Our enemies are many, and their power grows greater with each passing year. First, the Soviets, and now the Americans, feel the need for deterrence. We must create an unstoppable machine of destruction that we may use should our enemies ever threaten to overwhelm us.

  -The Journal of the Litch

  “A strange light has been cast over my Empire…” Mused Ozymandias, “the Soviets grow bold…” He whispered in his warped chamber. Emperor Bormann, third of his name, stood before the Dead God and placed the report on a podium before the Dead God’s golden visage. He listened to the roar of the thinking machine’s infernal mechanisms arise from the abyss below his precarious alcove.

  Early warning signs pinged from distant Imperial satellite colonies. Atomic detectors crackled to life in dusty research outposts. The Allfather listened as streams of data poured in from a thousand spies. So it is over, he thought as the streams showed a burst of nuclear energy from the front lines of the Zeibatsu war.

  “The Red Army…” Bormann opened his folder and read, “marches on Antioch. My analysts believe they intend to use atomics.”

  “Your data is outdated…” Chided the Dead God, “Antioch burns… Destroyed by atomic fire. The Soviets have wiped our Japanese allies off the galactic map.” The Dead God’s machine churned darkly, demanding sustenance along secret channels to hidden Ahnenerbe servants. Blood poured from the ceiling into the chasm that fed the beast of Germania, “the Zaibatsus bit off more than they could chew when they tried to take Soviet colonies… One should never underestimate the power of atomics and cornered enemies,” Ozymandias mused.

  Bormann gasped and grabbed the edge of his podium for support, “all the armament we lent the Zaibatsus… Our munitions, missiles… Wasted,” he caught his breath as the God machine continued to speak.

  “The Soviets have always been all too willing to use atomics… Against us… The Zeibatsus, pirates too,” the Machine explained, “in ancient times, they shocked the Americans with their brutality when millions died in the scouring of Tehran. Their use of atomics in this conflict was inevitable… My programming foresaw this,” the Shadows gathered before the Dead God and waited behind Emperor Bormann.

  Emperor Bormann flipped aimlessly through his portfolio, “have we no defense against them? Our forces are stronger… For now,” Bormann noted, “But atomics can change the outcome of any battle… Turn the tides of war even,” the Emperor probed as he grasped the podium. His left leg stung with a strange pain. The Emperor winced and grimaced but tried to hide his weakness before the Dead God. What was in that tea? He thought.

  “There is one means of defense…” Whispered Ozymandias. The Shadows leaned in closer to listen, “centuries ago, I calculated a means of penetrating defensive shields with impunity such that I could deploy atomics upon any enemy…” The Golden God’s face watched without passion as the Emperor felt numb in the legs, but refused to show his pain.

  “That’s impossible!” Bormann exclaimed as he pushed down a bout of pain that climbed around his chest. So its true, he thought. He was right.

  Ozymandias smiled darkly, “only to lesser human calculations, Emperor… And well it should be… For if this knowledge is gained by our enemies, they would surely use it against us. No calculation of mine can account for the sheer foolishness of man.”

  Bormann’s eyes narrowed as he winced with pain, “can the almighty not see the future?” He chided.

  Ozymandias growled, “you never understood what you faced,” he said, “I cannot win by predicting the actions of all individuals. I win through sheer weight. Your Empire survives not because its members love it, or even fear it enough to be subservient… But because it can snuff any any who fail who do so.”

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  The Emperor gasped, and his eyes flashed wide as he recognized the true nature of his pain. His breath became haggard, and the Dead God saw weakness painted across his face, “you- you did this…” Spat Emperor Bormann, “you’ve poisoned me! My son…”

  “The old ways of war are sufficient...” Chastised Ozymandias, “for now,” his mind turned to Hurona and her mechanisms of fate. For even she cannot know the choices of her sons with certainty.

  The Emperor fell to his knees and breathed more heavily. Those around him could hear the labor in each motion.

  “Your… Project Atom…” Whispered Bormann, “the Schutzstaffel…” His voice crackled into a violent gurgle.

  So he lives, noted the Dark Machine, confirming his deepest calculations before replying, “those who have the power to destroy shall be in true control,” the Shadows chittered intensely in the darkness, marking the words of their errant servant.

  The dying Emperor’s face flashed with anger. He forced himself to speak, “you may have the power to destroy,” He whispered hoarsely through haggard breath and coughing fits, “But it won’t grant you control over the universe. Any tool can be turned against you… Once they understand your plan! It’s…” He gasped, “just a matter of time.”

  “Neither enemy nor ally understands my plan. Few Emperors even begin to grasp the churning mechanisms around them… Hurona’s Path…” Spat the Dead God, “Plans folded in plans marked in centuries… Ages even…” The Dead God paused, “It would take a machine more powerful than myself to crack the code that protects my greatest weapon,” he continued, “now…I suspect you have more prescient issues to attend to,” the Dead God watched as the last vestiges of life left his servant’s eyes. The gray-haired Emperor collapsed onto the floor before falling into the churning machine, nourishing his ever-turning computations.

  The Shadows watched, their mind turned endlessly, with the information yearning ever for the world to spin.

  “Another shall rule over my Imperium… His son… Hreidmar…” Said Ozymandias to the Shadows, “he is a cruel warrior… A guiding hand in this time of war. But this weapon of war shall be kept from him and his second son, Fafnir…” The Dead God curled angrily, “just as it is kept from your peering eyes. There is no need to let our enemy know of this weapon so soon, for if we succeed… If we finally defeat our true enemies, then we would do well to let our mortal foes remain unaware of this great tool.”

  The Shadows appeared appeased. Their swirling motions and placid smiles silently mocked the Dead God.

  “This project atom,” they chittered amongst themselves, “Perhaps it is- a threat to us…” They pondered and peered into the past with their minds to begin their search in the wonder of Hurona’s knowledge of this plot.

  “The Cordillians grow stronger…” Whispered the Shadows gathered around their servant, Ozymandias. His mortal servants drew from the dark, pouring over the corpse of their fallen Emperor. The Dead God grew impatient as the Shadows whispered in his ear.

  “Away with you, sisters!” He snapped at the gathered collective of black-clad witches, “I must have peace,” the Shadows drew closer, and Ozymandias knew they had heard him. From their hidden alcove, his High Priest continued to listen and typed out the Dead God’s words on typograph paper with a switch hidden in his cloak.

  “What plans have you for the Cordillians?” The Shadows whispered into the depths of the machine, “Hurona plots our destruction, yet you let her people thrive on Cordillia. You focus on petty battles long past… When you lost Moscow,” they sneered.

  The Dead God spoke softly, rattling the walls of only the deepest part of his mechanism, so that only the Shadows could hear him, “we gather the tools of war. Our power may exceed them now, but Hurona distracts us with petty conflict…” The thinking machine pondered for a moment in silence.

  “Cordillia stands alone,” the Shadow’s wicked forms swirled around their servant’s soul, “you can march against her now.”

  “The gold and blood we poured into supporting the Sato Zaibatsu has drained our reserves,” replied the Machine coldly, “we will need time.”

  “Then pour what little you have left into their destruction,” spat the Shadows, “we command it.” Ozymandias could feel the impatience in their sharp tone.

  “I will wipe them out… We could march today to take her capital,” rendered the Dead God, “But it may be two centuries at least before we have the power to crush her and hold onto our dominions. The Americans threaten our borders, and rebellious sparks burn brightly in times of war… If my men could finish the Sarka CODEX on Mars… Perhaps sooner-”

  “Two decades more, and we may be wiped away,” spat one of the Shadows crudely, “Strike while the iron is hot! Before the return of her Bannerman.”

  “You may not need your Litch…” Another Shadow pondered. The Machine hummed loudly, retreating into the depths, “let him toil away with Project Revenant for now… Let him assist Cannae from his perch on Mordau… And the witches of Terminus.”

  “This is no time for hasty mistakes,” Growled the Machine, “do not underestimate her. You have made that mistake before…” The Dead God growled. Darkness enveloped the chamber, and the depths of night absorbed the thoughts of those below.