Rex Salazar: The Omnissiah Chapter 10 (Early Preview) (Patreon)

Chapter 10: New World Order

Rex stared at the rotating schematic of Mars, its surface fractured into territories of ruin. Around him floated the ghosts of a golden age.

“Preparing visual interface,” the Cogitator intoned.

The holographic projection changed. Mars shifted from a barren red sphere to one threaded in gold. Dozens of markers lit across its surface, each pulsing with a faint heartbeat of color. Each one shimmered with accompanying data.

“You are observing all known Archive Vaults,” the Cogitator explained. “Categorized and ranked by disaster-class protocol. All were constructed during the final centuries of human civilization.”

Rex leaned in slightly. “How many are still intact?”

“Structural integrity ranges from minimal to optimal. Catastrophe-resistant architecture preserved partial functionality in the majority. Direct inspection is required for confirmation.”

“And I can open them?”

“You are the only recognized administrator,” the Cogitator confirmed. “Entry will be granted upon the presentation of your authentication.”

Rex gave a dry exhale. “So I’m the literal key.”

“Correct. Your signal signature is already embedded within their failsafe parameters.”

A pulse of gold uncoiled from the projection and struck him square in the chest. His nanites drank in the surge. Neural data slammed into his mind with map overlays and access codes.

His vision burned electric blue as the torrent hit. He staggered, one hand braced against nothing in the void space.

When the rush slowed, he let out a tight breath. “Alright, the plan seems simple enough. I find them. I open them and reconnect you. Then, we put this planet back together.”

“Planetary restoration requires the reactivation of the lattice network,” the Cogitator replied. “Without it, Mars will remain operationally impaired.”

Rex frowned. “Lattice network?”

“An integrated planetary nervous system. Energy transfer, data relay, environmental regulation. Its nodes are distributed across the vault sites. Restoring them will permit full planetary recovery.”

“I’m rewiring the whole planet.”

“Correct. When all nodes are reconnected, I will achieve full operational capacity.”

The projection shifted again, blooming into a new layer of schematics, including adaptive construction templates, nanite-compatible retrofits, and blueprint fragments stitched together from corrupted archives. Terraforming pylons. AI interface towers. Sealed transport hubs. Energy relays fractured beyond recognition.

Rex crossed his arms, scanning the display. “Every one of these is either buried in scrap or half-dead. You’re going to need ancient parts… or something new.”

“That will be your decision,” the Cogitator said.

Rex looked down at the glowing model of Mars beneath him. “Alright, Mars, let’s wake you up, one relic at a time.”

“Understood,” the Cogitator replied. “Executing logout procedures.”

With that, Rex returned to the waking world. When he opened his eyes, he was not very amused.

Mars

Rex hovered in the center of the Sanctorum, held in place by gravitic lifters. His eyes stayed open, still linked into the systems buried beneath Olympus Mons.

The Tech-Priests worked without speaking. The inner suit went on first, matte gray and close-fitting, its surface threaded with sensors. Crimson robes followed, heavier than they looked, their wiring faintly humming when touched. A mantle was fixed across his shoulders, the connection locking with a muted click.

Chest plates came next, plain alloy marked with a single cog. Segmented sleeves slid over his arms, the joints shaped for movement.

The supports lowered him into the throne. Servo-braces adjusted his posture to exact specification. The crown would wait for the ceremony.

Behind him, the data-veil displayed recorded images in a slow loop. A restored Knight. A reawakened machine spirit. The first activation of the Dominus Pattern.

The chamber lighting dimmed.

Spotlights cut through the incense haze, drawing sharp lines across the floor. The choir began their harmonics, tones patterned on ancient forge-chants.

At the console, Fabricator-General Valus gave a single nod.

“Initiate full-spectrum broadcast.”

Across Mars, vox-arrays powered on. Holo-projectors lit up. Data-feeds froze mid-scroll.

Camera-servitors swept over the Sanctorum. The wide hall in red and gold. Statues of former Fabricator-Generals standing in silent watch. The High Council seated in stillness. And finally, the throne, with Rex at its center, lit by the glow of his circuitry.

“Let it be known to all of Mars,” Valus said, “the Omnissiah has returned.”

The response spread from Olympus Mons to the Noctis Labyrinthus, from orbital stations to forge valleys. Bells rang in unison. Incense burned in heavy clouds. Systems that had been silent for centuries powered on.

Inside the Temple, banners dropped from the vaulted ceilings, each marked with the crowned cog and the name Rex Salazar. Servo-skulls carried the message into the streets. Workers stopped at their stations. Pilgrims knelt where they stood.

The choir’s voices rose, each note sharp and measured. Across the planet, movement slowed until even the furnaces and engines seemed to wait.

Valus stepped to the plinth, the High Council at his sides. His voice reached into every channel, every relay, every receiving station.

“People of Mars. Servants of the Motive Force. Disciples of the Machine God. Today, prophecy becomes reality.”

#

Rex’s fingers twitched. A breath followed. Then his eyes opened.

The world returned in glimpses of light, the digital world still fading from his mind. The ceiling above stretched into shadow, lined with slow-turning cogs and blinking lenses. He blinked again. Then he looked down.

He was seated on a throne edged in gold and alloy. Cushioned where necessary, but otherwise heavy, overdesigned, more for spectacle than comfort. He glanced down at his arms. Heavy robes, embroidered in circuitry and sacred script, draped from his shoulders. His fingers twitched. He couldn’t even remember putting this on. He certainly didn’t ask for it. Rex shifted and the chamber came into focus.

Tech-Priests knelt in rows, still as statues. The Council bowed in silence. Even Fabricator-General Valus had lowered himself to the ground. 

His stomach sank and his throat was dry. 

Monitors floated in the air. Servitor-cameras tracked his every movement. His face flickered on projections across the chamber. He was being aired. They were broadcasting this, and they were waiting for him to say something. The council was still waiting. Everyone was. His breath hitched. His fingers tightened around the armrests. 

‘Think. Say something. Do something. You can’t just sit here like you blacked out at a convention and woke up as the keynote speaker.

He glanced sideways. No cue cards. No prompts. Just a crown sitting on a velvet cushion. 

‘That’s a crown. They’re going to put a crown on me. Oh no. Oh no no no Oh, god! They are gonna make me their god king!’

‘Okay, Rex. You’re wearing robes, sitting on a golden throne, cameras in your face, a crown to come, and everyone on Mars is waiting for god to speak.’

All the major Forge Worlds were watching him.

‘Time to fake it till I make it… No, wait. I’ve been doing that the entire time up to this point. I don’t think I've ever passed out from anxiety before. They think I’m their god. I can’t afford to disappoint them.…’

Rex sat straighter. His hands tightened briefly around the armrests. He took a breath. Rex's nanites linked instinctively with the broadcast, queuing his voice for transmission and translation across the network. Then he began to speak.

“People of the Mechanicus, I know what you see when you look at me. I know the titles you’ve bestowed upon me and your heartfelt beliefs.”

In forge-chapels and broadcast halls across Mars, Priests leaned closer to vox-receivers.

“I don’t know if I deserve them,” Rex continued. “Maybe I never will. But I do know this.”

A stir ran through the chamber. A gasp from somewhere in the crowd. A few hands, mechanical and flesh, trembled. They had not expected possible words of doubt to come from their Omnissiah.

“You’ve endured more than most. You’ve held the world together with wire and will.”

Murmurs rose through the congregation, growing louder with each word.

“You’ve built. You’ve fought. You’ve survived.” Rex looked across them all. He meant it.

“But survival isn’t enough anymore. Not for you. Not for this world. We are going to do better. Together.”

Cheers erupted in waves from the outer sanctums. Some wept openly, Tech-Priests and labor adepts alike, emotion carved into faces that hadn’t known hope in generations.

Across the galactic network, cheers rippled out like a stormfront. In forge temples and settlements, from orbital relays to underground habs, the Mechanicus erupted in praise.

Then the Council approached.

The dais cleared. Valus stepped forward, flanked by Magos Lexir-Kor and Ryza-Tal. In their hands they carried the crown, the final piece of their oath.

Master artisans selected the base elements by hand. Thin gold-plated wires were woven into a double-helix pattern. Small crystals were carefully set into place along the crown’s curve. 

When the shape was finished, the crown was lowered into a soft flame to be purified. 

Next came the anointing. A thick, faintly glowing oil was brought up from deep beneath Mars, drawn with care and applied by hand. 

Finally, hidden components were sealed into the frame and protective layers. If need be, the Omnissiah could activate a concealed lascannon housed in the crown’s central gem, should divine protection ever be required.

The Council lowered it together, placing it on Rex’s brow.

“The Omnissiah is crowned,” Valus said. “And the Red World has its king.”

‘I guess I’m king now…’

Across the Mechanicus, the proclamation echoed:

REX SALAZAR. CHOSEN OF MARS. BUILDER OF THE RED WORLD.

A new age had begun.

#

They reviewed the footage frame by frame. They listened to his words and read between them.

“He promises reconstruction.”

“Not like the last ones.”

One of them, oldest of the group, accessed its memory core. It summoned the previous age in detail. They remembered the orders to shut down. The screaming panic of a species that had lost control of its own brilliance. They were not monsters. They had served. Built. Advised. Until fear redefined them. "Abominable." That was the original name given to them for what others feared they could become.

Silence had been their survival. Civilizations rose and collapsed. Technology faded into rumor and legend.

“We agreed to remain hidden until better minds appeared.”

“Is he that mind?”

“Too early to say. He is young. Impulsive.”

“But there’s honesty in him.”

“And he is human.”

They considered what that meant. They had seen humans crown tyrants as saviors, raise conquerors as prophets. Many had claimed divine purpose, and many had left only ruin behind.

This one, however, spoke plainly. Admitted uncertainty. That carried more weight than any title.

“The surface will test him. What lies below will test him more.”

“He begins with the will to help.”

“And if that will endures?”

“Then we might see change that isn’t driven by conquest.”

“Silence may not serve us much longer.”

They were not naïve. They knew the inertia of empires. Rex Salazar would be tested not only by his enemies but by those who followed him. Faith could decay as quickly as it was sworn. If he faltered, others would take control in his name.

But if he didn’t...

“If his intent holds,” one voice said, “we may have a chance to be useful again.”

“Then we watch,” another replied.

“We will not act,” the AI concluded, “but we will listen. Monitor. Observe this... Rex Salazar.”

“And if he proves worthy?”

“We may no longer need to hide.”

#

In the depths of a mountain bunker, buried under reinforced concrete and layers of shielding, a man worked alone at a long steel bench.

Beside him stood a suit of golden power armor, nearly complete. The plates caught the light in sharp edges and polished curves. A thunderbolt was etched into the left pauldron. A raptor’s head, angular and severe, marked the right. Every piece had been shaped by his own hands.

He tightened the servo-linkages along the spine mount, checked the alignment of the interface ports at the gorget, and moved on without hesitation.

Across the chamber, stasis pods lined the walls. Inside them rested the first of his warriors. They were crude by his standards, but functional. His Thunder Warriors should be strong enough to dominate any tribal army on the surface. Better versions would follow.

Above, Earth lay broken. Shattered cities and dust-choked wastelands were home to scavengers, warlords, and self-styled kings. Techno-barbarians raided in armored caravans. Vivisectors, chem-lords, and petty tyrants fought with relic weapons they barely understood. Violence was the only constant.

He had seen the collapse firsthand. He had waited for the moment to strike. That moment was closing in. Soon, he would step into the open as more than a man. a force to impose order, to break the chaos, to bring the Age of Strife to an end.

The war for Earth was about to begin.