on a small cart built like a rolling altar, studded with candles and Purity Seals. Two lines of tech-priests walked alongside it, censers burning, chanting without pause. Ahead of the cart, over two hundred labourers strained against heavy chains, hauling the plate toward the assembly bay.
The finished plate arrived before one of the squire-suits, and dozens of augmented tech-priests lifted it in their bare hands as though cradling a holy relic. Magos Boothe dipped one hand into a vessel of sanctified oil, sprinkling it across the plating while reciting the opening binary invocation. The tech-priests around him chanted in unison as specialized tools welded the armour into place.
Tech-priests knelt in ranks all around, each one bowing, swinging a censer, murmuring a line of prayer. The whole assembly bay filled with pale smoke, thick with the scent of burning incense oil.
The following morning, the great bell above the Titan Temple rang again, and every tech-priest present withdrew in respectful order.
Standing in the assembly bay was a brand-new squire-suit, fully armed and equipped. It had been painted gold, with a pattern of black longswords decorating its shoulders and chest.
As the bell fell silent, Boothe raised his voice.
"A magnificent divine machine is born. A spirit filled with righteous fury has found new life. It will march to battle, sweep away every heretic, and bring death and wrath to our enemies. Praise the Omnissiah!"
Every tech-priest present dropped to their knees at once and chanted together.
"Praise the Omnissiah, praise the Omnissiah, praise..."
"Praise your mother's ass!"
Right in the middle of the mass kneeling, a furious voice cut through the chant. Kian shoved his way through the crowd of bowing priests, stormed up to Boothe, and jabbed a finger in his face.
"All you had to do was swap the armour on this squire-suit, and it took you half a damn month! Half a month! You've got a factory this size, and a basic refit takes you half a month? Amen my ass! Amen my ass!"
Boothe wiped a fleck of spittle off his face, looking somewhat sheepish.
"There's nothing to be done, my lord, it's simply protocol. As per the Omnissiah's own instruction, tradition must be followed. Every bolt must be torqued exactly thirty-seven times. Every full turn requires a spoken litany. And once a bolt is finished, a full bow must follow."
Kian roared, "So if it took you half a month for one squire-suit, are you telling me the major overhauls are going to take me ten damn years?!"
Boothe shook his head with genuine solemnity.
"No, that could never happen."
Kian let out a breath of relief, only for Boothe to continue.
"We guarantee completion within nine years and eleven months."
Kian felt his head spin, nearly blacking out on the spot. He lunged forward and grabbed Boothe by the throat, shaking him violently.
"Not good enough! Go even slower and the Orks will have your precious Titan torn apart by the time you're done!"
"Let go, let go! My lord, four months! Just four months and every Knight suit will be repaired! Individually each unit's repair pace is slow, yes, but we're working on all of them in parallel, so within four months, guaranteed, every single Knight suit will be complete!"
Kian's expression relaxed the instant he heard "four months." That he could live with. If they'd genuinely dragged it out for a decade, he'd have just boarded the flagship and waited around to watch the planet fall.
After the commotion died down, Kian turned his attention to the Knight suits that were already finished. Four squire-suits had already been repaired. Three of them hadn't been badly damaged to begin with, they'd just needed a trip through the shop for maintenance, ranged weapon fittings, and a fresh coat of red, yellow, and green paint. The Traffic Light Trio had already claimed those three as their personal rides and spent every day out at the range running gunnery drills.
The fourth squire-suit had no pilot lined up yet, which meant, naturally, it became Kian's own ride.
Kian circled the squire-suit once, studying it. "How do I even pilot this thing?"
Boothe explained. "My lord, the interior space of a squire-suit is limited, and given your size, you won't fit inside wearing full power armour. Remove the armour, put on a life-support suit, and climb into the cockpit."
Kian did as instructed and shed his power armour. Boothe handed him a respirator mask, and the other priests fitted him into the life-support suit with practiced speed.
With everything ready, the hatch atop the squire-suit's frame opened, revealing the cockpit entrance, and Kian slid straight inside.
The cockpit wasn't anything like the sleek, technological cockpits from Japanese science fiction. No joystick, no display screens, not even a single button. Just a plain iron chair, and narrow walls on either side covered edge to edge in prayers and sacred scripture.
Kian felt less like he'd climbed into a war machine and more like he'd stepped into a confession booth.
Boothe's voice carried in from the open hatch.
"My lord, look to your left. You'll find a mechanical crown-interface. Place it on your head, then connect the three leads to the three neural ports at the back of your neck. Clear your mind, recite the litanies inscribed on the cockpit walls, and you'll gradually merge with the squire-suit."
Kian did as told, lifting the crown-interface onto his head. Before connecting the neural leads, he asked, cautious.
"This thing's not dangerous, is it? Not gonna fry my brain into mush the second it links up?"
"Not at all, my lord. A squire-suit is comparatively safe. The data flow it generates doesn't approach lethal thresholds, at worst you'll feel a bit of vertigo. Your three lively subordinates managed to pilot squire-suits perfectly well. There's no reason you couldn't."
Kian figured that was fair enough. If the Traffic Light Trio could handle a squire-suit, he could certainly do better. Without giving it further thought, he plugged all three neural leads into the ports at the back of his neck.
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