Overlord Agamunzu stares into the darkness of a storm-tossed world.

On a world unknown to Imperial cartographers, two Necrons—cybernetic beings of unfathomable age—stand atop a temple in the gloom of a thunderstorm. The falling rain bothers them not.  They are men of metal, not flesh. They feel no discomfort . . . nor any compassion.

* * *

“Do you think it wise to challenge the humans again so soon,” asked the cryptek known as Aubastet.

The Necron was kneeling, his head bowed in submission.  and—most importantly—his eyes were concealed from his master. It was best not to meet the eyes of an overlord as you question his decisions.

“Why do you ask?”

The question was spoken so quietly, so calmly, that Aubastet would have shuddered in fear if he still had a body of flesh. As it was, the algorithms that simulated his long-lost organic brain recognized the implications of such a measured answer.

The cryptek rose and looked upward.

Standing but three meters away, Agamunzu, overlord of the Dryllian Regency, honored prince of the Sautekh Dynasty, towered over his favored advisor. An advisor that, Aubastet thought, could be blasted out of existence if he didn’t choose  his words carefully.

“I am simply curious about the strategic implications of your actions, my lord,” Aubastet said. “This lowly servant wishes to understand, so he can better serve his master.”

Agamunzu said nothing for a time. The cryptek cursed silently. You think to intimidate me with your silence, he thought. Fool. I know your tricks. But do you know all of mine?

“You wonder why I’m committed troops to Myopolis,” the overlord finally said.

“Indeed,” Aubastet replied. “It was only two years ago that we were forced to give up our campaign on Tophet and ordered our forces to adopt a hit-and-run strategy to keep the humans at bay. You said you wanted time for more of our army to awaken—time to build our forces to unbeatable numbers—before we settled our grievances with the humans.”

“That was two years ago,” Agamunzu said. “The Imperium has sent the best of its military forces against some upstart species known as the Tau. Their forces are weakened, spread thin across a half-dozen sectors.”

“True, my lord,” Aubastet said. “But our numbers have barely been restored to the level when we were last defeated. We can hardly strike the humans a decisive victory with the forces at hand.”

“And whose fault is that?” Agamunzu said, this time with a hint of anger and menace in his tone. “It is your responsibility to hasten the revivification protocols and bring our soldiers back to awareness. Yet you barely can reanimate a thousand warriors every 50 planetary rotations.”

You know I cannot work any faster, you pathetic excuse for a leader, Aubastet thought , his enhanced cybernetic brain reciting a thousand more colorful insults to describe the overlord.

As androids, the Necrons have no need for air, water, or food—and care not if the worlds they inhabit are grim and barren.

“We are fortunate that our revivification chambers suffered so little damage during the Great Sleep,” the cryptek said, adding silently as you well know.

“Some dynasties suffered catastrophic losses of warriors as their stasis-crypts failed. We should be grateful that the algorithmic sequence to revive our people  is simply degraded in its speed of revivification.  If the algorithms  had degraded completely, we would need to petition another regency or, worse, another dynasty for help.”

“That would be unfortunate,” Agmunzu said.” But you deflect.”

“So do you, my lord.”

“Such insolence!” Agmunzu roared, and Aubastet was pleased. The overlord was never more dangerous as when he was calm and his intellectual algorithms were at peak efficiency. A hint of anger dulled his master’s judgement.

The trick was to calm him down quickly, lest you lose your head.

“My point, my lord, is to understand the strategy under which you proceed,” the cryptek said. “The genetically altered humans—the Knights of Altair, they call themselves—still have forces in the region.”

“Why suffer casualties in a fight of near-equal numbers, when with time, we could attack with overwhelming force and—wipe out the humans with minimal casualties?”

Agmunzu glared down at the cryptek, and when he spoke, it was but a whisper.

“Because I order it. The humans have stolen some of my worlds. They defeated me in battle. They forced me to abandon thousands of our warriors in our underground tombs, and the humans are likely to destroy them while they slumber.”

As if to magnify the importance of their discussion, a bolt of lightning  lashed down and struck a hilltop just half a kilometer away. Thunder cracked, and the wind gained velocity as the storm worsened.

A grim omen, Aubastet thought.

Agmunzu ignored the sky’s torment and continued to speak.

“I cannot bear this insult by the humans. Our people on Myopolis have awoken. They call to me for aid against the lowly creatures that infest our world. I shall answer their call. I shall destroy the humans. I will have my revenge.”

“This is my will—no matter what the cost.”

Aubastet, the most powerful technologist in the regency, himself a warrior of great renown, felt a sensation that he’d long thought lost: Fear.

Click here to see the great artwork of David Alexandersson.

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