The warp portal closed behind them and the air of Gryphonne IV arrived all at once.
The wolf's helmet tilted upward almost reflexively, nostrils working behind the visor's filter. He turned his head toward the other two.
"This air quality is genuinely difficult to breathe. Forge world, without question."
"Did you need to say that aloud?" Cypher said.
He raised one ceramite-plated hand and pointed, without particular urgency, toward a point a few kilometers distant through the forest of foundry stacks and processing towers. Between the structures, moving fast and in formation, a column of Skitarii Rangers in grey-over-red was already running toward them. The rebreathers integrated into their helmets, the arc rifles held at ready, the disciplined spacing of soldiers who had been told something was wrong and had not yet been told what.
The wolf let out a short laugh through his helmet.
"Time for our esteemed Primarch to step forward. The question is whether the identity holds. Wouldn't want to come all this way just to get locked up and beaten."
"If the local psychics and priests aren't blind, they can confirm what I am." Nolan removed the vibranium helmet and held it under one arm. "And if something goes wrong, I will let the Skitarii execute you first."
The arc rifles finished their approach and came to a halt in a loose arc around the three of them, the low cycling hum of charged capacitors audible in the industrial noise of the surrounding district. Nobody spoke from either side.
After a moment, Nolan stepped forward.
"I am the twenty-second Primarch of the Imperium of Man. I am requesting an audience with your Forge Master. I ask that your priests and sanctioned psykers verify my identity."
The Rangers held position. Then the formation's captain turned away briefly, his vox-bead active, transmitting. The channel stayed open longer than a routine confirmation would require.
It was, Nolan reflected, a reasonable response. A false Primarch was a problem with a straightforward solution, however much manpower it consumed. A genuine Primarch treated as a hostile was a different kind of problem entirely, and forge worlds did not accumulate their longevity by resolving ambiguous situations carelessly.
"Follow us," the captain said, when his channel closed. His tone was carefully neutral. "Keep your hands visible and make no movements that would be interpreted as aggressive."
Nolan glanced at the other two. Both nodded. All three fell in without complaint.
The route led them through the outer districts of the forge world's surface installation, past foundry walls that radiated heat through the gaps in their cladding, past servitor columns moving in directed patterns between loading bays, past the elevated tracks of ore-carriers running overhead with the grinding regularity of a mechanism that never stopped. After approximately ten minutes they were brought inside a Mechanicus temple that sat enclosed between three large foundry blocks, its architecture the standard marriage of Imperial liturgical form and Mechanicus function: cog-motif reliefs, votive purity seals layered over older inscriptions, the smell of sacred oils and hot metal competing with each other in the closed air.
As they settled in to wait, both Nolan and the wolf registered independently the sound of Skitarii units moving to surround the building's exterior. Heavy vehicle tracks, the particular vibration signature of armored platforms taking up fire positions. Methodical and unhurried.
The wolf looked at Cypher, who was examining the temple's interior fixtures with calm interest.
"They are cautious here," the wolf said. "No sign of civil war. Are we genuinely only here for a suit of armor? That seems like a modest ambition for this much travel."
"If nothing larger presents itself," Cypher said, still not turning around, "then yes: a suit of master-crafted armor for you, and perhaps some vehicle samples or design schematics for the Primarch. That alone would make the trip worthwhile."
The footsteps that interrupted them were heavier than the Rangers'. Two Kastellan Robots entered first, moving to positions on either side of the temple's central space. Behind them came a Tech-Priest in full red robes, rebreather unit cycling quietly at the collar, followed by an Ecclesiarchy priest and a small group of sanctioned psykers.
The Tech-Priest looked at each of them in turn without anything that resembled social preamble.
"One wears Dark Angels markings," he said, his vocal output carrying the characteristic layered resonance of an augmented larynx. "One wears armor of unknown fabrication and carries an alien blade, consistent with Deathwatch operational profile. The third carries a great sword of unusual provenance. I have no existing classification for him."
He shifted his attention fully to Nolan.
"Our psykers and priests have detected no active daemonic presence and no direct warp emanation. This does not resolve the question of your identity, but it eliminates certain categories of threat." A brief pause, accompanied by the faint sound of internal mechanisms. "If you do not wish to precipitate a large-scale incident, I am prepared to proceed as though the subject of a Primarch's presence was never raised. Gryphonne IV has no interest in conflict with an Astartes Chapter."
"Before we get to that," Nolan said, holding the Tech-Priest's optical array with a steady look, "I would ask you a simpler question. Has this forge world encountered any significant problems recently? Any outstanding difficulties?"
"Beyond the technological obstacles that are endemic to all forge worlds, the only current anomaly is your arrival." The Tech-Priest's tone did not change. "Since you have caused no damage to the installation and have not demonstrated hostile intent, I am willing to authorize your departure without incident. Gryphonne IV produces no armor for the Astartes, and I see no basis for a productive exchange."
Nolan opened his mouth.
The wolf stepped past him.
"We came here for a suit of master-crafted power armor," he said, loudly and directly, his grin audible in his voice. "Artificer-grade if master-crafted isn't available. Help us with that, and you have goodwill banked. If Gryphonne IV ever faces something it cannot resolve alone, you have people to call. That is the whole of it."
The Tech-Priest was quiet for a moment. The internal gear-sounds repeated themselves.
"You are operating under a misapprehension," he said. "Gryphonne IV does not manufacture power armor. No Astartes has ever come to this forge world in search of it, and I would have no mechanism for fulfilling such a request through standard production channels."
He paused again.
"However. If the goal is simply to conclude this matter and have you depart the installation promptly, I am prepared to offer a suit from my personal collection. It is a fine-grade suit, fabricated from an alloy produced by the forge world of Lucius. The condition is that you leave immediately once it is in your possession."
Before Nolan could respond, the wolf's metal hand was already extended toward the Tech-Priest.
"The moment we have it, we go. You have my word."