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Bright_Ops The Insane Scholar

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As the Laeran underwater cities boiled down in the depths, above the waves war raged its bloody dance.

The Laer had been slightly caught off guard by the sheer number of Night Watch insurgent strikes and operations but that had been the nature of the war on Laeran almost since the start. They had been in the process of responding to it when the real surprise of the Night Watch launching a full scale assault on a number of their cities and positions hit them.

Had this been any lesser foe that would have been the end of the purging of Laeran with it just being a question of time. However the reality was a much more brutal affair. Between the element of surprise, the groundwork laid by the squads sent up to perform sabotage efforts and the bravery of the Astartes and Imperial Army elements (both human and xenos) the Laer had lost a lot of ground and bodies before it had a chance to properly fortify and properly fight back. The underwater actions of the Lurkers and Lions aided in furthering the chaos and limiting the ability of the serpents to respond to any given threat even further.

But recover, they did.

Some places, such as the capital itself, had just been naturally more fortified and prepared to defend itself. The Night Watch that had assaulted the capital had been met with defenses and obstacles far beyond what they would have been expected to succeed against, with the rate of injuries and death being high. However, this had been accounted for; As much as Micholi had hated to commit any forces to what was almost certainly going to be a waste of life, the capital had to be put under siege in order to lock its forces down and prevent them from aiding other cities or positions.

Other spots where the Imperial advance was going to be brought to a halt hadn’t been as clear from the onset. Some had simply been misfortune; With the amount of chaos that the insurgent squads had been raising it had meant that zones had been undermanned by the defenders and offered up easy victories, but it had also meant that with the moving of troops some areas had benefited from having a lot more defenders then it would have otherwise.

However, there was one area that didn’t make any sense as Micholi was forwarded to the current status of the war from his seat in the back of a thunderhawk. By all accounts the site didn’t have any tactical value to the Laer, lacked any unique resources according to all information that had been gathered, nor was it near any of the other cities or sites of interest to warrant much in the way of defenses. Hell, it had been so low on the priority list that none of the Night Watch squads had been sent in to cause trouble for it.

Which made the fact that when the assault there began Imperial forces found a defensive force on par with the capital itself all the more confusing and suspicious. Something had been missed and what Micholi hated the most was that he couldn’t respond to it right away personally. In the grander scheme of things, his personal presence was required to break one of the Laer strong points that would compromise half a dozen other Laer positions and make life for the average imperial on Laeran easier.

However, the Night Watch wasn’t alone in this campaign. Micholi quickly sent a report back to his HQ with instructions to send the current information to the ships of reinforcing legions while marking key locations… and adding this relatively remote, strangely highly defended location that they had known suspiciously little about as a point of interest with a simple message connected to it from the Primarch himself.

‘The Laer have gone to great pains to hide the true value of this location from our efforts until this point. It is one of the most strongly defended points on the planet and we don’t know why. This concerns me greatly.’

What secrets this strange site held would not be discovered by Micholi himself through. Tightening the grip on Unity’s shaft as his transport started to dodge and weave to avoid anti-air fire and prepare for landing, he needed to focus on the battles ahead of him.

That focus was briefly disturbed by his Vox Operator (A Nerub officer) signaling to get his attention. “It’s the Stargazers.” the spider like xeno chittered softly.




High above the planet, three large fleets of ships, each vessel emblazoned with titanic structural emblems of the Cog Mechanicum, settled into stable orbit and began to disperse according to some predetermined strategy. Three Macroclade Fleets of the Twelfth Astartes Legion, the Stargazers, had finally made their way to the planet from the edges of the system. Their arrival was met by a cursory number of attacks by defensive installations on the planet that had not yet been taken offline or had remained dormant to evade initial detection, but those few strikes and munitions that lashed out at the fleets did little damage and were met with immediate and overwhelming retaliatory bombardment. Clearly, the Laer’s opposition meant little to the three fleets’ internalized organization, some amongst them even welcoming the exchange as a beginning to something far more wide-spanning. Few of them, gathered within the Macroclade’s grand warships, amidst huddled corridors and absent halls, whispered initiation of a plan long in the making. Their hushed and furtive tones were absent of the usual trappings and creeds of the faith of the Mechanicum - and would have aroused great suspicion had they been overheard - but they were not, and as the fleets move forward, so too did they with their own agenda.

Beyond that initial rain of destructive hailfire, the fleets did little else save to disgorge a small number of dropships and pods, though only in small numbers, not amounting to any true kind of offensive deployment - with the remnants of the Laeran fleet being chased off and eliminated elsewhere in the system and with no credible defensive emplacements left that could challenge them, the Mechanicum-styled and ordered fleets began to a final and uncontested grid of orbital control across the entire planet. If the Laer’s defensive campaign had not been there already, it was the beginning of the end for any hope of repulsing the invaders - and the only recourse afforded them in the moment was that the Stargazers’ fleets had not already begun to fire surgical strikes at their remaining bastions.




With a respectful nod, Micholi accepted the Vox communicator and made it quick, since he was aware that the Stargazers took after the Mechanicum in liking to waste as little time as possible. “This is Micholi.”

“Most venerable child of the Omnissiah.” The return address was equal parts reverent and reproachful, as if the speaker was disappointed in Micholi’s lack of decorum. “This is Archmagos Dominus Grantov Rakir.” The Primarch, from his experience with the Stargazers as well as with the internal hierarchy of the Mechanicum, knew that meant the speaker was equivalent to a Lord Commander of a Legion Chapter. “Representing the three joint Macroclade Fleets in this task force of the Twelfth Legion. We have arrived in orbit and are presently establishing decisive theater control. Be advised that Malagra Dinwright is also present on this channel.” Malagra being a title afforded specifically to members of the Mechanicum’s Prefecture Magisterium.

“The Omnissiah’s might be with you, most holy Primarch.” A second voice, reverberating with obvious synthesized speech waves additional distorted over the vox-hail.

“We have arrived and are in position in accordance with your astropathic imperative, Primarch.” Rakir continued. “We await your command.”

Micholi listened and took the Vox away from his mouth to allow a sigh to escape him as his Thunderhawk touched down on the ground with a shudder and thud. “Forgive my lack of decorum. My thunderhawk has just touched down and I am moments away from engaging the foe directly so time is a factor on my end. I will offer proper thanks for your aid when I may. Have you received the current intel my command staff at my headquarters on the planet can provide?”

“That we have, my Primarch.” Dinwright’s synthetic voice voxxed back. “We have been told there are a number of warp-touched and malign xenos artifacts in the hold of the second legion which require immediate containment. With your blessing, my agents shall immediately make planetfall to have the foul instruments returned to the fleets and consigned to the most secure of our Black Vaults, for secure return transport to the Dawnbreaker.”

“Understood, my staff on both my flagship and on the ground have been instructed to cooperate with you in this regard. All three confirmed tainted weapons are secured on my flag ship in orbit. A pointless warning, but I advise caution while transporting them. Whatever triggers their ability to possess the carrier is unknown. It didn’t attempt it right away with myself or the other two ‘gifted’ them, but when a menial picked one up by chance it happened instantly.”

“Rest assured we have protocols for dealing with foul artifacts such as these, Primarch.” Rakir intoned. “They shall neither trouble nor curse another soul for the rest of time.”

“Another matter, before you must make landfall and head into battle, most venerable Primarch.” Dinwright interjected. “Given the finding of these most intolerably heinous implements here, and in light of your most noble efforts to secure as much of the xenos medical technology as is feasible, I would like to suggest my Magisterium agents immediately set out to commandeer your Techmarines’ evaluation operations in order to safely sanctify as much of the technology as is possible. As agents of the Mechanicum, they will also be able to bestow final rites of propriety, casting aside any need for further review by the Prefecture of Mars itself. This should allow our operations to proceed expeditiously and to conclude the crusade upon this planet as quickly as possible.”

“Understood. After the discovery of the blades we’ve had our librarians inspect every piece of Laer technology we’ve collected to test if it shares the same strange corruption. So far we’ve uncovered nothing, but while I trust my librarians I wouldn’t fault you for double checking. We also have working examples of their anti grav technology that they use in producing their floating cities… as well as several captives of Laer origin who are classified as engineers and medical personnel. We are more than happy to hand them over as well for questioning. I intend for them to be the last Laer alive.”

“Blessed be your attentiveness and care, Primarch.” Dinwright intoned. “I shall contemplate the ninth and fifteenth universal laws as my agents proceed with their work. The alien mechanism is a perversion of the true path, but ritual honors the Machine Spirit.” With a signal chime, the Malagra dropped out of the vox-cast.

“In the meantime, Primarch, our Macroclades are entering their final orbital coordinates.” Rakir carried on. “I shall have our tactical stations link up with your planetary headquarters so that we may establish Overwatch. Are there any immediate priority targets of your designation which require either elimination or containment?”

Micholi paused for a moment at the question. It was a good one. “We have several enemy strong points that would benefit from orbital bombardment. Please double check with my HQ for intel on areas of importance for Statis bombardment, for while I’ve gotten updates fresh data of the situation is better. However, I believe there is one site I have marked as an abnormality. All the data we’ve collected from prisoners and machinery have been false about that area and I am concerned that something highly valuable to the Laer is located there. I would investigate it myself but my duty is to the greater needs of the campaign.”

“Shall we deploy a drop-assault group to the site, or do you merely wish it contained, Primarch?” Came the reply.

A pause for thought, before a simple answer. “Contain it. Stasis bomb it. If it is the site of some last ditch weapon to defeat us, I don’t want them to be able to activate it until we’re ready to deal with it.”

“Acknowledged. By your orders, Primarch. May the Omnissiah’s spirit be with you.” With an additional signal chime, Rakir also dropped from the vox-cast.

Returning the Vox Com to his operator, Micholi took a deep breath as he pushed himself to his feet, weapon in hand as the door of his thunderhawk opened and combat joined.




Scant moments later, the Stargazer ships began to beam with scintillating, flickering beads of light as they began to bombard the designated Laeran installations. Lance-fire from ships, like pillars of volcanic fury, shot down from the vessels and pierced through the atmosphere of the planet to explosively smite a number of Laeran installations and facilities. A few had prominent shielding that would protect them from the merciless hail of energy fire for some time - but not forever. Not as ray after ray of wrathful power scythed down from above to impact them time and time again.

In other areas, rather than the brilliant incandescence of lance-battery fire, a number of areas were struck by deceptively small shell munitions - and with a faint trembling of the air and a booming shriek to precede their manifestation, a series of massive stasis domes would erupt from the points of impact to completely engulf the surrounding areas in shimmering, hazy fields of energy wherein time itself slow to a standstill, munitions and maneuvering xenos soldiers freezing in place wherever they were - all attempts to enter the stilled areas met with futility, and lost limbs at the boundaries of the bombardment zones.

Within the Macroclade fleets themselves, the round of Stasis bombardment had not gone unnoticed by the infiltrators. It was an unwelcome development - there was little even they could do to subvert a stabilized stasis field. But their mission was absolute, and would come to pass, even at the expense of their lives if necessary. Quickly improvising a plan, the small group discretely devised a course of action.




The site chosen for the inspection, perched atop an outlying hovering island, would have betrayed the nature of the planet’s inhabitants to even the most inattentive of observers. The very shape of the building was difficult to describe. More than anything, it resembled a prismatic dome, formed of innumerable facets, like the eye of a gargantuan insect, and surrounded by short, wickedly tapering spires. The tassels composing the outlandish structure were themselves an enigma of form, ranging from smoothly triangular to sharply rhomboidal through spectra of variations so subtle that even augmented eyes could not clearly place the boundaries between the two extremes. The colours, on the other hand, had no such subtleties, and the glassy ceramic surface was crisscrossed with clashing variations of unabashedly garish violet, bright poisonous green, dazzling pink, flaring from the brightly resplendent glassy ceramic surface. Even the ear was not spared from that spectacle of ostentation, for as the breeze wound among the tips of the edifice, it bled a ghost of a sibilant melody, drawn from painstakingly measured concavities and angles.

While the whole could scarcely be expected to be anything but dizzying to the senses, there was an oddly mesmerizing quality to the building’s design, an exotic harmony of shape that so often marked the Laer’s constructs. If anything, it inexplicably seemed more subdued in its eruption of lavishness than most others of its kind, and at the same time more fraught with dark promises of triumphs yet to come - a place where lives unthinkable for the human mind were woven and nurtured like so many breathing works of art. For that was the way of Laeran.

The arrival of the agents of the Prefecture Magisterium was a circumstance of contrasts. Their entourage consisted of a full four Skitarii Maniples and nearly half as many servitors, as well as a full Squad of Twelfth Legion Astartes, but the core party representing the Prefecture Magisterium itself numbered less than a dozen individuals. Every aspect of their arrival was given ceremonial pomp and lavish courtesy - the Skitarii forming themselves into a parade-ground columns before the dropship they arrived in, to fall in synchronous devout prayer as the Malagras passed them by, but the agents themselves proceeded in a perfunctory fashion, proceeding in silence and their servants immediately scattering to the wind to assume more strict battlefield doctrine the moment they were out of eyeshot. The Malagra - who numbered four in total - were accompanied by one of every order of Tech Priest, as well as a personal Astropath and an actual civilian member of the Administratum. Their dress and decorum seemed almost purely ceremonial, but the weapons they brandished freely and the manner in which they wielded them indicated they were no strangers to live combat conditions.

The Malagra themselves were nearly indistinguishable from any other Tech Priest, at least to the outside observer. They were clearly Magos who had crossed the threshold of the crux Mechanicus, each more machine than man now, and wore the traditional Martian-red robes and hoods bearing the iconography of the Cog Mechanicum. Seemingly the only thing visibly designating their office were the banners held high about them by their servitors, boldly emblazoned with the gold and black icon of the Prefecture Magisterium.

Off to the side, a group of Astartes clad in deep-blue armour stood watching the proceedings with expressionless crystalline eyes. Having committed what were, in Terech Ormis’ words, their foremost experts on xenotech extradition to the operation, the Abyssal Lurkers were not remiss to maintain a presence at the most crucial steps in the integration of the Laer’s salvage. Though the distance they kept from the site indicated their deference to the Prefecture’s authority in the matter, the asymmetrical servo-claws of the Fleshweavers leading the party clicked and snapped hungrily, and their diagnostor arrays periodically rotated as if squinting to better appraise the examined goods. The marines in their escort seemed almost immobile in comparison, but slight turns of their helmeted heads betrayed their interest in the proceedings.

With the ongoing conflict, few members of the Night Watch legion had been free in order to take part in the proceedings. By virtue of losing his right arm and a suitable replacement requiring some time to organize, Tech Marine Peeter had been selected to be the Night Watch’s representative for the overview and inspection of captured Laer technology. Despite the fact that his armor hid his features from those around him, the perspective Astartes present might have noticed Peeter’s seeming refusal to gaze at the Laer’s inhuman, exotic architecture for long.

While Peeter had been the only Astartes that could attend, he was not alone; While normally one would have expected to see members of the Imperial Army patrolling and securing the site, the First Division of the Night Watch had many allies within the Mechanicum who tended to bring along their Skitarii forces to aid the legion in its endeavors… and considering the nature of what was going to take place it was the logical conclusion.

Alongside the Skitarii was a single Questoris Knight Paladin, the Punishment of Tyrants. The reason for its presence was easy to see: While its primary weapons and the upper parts of the Paladin were clearly operational, the suits Sacristans and support crew were hard at work repairing some fairly serious looking damage that had been done to the legs, alongside missing portions of its carapace where additional weapons would normally have been. Still performing their duty by standing guard, but clearly not in good enough condition to risk being involved in full scale warfare at this time.

The leader of the Skitari who travelled alongside the Night Watch was an old friend of Peeter’s. The Electro Priest Octavian-c54 had fought alongside the legion for decades and his dedication to the Motive Force had pulled squads through some dire times when the chances to safely recharge power for their armor and equipment behind enemy lines would have otherwise been low.

The first item on the agenda showed signs of the same inhuman, logic defying nature of all Laer creations, but its ‘beauty’ and ‘perfection’ had clearly been ruined by the damage it had undertaken, clearly torn apart by explosive force and further scarred by a long soak in Laeran’s ocean waters. “We dragged this up from one of their floating cities that a squad sabotaged to fall out of the sky. We have a few working models as well, but since they are currently operating to keep areas we’ve captured afloat we thought it a good idea to start by tearing apart a broken one. One such working model is currently keeping this island we’re using up so we can examine it at your command.”

“You have recently taken injury in battle, Astartes.” Malagra Carphanos clicked, a seething layer of sparks underlining his tone. He seemed to be ignoring the xenos technology even as his compatriots and their entourage began to surround and inspect it.

A respectful nod at the statement for it was the truth. “I have. While under other circumstances General Nelinho would have been here to greet you personally Malagra, the continued battle for Laeran has required his personal attention, much like it has claimed the Primarch’s. While I confess to not knowing Primarch Micholi personally, I know for a fact that the General would be deeply distressed if his absence from the battlefield resulted in unacceptable Imperial losses.”

“The flesh is fallible, but ritual honors the Machine Spirit.” Carphanos clicked in reply. “And it is the Machine Spirit that guards the knowledge of the Ancients. Approach of the Crux Mechanicum with Reverence, Adept. We shall cure you of your weakness. This day, be as one with the Soul in the Machine.” The Tech Priest bowed in reverence and, likely prompted by some invisible signal, a number of servitors and servo skulls began to approach and flock around Peeter, and the Rune and Electropriests turned from their observations ahead and also began to approach. The Corpuscarii began chanting litanies in High Gothic, while the Rune Priests’ servo arms began to swing ceremonial censer incense through the air.

To an outsider, it would have appeared almost as if the priests and a small horde of their machine servants were descending upon Peeter in order to cannibalize him for parts - though in fact it was the reverse that was true. It seemed they intended to install a bionic prosthesis for him on the spot.

For any other Astartes, the swarm of servitors and tech priests likely would have been met with a degree of confusion and uncertainty… but Peeter was an adept of the Cult Mechanicus, even if his status as a Tech Marine made his exact position in the hierarchy somewhat unclear. Instead of confusion, he instead knelt down out of reverence as he allowed his distant brothers of the Motive Force perform their rituals and repairs upon his flesh… as well as allowing them slightly better access to the area that they were intending to replace.

For a time, Peeter was completely obscured by the bustle of servitors, floating skulls, and flailing mechadendrites and servo-arms swarming around his person - the only evident sounds being the whirring and whine of high-powered motors, the high-keening pitch of some surgical laz-implement, the sonorous, wailing crescendo of the Corpuscarii as they made ceremonial gesticulations as they raised their empty eye-sockets upwards and chanted.

And then, like waves parting from an island’s shores, the crowd of metal receded from Peeter, save the Rune Priest, who was anointing Peeter with sanctified oils.

“The blessing of the Omnissiah be with you.” The gathered Tech Priests all intoned as one as the Rune Priest finished their evocation of the Marine’s new bionic prosthetic.

Peeter kept his head bowed until the last of the prayers and blessings had been given. Only once the final blessing had been granted did he raise to his feet and inspect his new prosthetic with a mixture of awe and admiration. “May this limb serve me as I serve the motive force and the goals of humanity.” He answered back softly, before turning his attention back to Carphanos. “Thank you. Now shall we inspect the foulness of Laer creation and see what information might be salvaged for the good of the Imperium?”

“If the needs of all the faithful servants of the Omnissiah have been attended to.” Carphanos clicked back - turning even as he spoke back to the assembled row of Laer anti-grav devices. “These devices seem to operate on fundamentals already familiar to the Imperium. I foresee no grievous complications in our evaluations…”

The examination process the Malagra subjected each device to was thorough, but expeditious. They recorded the official intended use of the device, activated it for an immediate field test, subjected it to an active integral examination while it operated, dismantled it entirely and then reassembled it on the spot, constructed a duplicate using their own materials, and reran the same battery of tests on both.

The devices which proved both functional and aligned with their intended purpose were ceremoniously bashed with the end of a Fulgurite’s Stave and inscribed with an emblem of the Cog Mechanicum by the attending Rune Priest, punctuated by a canticle recited by the Corpuscarii - and the party would then proceed to the next device.

A small hiccup occurred soon into the process, with but the third device, halfway through the first inspection.

“This device cannot plausibly serve the described intended purpose.” Malagra Carphanos declared. With a shared undulation of hisses and scathing chants, the Fulgurite ceremonially staved a dent into the machine’s edifice, which the Rune Priest then pierced with a golden data-spike while anointing the machine in liquid prometheum before a servitor armed with a flamer set the entire thing ablaze - and then the device, still on fire, was cast into a stasis barrier, dragged to the edge of the floating island, and thrown off the edge into the abyss of the sky below.

“This device and all like it are ordained: HERETECH.” Carphanos decreed solemnly.

The entire elaborate process of condemnation and disposal had transpired because of a cogitator-miscorrected typo in the written intended purpose for the device during recitation.

Peeter had not been the tech marine that had done the original examination of the captured Laeran devices. As he stood and watched the process, he frowned slightly under his helmet but didn’t raise any objections to the condemnation or disposal of the device; After all, a major reason for the rites and examinations were to catch things that had been missed in the original examination and prevent dangerous and harmful technologies from slipping into the Imperium.

“A shame a brother miscalculated, but via the Omnissiah’s will the mistake was caught before it could cause any harm.” Was all he muttered after the piece of Heretech was cast aside.

“The Omnissiah knows all, comprehends all.” Carphanos agreed. “The alien mechanism is a perversion of the true path, but ritual honors the Machine Spirit. I will suggest a momentary spiritual retreat to my colleagues, I suggest you and yours take the allotted time to review the assembled documentation for these devices to ensure there is true comprehension of them and their purpose prior to examination. Understanding is the true path to comprehension, and comprehension is the key to all things.” Which was more or less the Malagra’s way of telling Peeter to have all the documentation for the remaining devices double-checked to ensure this exact scene did not happen twice.

A respectful nod of his head was joined by a stern verbal answer “Of course. While one mistake could be understandable due to the nature of the human mind trying to make sense of that of the works of the truly inhuman, a second would require more serious investigation. I will examine the documentation post haste with this new knowledge to see if the flaw goes further.”

Dutifully parting ways with the Malagra in order to pull back to a position upon which to further inspect the documentation to ensure that it was free of errors, Peeter quickly found Octavian moving to his side to join him. Octavian didn’t say anything for there was nothing to say; An error had been made, a piece of technology that had wrongfully been deemed ‘safe’ had been rightfully condemned and now it was time to make sure that this had simply been a glitch and not a dire warning of neglect of duty.

Octavian’s presence was still supportive and Peeter took some manner of comfort in that as he started to review the work of one of his brothers to judge his sense of judgement. Errors were uncovered in the review, but the cause was not entirely human in nature; Several other miscommunications and typos of the exact same nature as the one that had condemned the earlier piece as Heretech were present in seemingly random locations, suggesting that the cogitator in question required maintenance.

The fact that one of his brothers had failed to notice that the Cogitator in question was not undergoing the correct rites of maintenance in the first place was frustrating and words would be had later, but in the meantime Peeter focused his efforts on undoing the errors so that they could present the true facts of the matter.

However, as Peeter’s efforts drove deeper he started to notice a...pattern to the error. While originally appearing randomly, in harsher review the change seemed to manifest in areas related to certain parts of the Laer’s version of a cooling system that had been translated via human science and reason. His frustration given away to a strange curiosity and concern, Peeter found himself going over to one of the few portable cogitators they had managed to bring to the testing site in order to run the numbers again.

Once again, the typos and errors started to appear whenever the numbers behind the cooling system were calculated. Considering that this wasn’t the same cogitator that had done the original calculations, this required further investigation… and the sad truth of the matter was that he didn’t quite understand why this error was happening.

Doctrine had to be maintained through and those with the technical knowledge were currently in the midst of cleansing their spirits. For the sake of covering all bases Peeter performed a basic rite of evaluation on the cogitator to ensure that it was in good repair and found it to be working as the Omnissiah intended.

However, the situation wasn’t as bleak as it seemed, problem aside. The issue seemed to originate and stay around the mathematics of the xenos cooling system; Other parts that were not connected could be examined while this issue was properly investigated. So with grim determination, he moved and took a position to make a partition of the Lexmachinc that the Prefecture had brought along services to uncover the source of this confusion once their spiritual retreat was complete.

Of course, it seemed that during the course of the Prefecture’s ‘spiritual retreat,’ somebody had made them aware of the Laer prisoners and mechanics, who the priests were now all slavishly torturing in manners that would have made Drukhari blush. The interrogations tended to be perfunctory, as were most of the activities the agents of the Magisterium pursued, but every split instant of time during which they plied their questions to the xenos captives was filled with anguish delivered by torture amps, voltaic feeds, drill-tipped mechadendrites, and merciless data-spikes that cut through bone and brain alike. The tech priests seemed engrossed with their inquisition, and so when Peeter relented and had an inquiry sent directly to the Lexmechanic in question, he knew he had his answer before their reply was even relayed back when the participating Lexmechanic managing the data-spike feeds did not even turn from their work.

’It is not the duty of the Prefecture Magisterium to abridge a gap within your handling of xenotech. Do what you must to ensure the remaining devices are ready for our examination by the time we are finished with our questioning. Any devices not sufficiently prepared for study due to inadequate documentation will be consigned on the spot.’

A sigh was all that escaped Peeter as he accepted the answer he was given and left the Prefecture’s to their work. Some might have been disturbed by their methods of data extraction in relation to the living Laer captives that had been taken, but having been on Laer for months Peeter had no such objection to the traitorous Xenos filth getting what they deserved.

Unable to get assistance to find the answers he required, he did the only thing he could under the circumstances. The cooling system needed to be torn out and replaced. “Octavian, I require your assistance.” Time was not on their side, but they had been in tougher spots then this and came out the other side. They could do it again.………………

In the end they did, but it wasn’t a clean job. Some minor systems of the anti-grav device were simply too entrenched with the cooling system and thus had to be sacrificed with it as it was torn out and cast aside like the cancer that it was, but the loss of such ‘innocent’ systems provided room for a human cooling system to replace the foul xenos one. It was a rush job and it wasn’t pretty by any means (even if in Peeter’s opinion the device looked more palatable to him now that there was some good, honest human tech involved) but it had been done professionally and skillfully nonetheless.

Hopefully it would be up to muster.

Installation of the replacement system was another matter entirely, but the hope was the work could be done as the Prefecture agents performed their examinations one device at a time. The breakneck pace they performed their examinations at, even given that they ran their tests multiple times and duplicated each device from scratch, would be a challenge - but entirely within the realm of possibility.

When Malagra Carphanos and his entourage were finished with the last of the Xenos captives - reduced to little more than a number of vivisected and then subsequently dissected Genetor specimens in labeled jars - he returned to Peeter, mechadendrites still being cleaned off of xenos blood by a number of servo skulls with sanitation devices.

“We are ready and pleased to resume the most sacred work. Present us with the next of the xenos artifacts for us to examine.”

The following examinations were pleasingly uneventful. Nearly two dozen devices, including those with replaced cooling systems, were reviewed and sanctified without comment by the Malagras. If the agents of the Prefecture Magisterium found it off that many of the devices appeared to have been hurriedly jury-rigged with shoddy Human analogues, they made no comment of it - and in fact, much to Peeter’s relief, they even sanctified a number of the xenos devices with replacement coolant systems that simply had flat-out failed to work. The Malagras seemed more than willing to assess how each artifact should have worked had each component been fully functioning. The first device to finally be consigned by them had in fact not been due to any integral fault, but due to what appeared to be an improvised explosive that had been adhered, disguised as a power node attached to a capacitor.

Peeter offered Octavian a profession nod of a job well done as their work, while done in haste, had met with satisfaction. To the Malagra he mentioned “Of course, future refinement of what insights Laer technology has for humanity improving its own will have to be made. Alas, we did not have the resources to do so here while actively fighting the Xenocide of the Laer.”

The Malagra did not deign to reply to the invitation for deeper conversation. “I believe we are done with all of the designated xenos anti-gravity devices. What remains for us to examine?”

Peeter understood that the attempted conversation was as good as dropped as they moved on to the next. “We have captured a great deal of their bio-engineering and medical technology, as well as managed to secure some data sources about how they work and under what principles. While the Laer’s genetic structure does mean that their technology doesn’t by default benefit humanity, it is hoped that it might still provide insights into improving humanity's own fields in these areas. This way.”

While it was clear that casual conversation wasn’t really on the table, Octavian of all people decided to speak up briefly. “The degree in which the Laer modify themselves from birth is astounding, completely going beyond reasonable sanity and into excess.”

“Reviewing the xenos biotechnology will take an extended period of time. Longer than with the gravity devices. Unlike physical mechanisms, such concoctions and methods must be more closely and carefully examined, particularly in regard to possible interactions with Human physiology.” Carphanos mentioned, his words hissing through the air almost in the very split instant Octavian finished speaking. Whether or not he had actually waited for the man to finish speaking or had simply chosen that exact instant to speak would have been a matter for debate. “It may also be advantageous to have the xenos artisans on hand for the examinations themselves. Heighten patrols of the area and establish a containment pen for our use.”

“We will arrange it at once Malagra.” Peeter answered, offering a respectful bow before righting himself and striding with purpose to make said request reality.

By and by, the hours passed and while the Night Watch guard regiment assembled the xenos samples and tech to be examined along with the captive Laer, the Prefecture Magisterium agents themselves erected a sterilized containment zone consisting of a two-layered pyramidal formation of stasis barrier rods, with a single access point via a curious electrostatic assembly - with what looked insidiously like volkite emitters pointing inwards as well. With Skitarii Vanguard sweeping through the internal zone afterwards to sterilize it with hard radiation, anything that went inside was not going to get out again without the Malagras’ express approval. An additional cordon of the Stargazers’ Astartes circled the site, prepared for any eventuality.

All throughout, the pretenders had maneuvered and plotted. Even before the antigravitational validation protocols had been affixed and validated. Familiarizing themselves with the technology which the Night Watch themselves had secured. Their plan was not yet finished, and neither was it on hold; action and eventualities unforeseeable to all but them were soon to spring into motion, as they discreetly tampered, their movements cloaked by their impressive capacity to mimic proper work. Work of which would soon begin to manifest.

Their work began when the Servitors wheeled in the first vacuum-sealed case of Laer biotech samples. The examinations were less evidently exciting than when they had been taking xenos engines apart and putting them back together - if anything the Tech Priests simply seemed to be engrossing themselves in interaction with the various pieces of field equipment they had deployed inside the containment zone, and many of them did not even move for the better part of an hour as they studied unseen cogitator analysis and ran esoteric chemical assays.

One of the parties present, however, grew animated with an energy inversely proportional to the Prefecture adepts’ newfound sedateness, and that was the Lurkers. The many-limbed, bonesaw-wielding Fleshweavers, who had shuffled about in tedium as long as the inspection concerned itself with the antigravitational components, had sprung into action as soon as the first specimen had been delivered, fanning out among the Mechanicum gathering. Their display of reverence for the Cult’s representatives all but gone, they trampled their way to the containment field and avidly peered inside, leaned over to espy the activity of diagnostic arrays, looming over the attendant Techpriests as though they were negligible obstacles, and generally made a nuisance of themselves through irrefrenable curiosity. Their martial brothers made few attempts to recall them to order, and if anything brought even more difficulties upon the procedure by obliviously trailing into the path of the hurrying servitors.

Of course, the site was far too massive for all the technology to have already been localized, the duty of bringing the most important artifactual technology given to the Stargazers’ own Astartes and other Techmarines. Anything from containers and capsules to more sizable treaded-carts were sequentially brought into the massive centralized site for inspection, the Astartes chanting litanies to the Omnissiah as they performed this most sanctified of duties.

From amongst the crowd, a large mass made itself known as it went around one of the Laer’s architectural monstrosities. Its size was as impressive as its guard, a total of five Astartes made their way through a now clearly formed pathway splitting the gathering. The transport was almost as impressive as its delivery, mimicking the same proportions of an ordinary tank, were it not for its flatness and close ground-clearance. Instead, the device it carried took up most of the space, half as tall as the Knight standing guard over the site. It seemed circular in its representation, but at the same time hollow, and nigh translucent, as it glowed in strange hues with every ray of light that made its way across its form.

The suspense amongst the gathering seemed to increase with its simple reveal. As chatter quieted, from behind the same crevice that the spherical device had revealed itself, another followed, and soon a column of four devices slowly loomed their way along large, but slow treaded crawlers. Clear animosity falling upon anyone foolish enough to tread too close towards the convoy.

For Peeter and those forces that had traveled here with him, the appearance of the large, circular objects was cause for curiosity for sure, but their attentions were focused on their respective duties while their brethren in the Mechanicum and Stargazer legion did theirs. For the most part, they were focusing their attention outwards; While it was unlikely for the Laer to launch an attack at this location due to more serious concerns literally closer to home, neglect of duty would not be allowed.

However, a couple of Skitarii were positioned slightly… differently from their brethren. Instead of looking outwards they were gazing towards the containment zone, armed with sniper rifles. The incident with the Laer swords that had largely been what started this xenocide in the first place had required certain… precautions be taken for the health and safety of all. While the Librarians had cleared the samples of technology that the Night Watch had acquired of the same mind controlling taint, these handful of snipers still had orders to overwatch their betters and be prepared to act if something went horribly wrong.

For their own part, the Lurkers present were quick to turn their attention away from the first examined batch, by that time almost spent without any notable anomalies, and towards the newly arrived cargo. For once, the Fleshweavers drew back, beckoning their escort to follow, so as not to delay the unloading and unveiling of what seemed to be a prize piece.

They were not wrong to hold such high-esteem towards the devices in question, as they seemed to parade their slow way towards the containment zone. These were definitely the apex, and pride of the Laer’s biological science: a gene-manipulation device. The purpose of its immense protection due to the strange manner of its process-

And suddenly, an immense vapour seemed to erupt from the convoy, a plume of not smoke, but what seem to be organic tissue; a vapour of flesh erupted like an explosion. The guards around the machine turned their eyes towards it, but it was already too late; the plan had blossomed, and before they could shift their las-guns, they were consumed by a bright, and glowing bolt of lightning stretching from the now increasingly electrostatic sphere as it plunged into one of the pretenders, and shredded his skin. His collaborator turned towards him with weapon readied, pointed straight at his collaborators heart, but it was too late; the mimickry would end here, for as he was about to fire his own weapon, he too was consumed within the seemingly electric discharge of the sphere and stripped of flesh.

The same would soon occur around all devices brought, seemingly selecting entities around it at random to rip their flesh off.

But this was not what it was doing; it was making them perfect, or what the pretenders had deemed was ‘perfect’ in their ploy, and soon, with a great blast of thermal heat, their bodies were remade, their flesh stripped, but then added onto, made perfect, and more perfect, and yet more perfect, until the Stargazers’ soldiers were now, numbering ten, hulking abominations of twelve eyes and many more arms, deformed and drenched of their humanity as they wailed in screeching laudles.

The snipers were the first to respond to the mess that was the activation of the Laer gene-manipulation device. At first some shots had been taken at the devices themselves, trying to damage them enough in order to stop whatever foul xeno plot was at play. When their weapons failed to inflict the damage required, they turned their efforts towards the poor bastards who had been caught by the devices, firing shot after shot in an attempt to bring their lives to a quick and sudden conclusion; Despite being accurate, the rate in which the xenos machines were… remaking them seemed to be undoing their efforts and preventing death from claiming them.

Even as the Night Watch snipers saught their first targets, alarm voxxes began to blare, and the voltaic and volkite-ray shielded chokepoint granting entrance to the stasis containment area seethed to life - completely cutting off access to the interior and flash-vaporizing anything caught in the field down to the atomic level - including several unfortunate servitors and Skitarii handlers, who were flesh and metal one moment and rapidly disintegrating plumes of champagne-colored vapor in the next. The agents of the Prefecture Magisterium, utterly safe and impervious within the isolated area, were powerless to help - only able to rise from their work and observe with sensors replete, and wait for the conflict to resolve one way or the other.

The ending of the conflict should have come in the form of the Punishment of Tyrants. While its current condition had meant that it had taken longer to turn towards this new threat then it would have normally done so, once it did and raised its main weapons and prepared to blow the creatures away - before its pilot’s view was crowded with warnings and imagery indicating the presence of too many allied signatures occupying the area around its targets. The Maniples of Skitarii, the Astartes of the Lurkers and the Stargazers, had been caught flat-footed by their own kin being turned against them by the xenos weapon - and were clustered around the mutated monstrosities at such range that for the Knight to have opened fire would have been the height of recklessness.

Unable to fire on the twisted forms of what had once been servants of the Imperium without killing more of them, the pilot of the Punishment of Tyrants turned the heavy stubber towards the Xenos devices themselves and took aim. With the size of the devices and controlled bursts, she intended to at least stop the threat at the source before it created any more monsters that needed to be dealt with. Her intentions were proven a success, but with the immensity, and strangeness of the explosion, the situation would unfold less than pleasantly for those soon to perish amongst the hands of an unknown scheme..

The snipers were faced with difficulty, for as they were just readied to take the first killing blow, the aberrant creations moved with great haste, as they lunged into the Skitarii formation, ripping many asunder with their now ordained strength, and the ambidextrousness of their former bodies exemplified in its omni-directional carnage. The explosion of the devices gave the soldiers of the Imperium no respite, as these beasts seemed to carry no reason left within their putrid and excessive forms.

Yet more of the beasts strayed into the battle, charging straight against the frontlines of the Stargazer and Lurker combined Astartes formations with the strength to rupture even their formidable power armours, sending them flying against the background of the increasing chaos.

The Skitarii Maniples all began to scatter. Most of their rank were Rangers and Vanguards, with few of their Sicarian Brethren present - and at such close range, the Vanguards dared not fire their weapons for fear of fatally irradiating most of their cohorts below the threshold of the Crux Mechanicum, while the Rangers simply were not suited to such close-quarters combat. Their Astartes Masters to whom they were neuro-synced bade them to retreat and reform further afield where they could properly bring the strength of their armaments to bear, while more than a dozen various servitors bagun to plod and trundle towards the monstrosities in order to slow and occupy them.

The beasts’ ferocity was unquestionable as they tore apart those who had not yet had their chance to flee, but with the arrival of the Servitors, they were certainly stopped, briefly, by their presence. But it seemed only a matter of time, as the berserkers did not stop as they faced them. The only skill of their adversary, the Servitors, was their bulk. Bulk of which slowly, and under the great enhanced strength of the bestial brutes, would soon crumble.

The Stargazers themselves also began to fall back aflank of their brother in arms amongst the Abyssal Lurkers - trusting the superior close-combat speciality of the fearsome ninth legion to provide them with the cover they needed to outmanuever and flank the enemy.

As the servitors moved in to stall the sudden monstrous beasts that had been created by foul technology from good sons of the Imperium, the snipers saw their opening to start taking somewhat more… reckless shots in order to try and inflict enough damage to put their former peers out of their misery. This task was made somewhat complicated by the new forms of their former peers, none of them knew just how things like their internal organs had been shifted around inside of their fleshy prisons. But without fear of harming the servitors, damage was going to be done.

Caught as unaware by the organic eruption as the rest of their fellows, the Lurkers nevertheless were fast to demonstrate the iron discipline they dedicated their lives to honing. Not a word was spoken, but in a manoeuvre as natural as the shifting of the tide the Fleshweavers had suddenly withdrawn behind the line of their brethren, motioning orders and readying the exotic ammunition of their bolters. At the same time, their keepers had dropped their own firearms, leaving them hanging from their magnetic clamps, and reached as a man for their chainswords or prepared their power claws.

The monstrosities were upon them in a blink, but that had been time enough. Chainblades roared and inhuman blood sprayed in spurts as the sparse lines clashed, hapless servitors caught here and there by the blows traded between both sides. The fleshy hides of the assailants were soon covered in gashes, and some staggered and collapsed, hemorrhaging to their final demise. Yet some of the dark-clad warriors followed them to the ground, felled by the creatures' tremendous strength, and gaps opened in the Lurkers' ranks.

That was when the Fleshweavers and the Stargazers opened fire, taking advantage of the momentarily clear line of sight afforded them. Bolts laced with hellfire acid and vaporized toxins rained upon the scene, while the Stargazers poured las pulses and sustained volkite beams into the sickening, twisted masses of flesh. While most, guided by the accuracy of enhanced Astartes eyes and augmented tactical auspex readings, found their mark, some went wide, thrown off-course by the targets' own agility, or pierced through their bodies outright. Foetid clouds that ate away at flesh and metal alike blossomed sparsely across the plain, some dangerously close to friendly positions or the still loaded vehicles as well as to the otherwise secured Laer biotechnology, ladden across the path in cases and canisters. Some of these burst apart when exposed and degraded to the Lurkers’ vile and caustic munitions. With most of the breached vessels, the sudden release of their contents proved harmless - a number of gaseous substances either dispersing into the atmosphere or a number of iridescent fluids seeping into the ground, inert.

Some of the containers, however, had also been tampered with by the infiltrators who had set off the larger Laeran devices - and spewed explosive, aerosolized clouds of shimmering and crackling haze across the battlefield, causing flesh to boil and seethe and metal to corrode while bionic sensors went haywire attempting to scan through the deadly mist. Already, the ranks of the Skitarii filled with the sound of pulsing radium rifles and arc munitions as they preemptively turned on those most proximal to the blasts, ending their misery without giving them any chance to turn against their fellows.

It was around this time when Peeter managed to return from the outer perimeter, a squad of Skittarii rangers following him at speed. When the chaos had started, his first instinct was that whatever was happening may have been a diversion and thus had ordered the bulk of the perimeter guard to remain there, selecting a single squad of rangers to join him. While clear of the carnage and hazards, Peeter himself kept both flamers held by his appendages aimed to try and keep the hazardous clouds and the monsters clearly within it at bay while the rangers took aim and started to open fire on what was quite clearly the enemy under the circumstances.

Among the chaos, the ones who had been thrown into the least disarray by the new peril of the hazard eruptions were, ironically enough, those responsible for their appearance. The Abyssal Lurkers were as much at home in the midst of toxic haze as they were below the waves, and with their enemy, as well as most of their allies, crippled and disoriented, they took the initiative.

The surviving tactical marines surged ahead, with little regard for whether they ran into friend or foe. Stray Skitarii were shoved away or simply trampled as the charge collided with the horrors, hacking into them with a fury of whirring teeth and force-coated talons. As the beasts were left reeling, the Fleshweavers closed in from the sides, and their saws and carnifex needles proved as effective in bringing death as they were in staving it off. Blood flowed copiously enough to turn the ground into rank murk, and at last, among a hail of mortiferous strikes, deathly howls born of no human throat pierced the air.

Shadows moved in the thick of the foul cloud, and the figures that strode out victorious were clad in ichor-spattered deep-blue armour. The one in the lead raised a palm, accompanying it with a similar gesture from his third bionic claw, and proclaimed in a hollow, cavernous voice: "All aberrants are neutralized."

The announcements was followed by a hissing tone as the Skitarii Vanguard who had just withdrawn began to advance, their approach covered by large voltagheist fields which pushed back and dispersed the hazardous murk left over from the haphazardly breached Laeran containers. The Skitarii converged on the corpses of the fallen monstrosities and immediately began to saturate them with radiation, so harsh and severe even the Lurkers were forced to stand back as the molten masses of flesh began to degrade, wither, and burn away.

With the all-clear having been given, the voltaic and volkite-ray shielded access point leading into the examination area shut off. The agents of the Prefecture Magisterium came out from within in procession, led by Malagra Carphanos. He gazed from one end of the field to the other with his bionic eyes, and from afar, Peeter registered the telltale fluctuation in signal chatter screaming through the air on the vox channels to know that the Malagras were neuro-syncing with every Skitarii, Servitor, and cogitator-assisted Astartes on the battlefield, processing all that had transpired from innumerable vantage points and evaluating all of it in but scant moments.

The Malagras had all turned inwardly and were chittering amongst themselves in Lingua-Technis. Peeter knew if he had anything to say or report, now was the time.

While he knew that, he didn’t have to either say or report. Examining the scene he was able to connect the general dots about what had transpired, but he had been at the perimeter keeping an eye out for Laer trying to slip in. However, some parts of the scene weren’t adding up.

Gazing at the containers from which the hazardous vapors that had blanketed the sudden battlefield moments ago had originated from, he frowned under his helmet since the chemicals contained within those things shouldn’t have had the effects they did on release. Respectfully taking a step forward towards the Malagras, he decided he did have something to report after all. “Malagras, I fear this site is compromised in more ways than one. I know for a fact that the chemicals in those containers shouldn’t have reacted to open air in this manner. Unless they change properties in containment on their own, I fear that someone or something has clearly tampered with things on site.”

“Comprehension is the key to all things, Astartes.” Carphanos’ synthesized voice hissed, the Tech Priest not quite turning to face Peeter. “But the Flesh is Fallible and Understanding is the True Path to comprehension. We have reviewed bionic and helmet footage from the Maniples and Stargazers. All of them were acting in accord with standard operating procedures and protocols. We understand your Human, emotional need to assign an alternative explanation as to the failure of this endeavor, but the precedent is clear and what we have witnessed is evident. The Alien Mechanism is a Perversion of the True Path, Astartes, and while the Omnissiah Knows All, and Comprehends All, it is beyond - and in many instances impossible - for his servants to both accurately and safely assay the properties and qualities of degenerate and unsanctified xenos technology. Unless you have evidence to elucidate us with, or a confession you wish to make, we have seen enough.”

As much as Peeter wanted to respond right away, there was some wisdom in what the Malagras was saying and thus he paused long enough to ensure that his decision making process and reply wasn’t some knee jerk reaction to try and save face for a possible act of neglect. So it was with certainty that he responded “You are correct in that the alien mechanism is a perversion in many aspects, but while I cannot rule out the possibility of xenos created chemicals changing their properties on their own, I did the chemical analysis of them originally and can at least prove that when we contained them, they lacked this reaction or ability to cause this kind of damage.”

“Your original examination and documentation have already been reviewed by us, Astartes. It is in light of them and all we have seen here that we have nonetheless arrived at our final conclusion. The Prefecture Magisterium is merciful. We will not cite you as the fault for all that has transpired here, and leave the facts of the circumstances open for the venerated Primarch to examine and judge what shall be made of you. But we have arrived at our ruling - it is final, and we are certain.” He then gestured at the nearest Skitarii Alpha, who bore an enhanced data-tether pack, who immediately threw a mechanical salute before approaching.

“Open a vox channel to the Primarch’s planetary HQ and to our flagship in orbit. I will be making a planetwide voxcast.”




All across the planet, a priority, emergency vox cast was relayed to every Astartes and soldier still fighting or otherwise.

’This is Malagra Carphanos, of the Prefecture Magisterium. By the authority vested in our office by the Omnissiah, the Prefecture Magisterium has examined and witnessed the true nature of the Laeran Xenotech, and has ordained all xenos technology of this origin to be HERETECH. This has been noted by a recording member of the Adeptus Administratum. I am hereby issuing an order to all Adepts of the Imperium to evacuate the planet, and abandon all xenos technology currently being held, preceding planetary Exterminatus by Cyclonic Torpedo.’

The vox-cast, using a number of frequency overrides, overbore a number of more local battle vox-casts - including a status report that Micholi himself had been intently digesting mid-sentence, leaving him then and there with only the ruinous revelation that everything he had fought for on this cursed planet had been for nothing.

For a moment, Micholi was silent. The revelation that all the death and suffering had, in the end, been for nothing of value was always a harsh one to have to bear. However, bear it he would. It was just the nature of somethings that as much as one desires for all the madness to mean something, reality had no obligation to reward hard work or punish the wicked, no matter the intent.

However, despite everything there was some solace to be taken from this horrid mess. Accepting the Vox communicator, he sent a quick message back to his HQ. “All forces are to abandon the planet immediately. We’re done here.”

He wouldn’t feel any pleasure from it, but watching Laeran cease and the Laer wiped from existence would help ease the pain of this bitter waste of a campaign.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………..



Withdrawing from the battle and ultimately Laeran itself was, for the most part, a rather easy affair. The Night Watch generally favored tactics that revolved around hitting the target and then pulling back before a proper counter attack could be mustered in the first place, but the truth was that the war on Laeran was more or less finished when the judgement that their technology was Heretech went down; Outside of a few major strongholds (mainly the capital and that one site that they had stasis bombed), the Imperium was quite clearly going to win and the defenders were either fleeing for those few positions still intact enough to make a last stand or going down fighting which just made the purging all that easier.

The fact that the retreat could be covered by orbital bombardment in order to prevent the Laer from attempting a true counterattack against the suddenly withdrawing Imperials only made the process easier, simply making the withdrawal from Laeran a logistical matter. This was a task that was largely handled by Micholi’s High Command and the humans and xenos who made up its number proved their worth in such a role; Extraction zones were planned, no Laer equipment and resources were loaded up and personnel were extracted off world in a orderly, planned fashion.

What might have taken other people in their position days to accomplish, they managed to do in less than one, evacuating most Imperial personnel in the process. Of course the Laer didn’t make this a perfect extraction; Squads of the snake bastards to small too be detected from orbit and blown to ash by support craft launched raids against the withdrawing Imperials, through such had been expected and the extraction zones were fortified and defended until all Imperials in their respective area had left Laeran for the last time.

The hardest extraction zones to plan for were for those of the Lions and Lurkers under the seas of Laeran. Tidal forces and the depths of the waters caused… room for error when it came to scans and thus locating where either the Lions or Lurkers were at a given time was a bit more complicated than most imperial forces. Not to mention their own efforts to mask themselves from the attention of the Laer. However, a reasonably sized, stable island suitable for ships to land and take off from was selected for them to head towards, with Night Watch squads delaying their own extractions in order to secure that area to ensure a safe departure.

Of course, this was complicated by the fact that the Abyssal Lurkers refused to use that extraction zone, saying that they had their own plans of leaving the planet. This complication was solved in the command room itself, when one of the human officers asked a Lek counterpart “We have their refusal recorded, right?”

“Just let me double check… yes we do.”

“We’re in the clear then so fuck ‘em, we’ve got other shit to do. Now did that bombing run finally knock out that last remaining AA in sector 2b?” And the gears of logistics continued uninterrupted.




Ninth Legion Field Command Post

When the Abyssal Lurkers had first arrived on Laeran, they had immediately sought the depths of the planet’s world-spanning oceans, fighting tooth and nail against the multifarious xeno defenders for a place in the familiar darkness. Their outposts had risen over the ruins of plundered seabed cities, like necrophage fungi blooming on corpse-ridden battlefields. However, when the time had come to consolidate their foothold and establish a groundside base of operations, they had broken that pattern, instead raising a cluster of bunkers on a small island that had been preliminarily scoured of indigenous life. Those outsiders intrigued by this anomaly may have laid their minds to rest upon seeing voxceptor antennae seemingly taking advantage of the high ground, yet anyone venturing into the inner chambers of that improvised headquarters would have discovered a more sinister truth.

There, in stasis vats arranged in alcoves, water tanks lining the walls, containers bubbling with bio-nourishing ooze, were the prizes of dozens of scavenged fields and looted buildings. Alien machines large and small, broken and barely scratched, stood alongside Laer bodies in various stages of dismemberment and alteration, flanked by encoded labels. Pending the Prefecture Magisterium’s inspection and decree, possession of most of them was equivocal at best, yet their retrieval and arrangement had clearly been a labour ongoing since the first stages of the legion’s deployment. Many a captured site had been scoured in darkness, in the sightless deep or under the cover of night, and clandestine spoils had furtively been dragged along the supply lines, converging from all across the hemisphere like prey pulled by a spider to the core of its web.

At the heart of the structure, the masterminds of the operation toiled to draw fruit from their occult gains. Though the Imbrifices of the Second and Fifth Tempests were formally in command of the legion’s presence on the planet, and indeed directed the bulk of its military actions, it was no secret among the Lurkers that Ormis and Veryan truly dictated its purposes and selected the targets that would most benefit their schemes. The envoys of the two elders, nominally attached to assault forces to assist the Night Watch’s original directives, ensured that the aftermath of every battle was as fruitful as possible for their masters first and foremost.

Presently, the effective leaders of the intervention force awaited their greatest prize yet. Like formless specters, they paced across an ample hall lit only by their many glimmering eyes. The ravenous clicking of Fleshweaver instruments cut through the stagnant air in lieu of words, as lines of acolytes stood ready to aid their paragon in action. At length, the wide doors at the end of the vault soundlessly slid open, and two adjutants stepped in. Ahead of them they pushed a wheeled contraption vaguely reminiscent of an ancient stretching rack, to which was strapped a long, sinuous shape. Even in the clutches of its enemies, the Laer continued to struggle, tugging at its bonds and gnawing at the bars that held it with its mandibles, but it was weak. The raw, gaping wound that awned where its right arms should have been had bled its toll before being provisionally sealed by its captors, and toxins had been injected into its body in meticulously measured doses so as to leave it all but helpless at the hands of the sculptors of flesh.

“Closer, closer, brother,” Ormis hovered around the contraption like a vulture circling a dying beast, clicking his finger-needles together almost frantically, “Let us all see the inhuman thing. Look at this subdermal layer,” he stabbed a talon into the xeno’s wound, and, through its dazedness, it writhed and hissed in pain, “If only the Lord Progenitor were here to guide us through the filthy maze of its interiors with his illuminated insight, long may his aeon be. But here we are without him, proving ourselves worthy of his trust.” He plunged a needle into the Laer’s back, and it screeched and pulled with such strength that the entire rack shook. Ormis tapped the fingers of his other hand in annoyance. “Brother Veryan, if you would?”

With an inarticulate murmur, the Grand Herald took a stride closer to the captive and, in a motion that was but an instantaneous blur, grasped its head with one hand. It struggled and spat as his gauntlet pushed into its scaly hide, and screamed again when the Silence coursed from the expressionless helmet of the psyker and into its skull. Behind Veryan, some of the spectators flinched as echoes of his mental emanations found their way to their heads. The alien’s screech died as suddenly as they had begun, fading to a rasp as its faceted eyes glazed over. The Herald let go of its head with a motion of disgust, and it remained hanging limply, barely twitching with dazed breaths.

“Thank you.” Ormis held up his index, and the needle on its tip extended with a click, revealing itself to be a fine, impossibly sharp monofilament scalpel. He ran the diminutive blade along the ridge of the Laer’s back with a smooth, practised and somewhat needlessly flourished pull, parting the thick hide and muscular flesh underneath as easily as paper. The creature could only issue a helpless gurgle as the Elder Fleshweaver carefully pried open the cut, pulling apart folds of skin without shedding so much as a trickle of inhuman blood.

“Brother Arkios, hold this edge.” The claws of one of the adepts latched onto one side of the wound, keeping it open as Ormis stooped over it, the diagnostor arrays on his helmet cycling their lenses as if infused with a life of their own.

“To think that all this is not a quirk of evolution, but planned out, designed to the last fiber. Astounding what these things have accomplished with their debased minds. This makes the dark-wraiths’ fumbling look hopelessly primitive in comparison.” He dug about in the exposed web of sinew, nerve and blood vessels, the blades and spines on his fingertips folding and unfolding as his whim demanded. At one point he sharply prodded something, and his eyes whirred appreciatively as the Laer’s head gave a sharp tug forward, drawing a surge of seeping blood from its exposed arteries.

“Muscular reactions encoded as thoroughly as the vitae helix. Not indoctrination, mind you, but memory,” he held up a finger to still one of the apprentices, who had leaned over preparing to ask a question, “the memory of the flesh. A replicae vat-incubation could never do this. Post-facto augmentation? Not even in question. They calculate the permutations of the genome, arrange the birth of a body ideal for its purpose, and more yet! That body’s knowledge is formed in days, hours, maybe even concurrently!”

“How is that possible?” the inquisitive younger Fleshweaver leaned in again, “Localised neural nodes? We have not found anything like that in the dead ones.”

“Nothing of the sort in this one, either,” Ormis’ scalpel ran further up, to the back of the xeno’s head, “The only other possibility I can imagine is a central process, which we would see if we looked here-”

He practically tore into what passed for the alien’s skull and peered in with the finest of his eyes. There were minutes of tense silence as he observed something visible only to him, by the end of which even the impassible Veryan was expectantly flexing the fingers of his right hand. Finally, Ormis recoiled in surprise with a wheeze from his respirator tube, almost slamming into the gaggle of adjutants that had formed up behind him.

“By the deep, it is true! Their machinery suggested this, but I thought that sort of control was impossible. And yet! It all comes from the core, there can be no mistake.”

“Its mind is broken and silent.” The sepulchral sound of Veryan’s voice drew everyone’s eyes to him for an instant. It was a rare thing to hear the Grand Herald say anything, let alone so long an utterance.

“But the flesh thinks! It lives, it breathes, it thinks without anything to guide it!” Ormis, being the most familiar with the taciturn psyker, was the first to recover. “The same spontaneity of a beast, but in an organism of this complexity. And now we know that it can be done. With our resources, ‘how’ is only a matter of time.” He seemed to have lost interest in the dying xeno, and now paced around the room, clicking his gore-coated fingers together. “Brothers, do you realise what it means for the Project? For us?”

“For the Swarm,” Veryan added.

“For the future of our kind! No more depending on mortal castoffs to salvage, or on degenerating replicae! With all that we have in our hands, we can mould life as we will with minimal expense, from birth to death! Entire strains, species, biospheres!”

“And its uses for Astartes induction?” came a voice from the darkness of the chamber.

Ormis paused, fingertip needles ticking. “Augmentation, that is extraneous, but a surrogate, a simulacrum… With freedom of modification and indefinite production capabilities, the results would be notable in any case. The Lord Progenitor must hear of this.”

The air of triumph in the room was interrupted by the sound of hastily approaching steps. The door was pushed aside, and a Fleshweaver trudged in, servo-arms snapping anxiously.

“Eldest, there has been a complication at the inspection site.” Dozens of eyes turned towards the messenger. “A malfunction of bio-modification equipment, casualties among us and the Prefecture. All indigenous constructs are declared forbidden. Planetary exterminatus is imminent.”

From how little time it took for Ormis to react, it was obvious he had been preparing for the need to beat a hasty retreat. After all, regardless of what the Prefecture ruled, the outcome for the Lurkers would have been much the same in most cases.

“Send word to the Imbrifices to evacuate, and transfer all we have recovered to orbit under cover of troop movement. There is nothing more to do for us here.” One of his eyes fell onto the captive Laer, all but torn apart on the dissection table, yet still breathing by the miraculous force of its constitution. “And put that one into stasis. It still has much to tell us over the journey.”




The bridge of Unity’s Light


From his command throne on the bridge of his flag ship, Micholi sat with a thousand yard stare as his mind processed… quite a lot actually. Emotions, plans for the future, dashed dreams and conversations and meetings he was going to have to have for political reasons in order to maintain the good relationship himself and his legion had with other imperial organizations. But what finally got him to raise to his feet was the knowledge that he was going to have to say something to not just his legion, but all Imperial forces that had joined him during this damned campaign.

Taking a deep breath as he nodded towards one of his officers, he waited until he got the signal that his message was live. “Servants of the Imperium, I am Primarch Micholi Vakarian. Lord of the Night Watch legion, commander of the Emperor and builder of the Imperium. As we are about to witness the final destruction of Laeran and the death of the vile, twisted Laer, I wish to take a moment to offer each and every one of you my personal thanks for your service. From the Imperial Army regiments who served alongside my own legion to those Astartes of our brother legions who answered our call for aid. Special thanks must also be given to Malagra Carphanos and the Prefecture Magisterium, for answering the call to come to a planet that was still an active warzone. To all of you, your service and presence are both welcomed and valued.”

A sigh escaped him. “I confess, as we watch Laeran burn I am... disappointed. Early diplomacy had given me high hopes about the Laer, but their true monstrous nature dashed them. I had even harbored hopes that even if they were monsters who didn’t deserve the merciful fate of death that their technology might have provided them with a positive legacy to outlive their vile race that would benefit the Imperium and all who dwell within it. Alas, they failed even to do that. They were a race that gave an impressive first impression, but all of that was nothing more than a facade to hide how monstrous and worthless they truly were. The universe is better off without them.”

“Malagra Dinwright, you may end this blight on existence are your leisure. I raise a toast to all servants of the Imperium here today. To your sense of duty, heroics and the friends who will be avenged in mere moments with the death of Laeran. Let the Laer’s final legacy be to be hated by the few who faced them until they are forgotten forever. Viribus in unitáte venerémur.”

And with a simple hand gesture, the connection was cut and recording devices started to run in order to capture and showcase the death of Laeran for all to see.




Even as the Primarch had been issuing their address, the preparations for the Exterminatus had been underway aboard an Ark Mechanicum poised directly over the planet’s equator. Within a dimly lit silo bay only rarely serviced, illuminated only by the faint glimmering hints of status indicators and guide-lights along the curves of the cramped confines, a towering armored scepter of annihilation hung suspended amidst dozens of secured pylons and tethers - waiting for its bonds to come undone and for its immeasurable rancor to blossom.

A small procession of three Tech Priests - Malagra Dinwright and two trailing Rune Priests - descended the spiraling access ramp that corkscrewed along the length of the silo, attending servo-skulls whirring softly as they examined every device and mechanism along the path. The humming of their grav impellers slowly began to fade away amidst the rising chorus of electrical pops and static buzzing emanating from the consoles and panels of the chambers, for the silo was more than a mere launch bay - to the Mechanicum, it was an entire pantheon, brimming with innumerable and unspeakably hallowed machine spirits which directed one of the most forbidden and ineffable secrets of the Omnissiah: The shape and form of the knowledge necessary to destroy all life on a celestial body. As the Machine Spirits were awakened by the passage of the three Tech Priests, their treble-chanted hymns in Lingua-Technis, Cant Mechanicum, and High Gothic resonating and reverberating eerily as they went, swaying a censer overflowing with ceremonial incense that whorled and danced across the surface of the torpedo hanging within the chamber. With showers of sparks and a sonorous, building tone interlacing the air between the treble-cant of the tech-priests, the secret knowledge safeguarded by the Machine Spirits was embodied in the Motive Force, flowing through cables and system interlinks and bringing warmth and animation to the single greatest Machine Spirit of all those within the silo: The Machine Spirit at the heart of the Scepter of Annihilation, the central core of the Nucleonic Type One Cyclonic Torpedo, a weapon of the apocalypse rousing from its sleep to cast its long-prophecized flames.

As the Primarch began to approach the end of his address, Dinwright and the two Rune Priests arrived at the foundation of the silo, and separated to traverse three catwalks and approach three activation podiums that ringed the torpedo itself. Having received the blessing of the Machine Spirits and their decree that the artifice of man was as it was meant to be, the three Priests began the final preparations for launching the torpedo, removing the sealed safety-covers by ritualistically laser-engraving runes of obviation upon their faces, causing the transparent caps to disintegrate into fuming powder. The priests each produced a mechadendrite-mounted mechanical key, which they slid home into the podium interface and turned in sequence. The Rune Priests bowed their heads and continued to mutter in treble-voiced verse as Dinwright poised a hand over the final rune - labeled tellingly in High Gothic,

Exterminatus Adversater


The Primarch gave his - at this point, rather redundant - leave. Dinwright pressed the activation rune, raising his free hand to sign a reverent gesticulation as he did so.

The silo was filled with the wail of rushing air as vents drained the atmosphere from the chamber. All was stilled and made silent then, and with perfect tranquility, the launch bay doors slid open just as the secure pylons and tethers suspending the Cyclonic Torpedo gave way. The missile was ejected from the silo by an initial galvanic-kinetic shock detonation at its peak, and sailed serenely away from the Ark Mechanicum - and then began to fall into Laer’s atmosphere, a crown of flames adorning it upon entry and maneuvering thrusters roaring to life to both accelerate and properly orient the weapon.

Only a few isolated Laeran sensor relays detected the incoming torpedo, but few of those remained staffed and even had the alarm immediately been raised, there was nothing to be done - there were no planetary defenses remaining that could shoot the incoming munition apart before it reached the surface. Nobody saw the projectile itself, for despite its awesome power, the torpedo itself was smaller than most Imperial Titans in both width and length - almost impossible to pick out in the air as it accelerated shortly before touching down upon an empty plains.

The impact detonation was so energetic that the crown blast shockwave propagated at C-Fractional velocity, encompassing everything within a radius of three thousand kilometers in unfettered light in less than a second. A ravenous sea of empyrean, nucleonic fire rushed outwards to embrace the whole of the planet, briefly transforming the planet into a second star within the system. Even as the merciless light at the fringes of the crown blast began to dull, they were abruptly reignited by the relapse of the initial shockwave completely circumnavigating the breadth of the planet and rebounding fully upon itself - which it then did so again. Twice.

The utterly haunting glow of a planet transformed into a gateway towards oblivion finally began to abate - and thus, the otherworldly pressure the Nucleonic flame had been exerting upon the mantle of the planet also receded. A number of tremendous fissures blossomed across the planet’s face, visible as crooked lines of furnace-hot coals and embers tearing through the shimmering samite waves of the Sidereal Fire blanketing its surface - and at the site of impact itself, where that pure and crystalline flame had finally at long last began to lessen in intensity, there was a second detonation and a dozen shards of incandescent crust ejected themselves into the void of space like angelic feathers, so great had the force of the detonation been at the impact site that the mantle had been pulverized - and now it was swept outward, carrying the crust that had shielded it outwards as it went.

What remained of planet Laer would not cool for over a century - though cool it eventually would, the shattered fragments of one side of its crust collapsing back towards the surface in time to form a new, massively lopsided continental plate with the planet itself having assumed a new, more exaggerated elliptical orbit around its home star due to the force of the impact.

But though the planet would come back together in time, it would never bear life again, smote as it had been by the Scepter of Annihilation.

The reaction to the final destruction of Laeran was somewhat mixed on the ships crewed by the Night Watch Legion. While there were those that took to it with good cheer, the majority of the Astartes, at least, were silent. Many were quietly and privately mourning the brothers in arms and close personal friends that had lost their lives on the planet and while its destruction and the final death of the serpents that lived there would serve as a balm to the soul, some wounds needed time to heal.

Others were introspecting on the fact that the entire campaign, while technically a success for the Imperium, had largely been for nothing. The whole reason behind the ground war had been to try and pry secrets from the Laer that might have had longer reaching benefits, but it had been dashed when the technology in question was labeled Heretech. They might as well have ended the world without the ground invasion for all the good it had done in the end.

Micholi himself withdrew from the bridge in order to head towards his own private quarters and privacy. He could already feel the weight of Laeran resting on him and he desired some time to reflect on his decisions and the consequences of them. Hopefully he would be able to make peace with himself before the fleet arrived at Ullanor. He didn’t need to show weakness in front of the Emperor, let alone some of his siblings.
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Hidden 4 yrs ago Post by Lauder
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Lauder The Tired One

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Citadel of Steel
Orbit of Ullanor Secundus

Usriel looked over his design once more, having forgone any basis from an STC to act as a base, the schematics for a weapon like no other that the Imperium itself had seen. This project had been an escape for him ever since the Ullanor portion of the crusade had been discussed, and with Ullanor Secundus firmly under the defensive control of the Steel Sentinels and the Knights of Awe, Usriel had desired to continue work on his pet project. Of course, this project he had been working on was entirely untested and with it being plasma-based, he knew that it would be temperamental to get working. Usriel continued to look it over, correcting anything that he figured would not work after his glance over it would reveal.

The sound of the bulkhead behind sliding open was the only sound to break him from his work, bringing his eyes to turn to see the source of this interruption. His eyes would fall upon the robed figure of Belloris, the Orator of the House within the Steel Sentinels. With a light sigh of annoyance, Usriel turned back to his work as he continued to make slight corrections and potential improvement to the untested design. However, the sound of shoes against the metal flooring of his workspace, and the rolling of a cart made it impossible for him to properly concentrate on his design. Usriel did his best to ignore her, but she drew nearer and nearer, the echoes of her footsteps becoming the only rhythm he could focus on, save for the light hum of the Battle Barge itself.

“My lord did not eat with the rest of his sons, as such I have taken the liberty of bringing your meal to you,” Belloris said, her voice lightly echoing in the otherwise empty workspace.

Usriel brought his hands to his side as his focus on his task had been broken, a light sigh of disapproval from the serf’s unwelcome interruption. His head turned and his eyes locked with the mortal’s own deep blue eyes, before he finally sat in his chair and looked over the meal that had been brought to him. It was a roast, his favorite, with a plethora of sides available to him. Yet, he saw smaller plates on the other side of the cart, the side that Belloris had been pushing.The primarch gave the serf a raised eyebrow.

“It would honor me greatly if I could dine with you, my lord. I merely wish to hold conversation with you about your time on Ullanor Secundus and the status of garrisoning the new fortresses,” Belloris explained, bowing her head slightly. She did not normally see Usriel without his armor and it was rarer to eat with him, though Usriel understood that she did not get much time to report to him directly.

A moment of silence stood between the two before Usriel gave his answer, with a nod of his head and a quick statement of, “Very well.”

Usriel allowed some servo skulls to bring his food to him, allowing them to hold the roast as if they were small flying tables, allowing Belloris to eat at the cart, despite having to stand as she ate. There was silence as the two ate, Usriel allowing himself to find some pleasure out of eating the roast, but that silence would soon be broken. The voice of Belloris reached him as she stated, “Currently, the officers and a few regiments from Vion 5 are in transit to Ullanor Secundus. Do you plan to have the officers work alongside the Steel Sentinels to train a new garrison for the fortresses?”

The Primarch looked down upon the mortal before delivering his answer, “Yes. Additionally, we will mark this planet as a planet to draw further Astartes from. As such, the standards of the Steel Sentinels must be upheld at these fortresses.”

“I would not have it any other way, my lord,” Belloris stated, giving a smile to the otherwise emotionless Primarch. Her eyes went over to his workbench, and while she could barely see onto it, she was curious as to what it was Usriel was working on. Her curiosity got to the better of her, “A new project, m’lord?”

Usriel cocked an eyebrow before looking at his workbench, his eyes going once more over the item in question before looking back at Belloris. He did not want to divulge the information around this project, but he knew that Belloris was too loyal to say anything to anyone else, knowing that he could speak his mind around her. With a reluctant sigh Usriel spoke, “It is the schematics for a new weapon, a personal weapon to replace the powerfist that I currently use.”

“And what kind of weapon is it, m’lord?” Belloris inquisitively asked.

“A weapon made of pure plasma. It is a weapon that would be rivaled by none other in melee as it would destroy most other weapons currently used in the Imperium or even seen by its enemies. Not to mention it would be able to negate many of the advantages of the Eldar’s standard ‘rifles’ as the ammunition would be turned to slag upon contact with the blade, though I would question how often that would work to my advantage,” Usriel espoused, relinquishing the plans for the weapon as the grips of his own curiosity took over his mind. He could see Belloris listening intently and even showing signs of understanding his reasoning and his desire to see such a weapon made. However, he soon stopped his ramblings as he realized that he had, perhaps, been oversharing the amount he had wanted to when he had originally planned to indulge in Belloris’ curiosity in his work.

“I am sure this weapon you are working on would bring you many victories,” Belloris said with a smile, only pausing to think of another question, “Is there anything that I could help with, Usriel?”

The Primarch did not give the offer any thought as he answered with a simple, “No.”

“If that is what my lord wishes, then I shall not interrupt his work,” the mortal stated, bowing her head to the Primarch. “As the Ordinator of the House and your personal servant, I promise that I will do whatever it is that you should desi-”

The sound of the door sliding open, the stomps of metallic armor and the voice of a consul spoke out, “My Primarch Usriel, a situation has occurred.”

“Report,” Usriel demanded.

“The mortal serfs tending to a sub-armory have decided to cut access to it due their belief of being mistreated during the Ullanor Secundus invasion. They were former Vion 5 planetary defense forces before being taken on as serfs and are now demanding to be freed back to their homes,” the consul stated.

“Do they have any of our plasma weaponry at their disposal?” Usriel inquired.

“They do, my Primarch,” the consul confirmed.

“Very well. Keep them contained, I will be down in a moment,” Usriel ordered before rising to his feet before looking to Belloris. “Begin inspection of any other dissidents within the ship, any who appear are to be charged with treachery to the Emperor of Man and shall be executed.”

“If that is my Primarch’s wish,” Belloris said as she bowed to the Primarch, backing out of the chamber. The consul followed in silence, leaving Usriel in the silence of his workshop.



The lights to the armory were cut, soldiers moved about the interior of it, only illuminated by the soft glow of blue from the plasma weaponry that surrounded them. They were surrounded, only a few footholds watching the hallways where only the occasional brainwashed serf would peak around the corner a bit too far only to be gunned down. They were unafraid to gun down the previous brothers-and-sisters-in-arms, knowing that they were too blind to see that the Steel Sentinels did not care for them and would use them for the worst possible tasks. They were soldiers, their home was Vion 5, and it was their duty to make sure that they were treated as proper soldiers just as the Sentinels were. They knew that the Sentinels prized these plasma weaponry too much, that was why they had not openly attacked them yet, and that a detonation here would blow a sizable hole in the interior of the ship.

That said, they were still on edge.

There had been little movement for the past few, tense minutes as the neophytes to the Steel Sentinels had stopped taking potshots at the rebels. They had been doing this to make sure they remembered their position, the position they all too well knew, but they had grown accustomed to it for the short while that it was happening. The sounds of nothing were a far more disturbing thought as each man looked out expecting the Emperor’s wrath to come barreling around the corner at any moment. An entire squad of their treacherous kind sat in the hallway, merely waiting in the darkness with weapons raised before small rhythmic sounds echoed towards them. The sound of metal upon metal.

“Go warn Yannik, Godfrey. We have company coming this way,” one of them spoke out, keeping his rifle trained down the hallway as another of the figures moved back to the bulkhead of the armory. Yet, it only opened a fraction of the way, the door refusing to open any further for the men.

The steps grew louder and louder.

“It’s not opening,” Yannik stated, attempting to pull it open, some of the others moving to help.

“Get that door open, Yannik!” the first voice barked, turning to look back at the interruption before the steps were far too loud to ignore. Looking back, he loosed a round of the precious plasma energy down the hallway, the blue light illuminating a gargantuan shape stomping towards them, colliding with it but not stopping it or even damaging it.. “By the Emperor,” he said in disbelief, “Everyone! Shoot to kill!”

The plasma energies became a blinding torrent as the traitors all began to fire towards the figure, their shots never seeming to collide with the mass. They could each see that their shots were never even connecting, instead exploding on an invisible wall in front of it. Then, all at once, their weapons began to cease firing, no matter how hard any of them squeezed the trigger or how many times they pulled it, nothing would come out. The light of their weapons began to grow brighter and brighter.

“You have betrayed my trust, humans. By betraying my trust, you have betrayed the trust of the machine spirits,” a the mass stated to them as it approached. “Be ready to receive the judgement of a Primarch,” he said as a single shot took the head off of the traitor, Yannik.

The traitors panicked, turning to run and try to pull open the door that the others on the other side were trying to help with as well. More plasma met them, a single shot killing three who were too huddled together as Usriel began to near them. One of the men broke away and fell upon his knees to bow to Usriel, his forehead touching the ground as he pleaded for his life and apologizing for his blind nature. Such words did not spare him as Usriel’s metallic foot came down on the man as if he were but a mere insect, blood leaking out as the other traitors screamed in fear. Soon enough, the powered fist launched the bulkhead into the armory along with the now broken bodies of the men trying to open the door. Many tried pleading to their lives, many others tried to shoot their weapons, but the blue glow of those rifles grew brighter and brighter as Usriel made his way through the armory.

Men panicked and died. Traitors being culled for their transgressions.

It was not long until the butchery had been completed, the floors and walls stained with blood and the smell of burnt flesh lingering in the air. Usriel stood among the room of corpses, his genesons walked into the room with their own weapons aimed down as they had already known that these were all dead fools. The primarch turned to them and stated, “Send word to the tech-priests to come and bless the guns properly, I do not want the machine spirits to sympathize with fools.”

Then, the Primarch stomped off to return to his workshop.

Hidden 3 yrs ago Post by LieutenantOTP
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Gabriel Argenti: A Grim First Impression


It’s been hours since the 15th legion had started to fight on the planet Shalaï. The whole world had fallen into the clutch of a cult centred around pain and pleasure. Unfortunately, Shalaï was filled with resources so an exterminatus was out of the question.

The cultists far outnumbered the Seraphims, even more so because of the absence of the usual knight houses supporting the legion due to the secrecy that mission implies. Several dreadnoughts had to be awakened to compensate that loss in term of firepower.

Since no reinforcement was expected, it was decided to engage the full bulk of the legion in several shock-assaults in key locations at the same time to take control of them as fast as possible.

The main target was the planetary capital and the colossal temple at its center where the most important religious figurehead of the cult resided.

The attack was launched at dawn and rapidly the streets of the capital turned into a battlefield. The astartes of the 15th legion charging into battle, chanting hymns to the glory of the Emperor and their primarch. The Seraphims cut down waves after waves of fanatics throwing themselves without any trace of doubt and hesitation. Even more insulting some of them was even laughing when receiving injuries, even fatal, while powerful sorcerers took advantage of the fact the astartes was locked in melee to unleash on them all their psychic might with little to no regard for their "allies."

The 15th legion have in its ranks only the elite of the elite, so casualties were low, at least for a battle of that scale yet the cultists managed by sheer numbers to slow them down almost to a halt. Even after tremendous losses inflicted by the spear, the sword and flamers of the legion, the moral of the fanatics never flinched. Laughing like maniacs as they threw themselves to a certain death.

There were, however, an exception. At the center of the battlefield, the paladins, the best warriors the legion had in its fold where slicing and dicing through the wall of flesh that was their opponents. With teamwork and cooperation honed through the course of countless battles and trainings together, they unleashed all their strength, both martial and psychic onto the powerless fools who tried to stop them.

Leading them on the front line, Gabriel Argenti, commander of the 15th legion was smiting the enemies of his emperor with a mix of masterfully executed sword strikes and powerful lightning of warp energy. A spectacle both graceful and terrifying to witness. No among of wretched slaves was enough to slow down the primarch.

As the battle continued, ominous clouds of warp energy gathered at the top of the temple filled with bolts of purple energy. Those worrying signs only convinced the son of the Emperor to reach the titanic building faster.

Gabriel and his group managed to break through the enemy lines and arrived in front of the temple. He was sure that the best way to put an end to that battle and also saving a maximum of his sons was to cut the head of the cult as quick as possible, so he decided to enter with his most trusted warriors.

They were expecting a fierce resistance inside as the building could without problem contain a full regiment of imperial guard. Instead, they were greeted only by a cold dead silence.
The only thing that went breaking the calm of that atmosphere was an almost intoxicating, even for astartes, odor of blood coming from everywhere in the temple.

Gabriel and his paladins advanced carefully inside the immense yet empty corridors expecting traps and ambushes. But none of that came to them. Only a distant chanting far way started to break the silence as they kept going inside the edifice. The deeper they advanced into the temple the stronger the stench of blood were. After some long minutes, Their leader decided to throw caution to the wind and ordered his sons to rush the central chamber where the chanting seemed to come from. Since he entered that building he had a terrible feeling, maybe thanks to the innate foresight ability coming from his powerful psyche. However, his fears were quickly confirmed as an inhuman scream resonated across the whole temple looking like agony and ecstasy at the same time.

Second later scores of hermaphrodites looking, crab-clawed monstrosity burst inside the corridor Invading the place in a blink of an eye, assaulting the Seraphims with lightning fast attack taking them by surprise. It’s possible they survived because of the painful effect they have on daemons, slowing down their attacks.

When the element of surprise withered away the primarch and his guards started to fight with unparalleled skills and bravery, cutting down dozens of enemies in mere seconds. But for every one slayed, two was taking its place. There were just too many of them.

Gabriel knew he had to fight the cause, not the consequence or else him and his sons would finish overwhelmed eventually. He raised his hand and from it projected a blast of pure psychic energy, banishing the daemonettes in front of him and opening a gap in the sea of enemies who was blocking the way. The primarch lost no time and stepped into the breach. He knew he was the only one who could pass as the monsters quickly started to close the opening he just made. He had a blind faith about the skills of his subordinates, particularly his paladins so it’s without fear that he left then fight this battle, so he could put an end to the war.

He finally reached the main room and inside the reason of the unbearable odor became apparent. The main room, easily the largest one of the colossal temple, was entierly covered of corpses bearing ritualistic scarifications (including the eight pointed star). The room was so high it was impossible to see the ceiling. There were numerous terraces on the walls allowing for people at every floor to observe and participate in the ritual. Those too were filled with corpses of cultists. Gabriel couldn’t imagine how many people were sacrificed here.

His thoughts were quickly interrupted by an otherworldly cackle coming from the center of the room. There, illuminated by a ray of light coming from the unseen roof, was standing an immense creature, bearing the attribute of both man and woman. Looking magnificent and terrifying at the same time. Its beauty only flawed by two threatening crab-like claws sprouting from his chest. Gabriel took a moment to think, he has seen a large number of those "psychic constructs" since he joined the crusade, but this one was way more large and threatening than the other.

He didn’t have much time to observe it, as the creature closed the gap with him in a blink on an eye, lashing on him with attacks from every angle. Extremely fast yet with a deadly precision, the primarch was only able to block and dodge at the last second, loosing his helm in the process.

The beast, known by some as a Keeper of secrets, kept pressing the attack on the son of the Emperor, laughing like a deranged while trying to slice his adversary with his finely decorated sword and his razor-sharp claws.

Gabriel came to his senses. He was fighting the quickest opponent he ever faced after the Emperor. (his brothers and sisters might be able to surpass the Keeper but Gabriel never faced any of them in a real fight to the death.) He needed to focus. He started to take the upper hand in the exchange and with a swift, seemingly effortless motion, cut one of the claw of the vile creature who backed down.

But despite just having lost a member, the sublime monster looked at confused champion with a devious grin on his face, he licked its lips and addressed few words to the primarch: "Looks like I found an interesting toy."

Gabriel was stunned. It was the first time he saw one of these "constructs" talking. He thought they were incapable of such things, after all the Emperor himself described them as mindless yet now it was obvious that it was not only talking but actually enjoying the fight. This instant of shock was enough for the fiend to rush at him once again and this time one blow connected. The blade of the Keeper sliced his face, blinding temporarily his right eye.

He backed down while the creature was laughing, licking the blood from the blade and complimenting him for the taste. Taunting the disoriented warrior and trying to intimidate him.

Ironically this wound had the opposite effect on him. It brought him down to earth. This demon was the same as the ones he killed by the dozens, and most importantly a nuisance that the Emperor, his father, tasked him personally to rid the galaxy off. Questions were secondary. His mission came first.

As his confidence came back the daemon started to look more and more irritated, maybe loosing his focus and determination weakened Gabriel's ability to pressure those warp entities. Seeing the monster visibly annoyed amused the master of the 15th legion, it was his time to grin. That was enough for the Keeper’s pride who charged the confident knight with impressive speed. But this time the man was the faster than the beast. He charged his blade, the Silver Thorn, with all the psychic energy he could bolster and planted it with both hands in the center of his enemy’s chest.

The wretched monstrosity screamed in pain, in a last effort it swayed the primarch away with a powerful strike with his remaining claw and yet the sword stayed deeply embedded in his chest.

Bolts of lightning erupted from the body of the creature as all the energy imbued in the sword was unleashed inside it, cooking it from the inside out.

The fiend cursed in numerous languages, some humans couldn’t even understand before vanishing out of existence.

Gabriel got back on his feet, his bulky armor having taken most of the blow for him. He took back his sword and rushed to come to the help of his paladins, but it seems that slaying the great beast was enough to make all the lesser one disappear.

When they emerged from the temple, the clouds of warp energy had finished dispersing. That spectacle apparently made all the cultist loose their resolve, and they were from this point easily crushed. The war was won, if was now only an affair of cleaning down. The legion could manage without him.

He got back to his ship and asked to have an audience with the Emperor. Refusing to make his report to anyone except his father. He had much to ask him.

It’s this day that Gabriel received his scar on the right eye. To his surprise and his sons surprise the wound he received from the blade of the Keeper never healed fully despite his powerful regenerating abilities (natural and psychic). Sometime, when powerful warp sorcery like on Shalaï is used near him this mark on his face start to hitch, an unpleasant reminder of his first meeting with some people call a greater daemon.
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FrostedCaramel

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XVII Legion - Serpents of the Sun
Arel Extermination - Planet Vokun, Vokarr System



Outrage did not describe the Primarch of the XVII Legion’s mood effectively. Nelchitl was incensed. At the Arelian defenders for refusing to die. At the Auxiliaries for not pushing fast enough. At her own gene-daughters for failing to take the capital in the prescribed time frame. The Emerald Priestess was furious.

Her anger, as intoxicating as she had ever felt it, pushed her further into the city with every pump of her hearts. She felled entire units of Arelians alone as she moved ahead of her daughters in a fit of rage. Voxcalls from her Company Commanders to slow down and allow them to reform with her went unanswered as her chainsword whirred in one hand and her plasma pistol spat bolts of death from the other. There was little hope for the Arelian’s that stood between the Primarch and the city center and yet they still tried to stop her relentless advance.

Turning a corner onto a long promenade, Nelchitl was met with the fire of several dozen of the multicolored energy weapons of the Arelian’s. Like concentrated bolts of lightning the shots cracked and popped as they made contact with the ground and the Primarchs armor, leaving shallow gouges and steaming streaks where they hit.

Nelchitl leveled her plasma pistol and let fly a trio of bolts that laid waste to several positions of concentrated defenders, but the fire barely let up. Letting loose another pair of well placed shots Nelchitl advanced forward and shrugged off the energy weapons impacts in a fantastic fluorescent show of sparks and arcing electricity.

Now only a few hundred meters from the Xenos positions Nelchitl found a new sense of purpose as several Xenos defenders unmasked heavy weapons from their hides among the rubble of the city. These weapons had been prevalent at the curtain wall, and though formidable they had proved to be little threat to the well armored Land Raiders of the XVII. But against a lone Primarch these weapons were more than enough and even Nelchitl knew she had been caught out in her lust to end the fighting. Her blind desperation to join her Father in the Ullanor System was to be her end.

Charging another bolt from her plasma pistol Nelchitl was weighing whether or not to seek cover from the emplaced guns ahead when a cacophony of bolter fire laid waste to the Arelian guns and made her decision for her.

One of her gene-daughters came on-line with her, firing as she spoke, “My Lady, the Second Company sends it’s apologies for our tardiness.”

Knowing the voice of the Captain of the Second Company as though it were her own Nelchitl answered her daughter as she too let loose with a bolt of plasma, “Captain Mayalen, push the Second forward, I expect no more delays in this extermination.”

Her voice was cold steel as she ordered her gene daughters forward to end this battle once and for all.
Through a wide square Nelchitl walked past the ruined bodies of Arelian defenders and Serpents alike. There had been a great battle, here at the gate to the Arelian capitol building, and the Second had done well to overcome the Xenos filth that held the entrance but it had not been without cost.

The still smoldering bodies of dozens of her daughters lay haphazard about the square, their armor penetrated and the Legionairres within laid low by the exotic energy weapons. Though Nelchitl felt sorrow at the sight of so many of her daughters lost, she took solace in the fact that their sacrifices were not in vain as she passed a trio of Apothecaries extracting the geneseed from their sisters.

As the Primarch of the XVII entered the capitol building her sense were immediately met with the smells of burnt ozone, cordite and death.

A squad of Serpents from the Second waited for her just within the threshold of the gate and quietly began off in the direction of the final hold out of Arelian’s in the building. Their Primarch needed no prompt or intruction to know to follow.

As they made their way down the maze of passageways and rooms Nelchitl passed yet more of her slain daughters. At first they came only one or two at a time, but as they got closer to their destination the bodies became more frequent in number. The Second had delivered on their Primarch’s order, and they had paid dearly for their results.

Stopping before a single vaulted door Nelchitl turned to find Captain Mayalen once more among the group of Astartes waiting for her. Spotting the armor of the Captain of the Second, Nelchitl simply waited for her report.

“The Arelian’s are dug in deep on the other side, we’ve lost contact with the first two Squads that entered together and I did not believe it wise to commit more to this push without your approval.” the Captain of the Second was obviously upset, whether it was with her performance or the losses her Company was sustaining Nelchitl didn’t truly care. The Emerald Priestess cared only for results, and the bloodbath that undoubtedly awaited on the other side of the door.

“We blow the door and sweep through, standard wedge. I will lead.”

“Lord.”

Moments later the door exploded in a fury of fire and debris, the smoke parting ways as the Serpents and their Primarch entered the room in a perfect wedge, bolters barking as they did.

Around Nelchitl her daughters fell. Concentrated energy beams boring straight through their armor, multicolored arcs of electricity boiling their targets alive as they touched ceramite, and countless other grotesque forms of the end of an Astartes took place just behind the Primarch.

In only a few heart beats the fire had ceased, the Arelian’s at the far side of the hall lay broken and Nelchitl stood triumphant among a perfectly formed wedge of her lost daughters. Victory had been achieved.

Nelchitl allowed herself a smile.
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Hidden 3 yrs ago Post by Sophrus
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Sophrus

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Prometheus

In orbit of Ullanor Secundus


Sitting upon his command throne in the Strategium Prometheus watches the few remaining ork warbands being crushed in turn by the Knights or Sentinel forces. The war over Ullanor secundus had been won this was merely clean-up detail, burying the dead and uprooting small but stubborn ork forces, tedious and pointless for a Primarch to oversee. Prometheus stood and stepped down to the holographic display studying it closer as he thought on his options.

As he stared he came to a decision "Prepare to make way" he ordered in a clipped tone catching the entire room off guard "All forces on the ground have one hour to return to the fleet or will stay to support the Sentinels"

Lord Strategos Arghan was the first to recover from the surprise "my lord?" he said in confusion, however several Imperial Army Generals and Astartes captains moved to carry out the orders.

Prometheus looked up with an uncharacteristic hint of impatience though it dissipated almost instantly, smoothed over by his calm bearing. "Arghan, your input is always welcome however time is pressing, if we do not leave now the Knights of Awe can not arrive for the assault on Ullanor prime. The war for Secundus is over, I have achieved victory here and this clean-up duty ill suits me. The army and Usriel can manage what is left on this planet with ease. Nor will we be a footnote of the Ullanor crusade, the Knights of Awe will be at the invasion of Ullanor prime leading the spear. We will be at the Emperor's side amassing glory for the legion!" says the Primarch raising in passion as he speaks.

Arghan, the old veteran, knows this has as much to do with his beloved Primarch's glory as the legions but... the lord Strategos felt the same. He longed to be on Ullanor prime fighting along side the Emperor and his Custodes. "Of course lord, I will see to it. A captain should stay behind however, we will be leaving a not insubstantial amount of our forces here and they should have a commanding authority."

Prometheus nods and waves the Lord Strategos off "Yes, see to it" says the Primarch distractedly. Within the hour the mighty fleet fired its engines on a heading for Ullanor prime.
Hidden 3 yrs ago 3 yrs ago Post by Oraculum
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Oraculum Perambulans in tenebris

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Ullanor Prime


The Knights of Awe fleet burned into orbit at a nearly reckless pace, luck alone ensured that no other vessels were in the path of the mighty warfleet. Several small escort frigates however had to divert from their patrols or orbital bombardment locations to make way.

In the Strategium Astartes captains and Imperial army generals frantically organizing the troops for combat, their skill and determination had the forces largely prepared, but regiments split by the hasty departure were the focus of confusion and being stitched together into a functional force. Over the din of orders and coordination Commander Illan Haen, leader of the Astarte Auxilia, shouts “My Lord Primarch! My Lord! The Emperor’s custodes and other Imperial forces have already begun landing troops, vox traffic seems to show heavy fighting over several landing zones already.”

Prometheus stands suddenly in response bringing the room to silence awaiting word. The primarch’s eyes shift rapidly between the holographic map of the world and officers in the room. He seemed to be analyzing the situation and playing out possibilities fully applying his intellect to forecast the result of dozens of plans. His gaze halts on The Blood Raven and Lord Strategos Arghan, two of the highest ranking commanders in the warfleet.

“Prepare drop-pods and assault landers. The entire legion is to drop here” he says pointing just outside the heart of the primary Ork fortress still covered in a large energy shield of some kind. “The Imperial Army, Astartes and Auxilia are to carve into the fortress decapitating the foe and pave the way for the Emperor to scour this world clean of the Xenos.”

The entire Strategos goes silent in surprise, The legion is fully capable of such assaults as is the army but it’s not their specialization. Then again, the Primarch had made his orders. Mere hours as the first drop pods are fired from the ship the energy shield flickers and dies, the latent precognicience of the Primarch showing that the shield would fall in the correct moment. Drop-pods and hundreds of heavily armored landers deploy the Imperial army by grav chute or vehicles to crush any forces the infantry or terminators have difficulty with.

At the foot of the great spire that was the beating heart of the planet and all of Ullanor, the forces of the enemy were already in disarray. The vanguard of the Truthlayers and the Mechanicum had broken through the Orks’ first lines of defence, and though some scattered pockets of resistance remained, exchanging vicious gunfire from behind the cover of the omnipresent wreckage that littered the greenskins’ crude parody of a city, they now largely held the field. Waves of screaming Orks continued to emerge from the gates of the fortress, but without leadership or organization they merely mindlessly charged the Imperial lines and were swiftly cut down by reaving volleys. Though marred by heaps of broken scrap, mounds of corpses and creeping pools of blood, human and xeno alike, the path to the citadel lay clear.

Prometheus and the legion land in the midst of the Ork fortress, well ahead of the other Imperial front, thousands of Terminator elites and Astartes Veterans charge outward establishing a landing zone for other forces. The deep strike sowed further confusion into the ranks of the Orks but battle lust driving them into a frenzy recklessly attacking the Knights of Awe. In short order the entire landing zone is being assaulted from every direction chain glaives, bolters and flamers drive the orks back. Prometheus and his commanders direct the battle even while holding the green tide at bay.

In the midst of the melee, Arghan, the Lord Strategos of the Knights of Awe, received a vox-hail with an identifying frequency placing its origin from amongst the Stargazers Legion.

“Lord Astartes, this is Malagra Numilus Grirkov of the 12th Legion. Your arrival is most auspicious; our forces are engaging the so-called Nobz High Command and their Warbands within the lower levels of the spire. We are hard pressed to select volunteers from amongst us to ascend and purge the Overlord without exposing our flanks. Do you have any rapid assault groups available for an immediate operation up through the ribs and into the heart of the citadel?”

The Lord Strategos replies, his words punctuated with cries of dying Orks and the thumping report of heavy bolter fire, “Malagra Grirkov, our entire force is preparing to make the assault on the citadel. We have established a landing zone and are awaiting the rest of the legion and Imperial army forces to arrive. We will be making the assault on the citadel soon.” Even as he speaks several Tetrarch Heavy Landers arrive disembarking thousands of soldiers and a pair of super heavy tanks to provide fire support. In short order the majority of the force had been landed and the landing zone was stripped to the bone to make for the citadel, Tens of thousands of Astartes and hundreds of thousands of Imperial army charge the inner citadel driving the orks back with las-gun, and bolter.

The vista that met them within the walls of the fortress was one that could have emerged from a crazed architect’s Warp-touched nightmare. The interior of the gargantuan spire was all but hollow, with no separate floors intervening between the ground and its summit. Like a colossal silo, it stretched off and away into the distance, the ceiling a barely distinguishable shadow from below. Its mighty walls were lined with innumerable ramps, platforms and stairways, crudely bolted and welded to the sheer surface, connected to one another by dizzying bridges and rickety planks. An entire labyrinth assembled from scrap and detritus was precariously suspended above the Legions’ heads, the sloping and rattling links between the suspended balconies forming a network more intricate and chaotic than any solid corridors could hope to be.

And every step, every inch of the baffling construction was swarming with Orks. Gangs of them ran back and forth on the walkways, swung and grappled on chains and ropes like apes, even jumped from one bridge to another. For all their disorderly rushing about, it was clear at a glance that the ones gathered at the core of the Ullanor empire were a cut above the majority of the greenskins the Imperial troops had faced until that point. Even the smallest boyz were full as tall as Astartes, and each of them bore some garishly ostentatious mark of their station - gratuitous golden trinkets, looted armour pieces, cybernetic implants that were not threatening to explode at the slightest wince or, above all, elaborately styled hats. The metallic bulks of Meganobz towered among them at alarmingly frequent intervals.

The 12th Legion’s Taghmata forces were already present and widely distributed through the lower reaches of the massive chamber. Focusing not on confronting the Orks directly but instead on establishing beachheads and bastions amidst the terrifying vertical architectural morass of the inner spire, attempting to seize and hold the lower entrances and gates into the fortification so that the inner forces could be purged without fear of flanking reinforcements. Lines of Skitarii assembled in lines before Kastellan robots took as much advantage of their powerful repulsor fields for cover, while Onager Dunecrawlers crab-walked across the tangled paths and bridgework of the patchwork hive - pausing only to turn their turrets and blow suspended buildings and fortifications to pieces, causing debris and shrapnel to be flung across the cavernous expanse along with screaming, enraged greenskins. Killclades of Ruststalkers scaled the sides of the inner spire, planting demolition charges and ambushing Orks attempting to traverse the walkways and catwalks, proving to be just as agile and willing to swing over the abyss on crude chains and cable lines in dizzying maneuvers of precision, in contrast to the more frenzied and energetic careening motion of the smaller Ork scouts and Gretchin that elected to do the same. The rim of the inner spire was the figurative eyewall of the crossfire hurricane, with heavy explosives causing entire Orkish shacks and hanging towers to brutally detonate or crumble into the abyss below while bridges and support lines sprung loose and whiplashed like alien appendages across the empty space, interspersed with laz and bolter-fire and clashing figures exchanging blows as they rushed over and across rooftops and bridge-lengths in the expansive interior. Here and there, evidence of Onagers utilizing actual Icarus anti-air arrays was manifest with the appearance of sudden, hissing salvos of swarm rockets and exploding flak rippling across the interior in a deadly staccato that almost-but-not-quite harmonized with the Orks’ own overbearing clamor.

While the sheer amount of structural damage and havoc the Stargazers were inflicting was impressive, their progress in eradicating the enemy was less-so. The innermost bastions and drifting citadels of the Orkoid MegaNobs, arranged in an almost spiraling column up and down the length of the spire’s interior, were almost uniformly untouched. The bowels of the spire’s lowest depths were heaped amply with both fungal green and crimson-clad bodies alike, their only burial raiments to follow being the intermingled scrap plating of exploding Ork constructs and Legio Cybernetica robots. The 12th Legion seemed simply to be prioritizing securing the entrances and exits of the Spire, even at substantive cost and risk to their own forces.

“Rrah, won’t ya gitz just be still!” A raging Ork swung his thrumming choppa at a Stalker as it clambered past him along the inner wall, but the walkway was just a hair too distant, and the cyborg, too nimble. The boy spat and loped towards an ascending ramp, only to be sent staggering back as a massive metallic hulk shoved past him, almost pushing him off the platform altogether.

“Ya num’skull, don’t waste ya time with dem jumping gnats dere!” The Nob pointed his shoota-arm at a narrow terrace overhead.
The object of his offending digit was the imposing group of Marines that had entrenched themselves at one of the staging balconies for bikes heading in and out of the spire. A group of ten Terminators that had used a beacon to teleport onto the spot from outside the fortress and had swiftly strewn the entire platform with the smoldering spread of innards of over a hundred Orks that had been occupying the area in the previous instant. The Terminator squad leader, armed with an imposing Omnissian Power Axe, was making formation gestures and clearly looking directly at the Nob across the bridge, all the while a reinforcing group of Skitarii and Corpuscarii escorting an Onager up and across an access ramp towards the same platform. The landing had all the makings of a fight to die for.

“Ya gotta spot where dem big onez’s all bunched togeva’, so dey can’t run off!” The Nob demonstratively fired a volley in the general direction of the Stargazer detachment. “Come on, ya squig-guts! Let’s crack some skulls!”

His cry was echoed by a good few dozen Orks in the vicinity, and soon drowned out by the revving of their chain-weapons and the metallic barking of their shootas as they rared to charge across the bridge, which was, much to their aggravation, not wide enough for them all to cross it at the same time. The one who had lunged at the Ruststalker stood scratching his head with a skeptical look on his stolid tusked face for a moment before falling into the rear of the mob.

Nobody dared contest the Nob as he stepped first onto the bridge with a crash of metal upon metal. He opened his half-mechanical maw wide and roared his challenge as he broke into a run, his at least partially metallic lungs giving an uncanny echoing tinge to his already bestial voice.

The same Ruststalker the straggling Ork had swiped at earlier, hanging off from the adjacent wall some twenty meters up and had spent the last two minutes prior rigging the bridge with melta charges, simply hung in place impassively and waited until the Nob had reached a point on the bridge where the Stalker’s internal cogitator calculated he could not make a safe leap either forward or back across the bridge as it collapse - and then sent a silent detonation signal to the charges.

The support struts for the bridge at both ends were both instantly blown out, causing both ends to snap upwards like a steel trap and actually fling some of the Ork mob at its backend straight up into the air, still WAAAAAGHing. The Nob, cursing and thrashing wildly as both he and the bridge plummeted, managed to tear himself free of the entangling support wires just in time for the heap of it and his band to slam into the lower terrace below. Looking back up at the balcony where the Marines were staging, the Nob saw the Terminator squad leader peer over the lip down at them.

The squad leader - clearly a veteran who had fought Orks in several prior campaigns - made a clearly visible and profane Orkoid tribal gesture with his free hand, casually dropped a krak grenade off the side down towards the Nob for good measure, and walked away.

When the Nob climbed back up the next few levels, bleeding from a dozen puncture wounds and missing several fingers while occasionally ducking to avoid impromptu decapitation from a humming Transonic blade as Ruststalkers swooped past on support cables - completely incapable of meaningfully retaliating beyond firing his shoota in their vague direction and cursing violently - only to then see that the Marines had set up a shielded perimeter and were simply taking volleying shots at distant targets on bridges, he had decided that these Humies were absolutely shitty grots to have to fight, and made as much clear with a stream of expletives that shook the scaffolding almost as strongly as the explosives had. From the opposite end of the collapsed bridge, the one Ork who had managed not to tumble down by virtue of being the last in line peered down, looking as bemused as before.

“Wot’d I tell ya? Ain’t no zoggin’ use, dem gitz just won’t ‘old proppa still!” He was about to add some choice epithets about the elusive adversaries, but at that moment the commotion below suddenly grew in magnitude, and as he glanced downward to see what was happening his mid-word gaping expression turned to a grin of bloodthirsty joy.

The commotion was that of the Knights of Awe making their first assault on the fortress. The tip of the spear was led by a phalanx of terminators carrying storm shields and chain glaives surrounding the Primarch, an impenetrable wall of armor and death simply wading through the greenskins cutting them down in the thousands. Within the walls of the phalanx terminators carrying plasma cannons and autocannons lanced their fire upward to weaken the deluge falling upon them. The assault simply marched forward driving an ever deeper wedge into the Ork hordes, allowing those not caught in the assault to be cleaned up but the following Astartes and Imperial army stormtroopers.

There was a brief lull as myriads of greenskin eyes turned towards the advancing force. Then, the immense hall erupted in a storm of gunfire. Shells rained down from all sides, increasing in intensity by the second as more and more Orks unloaded their weapons towards the ground - the great enclosure of the tower formed a circumscript killzone, so that even the most inaccurate shooters had a good chance to strike true among the clustered humans below. The unrelenting rain of slugs was joined by bombs, rockets, energy discharges, shokk disruptions, even screaming Orks hurling themselves down from the balconies to crush the enemy under their weight. Now and then, shouts and commands could be heard breaking through the continuous dakka-dakka-dakka.

“OI, BLOODTUSK, GET YA RUNTY ASS DOWN FROM YA PERCH! WE GOTS REAL ‘UMIEZ TO SPLATTER NOW!”

“WOT? FINALLY! TOOK ‘EM BLOODY LONG ‘NUFF! DA BOYZ WUZ GETTIN’ BORED UP ‘ERE!”

As the projectiles continued to fall, more green hordes charged down the ramps, gnashing and cursing as they stumbled over each other in their haste to reach the thick of battle. Encircling the Imperials as they advanced deeper into the citadel, they poured down as thickly as the fire, brandishing enormous choppas, kombi-weapons and power claws, shrouded in a halo of spurting flamers. Their hulking bodies hopelessly dwarfed the majority of the human troops, and once the massive armoured Nobz began to descend, it was clear that only the most heavily augmented could withstand their fury.

The ork hordes and the massive Nobz however found themselves crashing into the Knights of Awe phalanx with a Primarch at its head. The roaring glaives drove the Nobz back, slowly, their bulk and armor ensured that a single stab or swipe would not fell them but still they were no match for an organized force of Terminator elites. However the sheer weight of fire and ferocity even brought some Astartes to their knees, either being dragged into the open air of the spire’s center by a gang of battle crazed Nobz or simply pulverized by the hellish fire being directed at them.

As the assault climbed the great tower the battle lines grew and thinned as units of Astartes and their Army auxilia began breaking off to handle a knot of resistance or clear a confused warren of structures. Prometheus knew each of his commanders and trusted in their ability to drive this assault to its conclusion, his mission was to obtain ultimate victory over Ullanor his officer’s mission was to ensure he succeeded and crushing resistance as it was found protected the Primarch’s advance. The fighting in the base of the spice never ceased however as the great battle drew in every ork that could reach the battle further anchoring the legions forces to the spot.

As Prometheus and his warband climbed to the same heights as the 12th legion his rear guard began to grow thin massed attacks would cut between the phalanx and the rest of the legion severing their connection, if briefly. Prometheus stopped and considered the situation for a heartbeat, ignoring the crude ork bullets pinging off his battle plate. He still possessed thousands of Terminators and the battle below would not cease any time soon, the battle had to be pressed forward but a cohesive front was slowing him down.

“Astartes, Auxilia and Army forces! This is your Primarch, Fight on and destroy the Xenos wherever you find them! Phalanx, with me!” He shouts into the vox across all channels surrendering his connection with the legion to drive deeper into the fortress. “Lord Strategos, Deploy teleportarum beacons.. Bring me the ancient and his dreadnoughts”

Without word the beacons were deployed and a dozen dreadnoughts were teleported directly into battle, their bulk and firepower lending an even greater weight to the assault. Auto cannons and missile launchers dampen the hordes assaulting the phalanx allowing it to push more quickly, in a matter of minutes the force was engulfed by the green tide.

The appearance of the ancients was difficult not to notice, and as even the dullest boyz saw that something was amiss where hundreds of them kept hurling themselves at the advancing formation without so much as slowing it, so did eyes lit by a slightly brighter spark of intellect. Somewhere in the nests of ropes, chains and planks overhead, something began to whirr and rattle. At first barely audible through the din of the carnage, it rapidly grew into an ear-splitting buzz, like a disturbed hive of gigantic metallic hornets. It seemed to emanate from a ramshackle construction resembling a misshapen cocoon made of scaffolding, which started to perilously vibrate as the sound grew in intensity, until it burst apart in a rain of splinters and bent nails.

There, affixed to the underside of one of the highest platforms, was a weapon as mystifying in its shape as it was astounding in its size. It resembled more than anything a Knight cannon, but it was not anything that may have been mounted on an Imperial war machine. Though assembled from surprisingly well-kept pieces by orkish standards, and thus only about halfway rusted through, it was wholly unclear what or how it was supposed to fire - instead of an open barrel, it ended in something between a lightning rod and a propeller. Mismatched tubes and wires ran up from its base and around the entire balcony, and a goggle-wearing Ork with a mechanical arm sat in a cramped nest of levers astride it.

“GIT READY FOR DA BIG SHOW!” the Mekboy bellowed through an improvised voxcaster made with a tin box and several wires that did not quite fit together, “YA BOYZ BEEN GRUMBLIN’ BOUT DA ‘XPERIMENTUL SHOKK ZAPGUN NEVVA’ DOIN’ ANYFINK? WELL DERE YA GO!” He tugged at several levers at once, one of which he held with his jaws, and the dire contraptions sprang to life.

A cascade of swirling blackness and electric currents flowed out from the weapon’s tips with a loud tearing sound and a foul smell of burned fabric and sulphur, scattering across multiple tiers of the spire in a blink. Several of them struck among Prometheus’ escort and washed over the dreadnoughts, and in a moment, hundreds of Terminators and multiple ancients were no longer there. Loud detonations and showers of sparks at the lower levels marked the spots where they materialized soon after, somewhat scorched and battered by their journey through the immaterial. Many Orks also found themselves displaced by the shokk gun’s less than accurate fire, various howls of annoyance resounding at being abruptly taken out of the brawl.

Prometheus watched in shock as much of his vanguard simply ceased to exist as far as he could tell. Reducing his forces from well over a thousand terminators and a dozen dreadnoughts to merely a few hundred of the hulking soldiers and a pair of ancient warriors. Galvanized by the spectacular display, the Mekboy pulled the levers again, flooring a number of pedals beneath the control throne to adjust the orientation of the platform and reaim the weapon. Haphazard Ork power capacitors began to churn and whine as turbulent WAAAAAGH began to course through them, crackling warp energies beginning to spiral around the sputtering propeller-tipped blast-rod - now squarely pointed squarely at the Primarch.

Over the sound of the charging Haze Zhokkaz and his own uproarious laughter, the Mekboy did not even hear the faint, tell-tale thrumm that signified the arrival of the enemy.

A booming and boisterous voice laden with the overtones of a zealous ovation shook the interior of the spire as it was amplified first through the built-in Vox-Caster of an Abeyant, and then in turn through the Mekboy’s own improvised Vox-Caster.

”BY THE POWER VESTED IN MY OFFICE AS MALAGRA,” The Mekboy’s head whipped around in surprise, to see Grirkov Numilus, standing poised atop his dais-shaped Throne Abeyant, reared back and about to stave the Ork’s face in with the butt of their rifle, which was embossed with the seal of the Prefecture Magisterium - and superheated to a glowing-white intensity from the crackling energies coursing through it.

”THIS PERVERSE XENOS DEVICE I ORDAIN HERETECH!!!” Grirkov slammed the butt of his rifle down against the Mekboy’s cranium, channeling the Motive Force of the voltaic weapon through the alien mechanist and permanently branding a seal of condemnation into his green flesh as the Ork screamed in a combination of surprised pain and rage.

”CARO AUTEM INFIRMA!!!” Grirkov roared, his rebounding, redoubled voice reverberating through the interior of the spire, acting as a massive acoustic chamber for his condemnation - and then, he activated his Voltagheist Field, and the Mekboy found himself being carried out from his seat by a massive discharge of lightning, to then fall, still roaring out in rage in disbelief, into the dark depths of the spire.

Grirkov turned his rifle to the capacitors for the Haze Zhokkaz and unleashed another blast of coursing power, overloading and causing them to detonate in a spectacular shower of sparks. A dozen arcing bolts of light streaked from the corona of light surrounding him, flash-frying the mob of Gretchin and Ork Boyz that had been about to pounce on him from all around - and then, just like that, the Abeyant Dais Grirkov stood upon shot straight down and assumed an approach vector to rendezvous with the Primarch’s vanguard.

’Primarch, oh holy son of the Omnissiah, your loyal servant Malagra Numilus Grirkov shall see you through all perils!’ The Tech Priest cast down on the Primarch’s Vox-Frequency.

Scarcely had he finished speaking that a new wave of piercing noise rose above the sounds of battle, drowning out the last echoes. This time, however, it was not the cryptic buzzing of some outlandish piece of machinery, but the prosaic roar of malodorous greenskin engines. Streaks of thick black smoke erupted from various sections of the walls, converging onto Grirkov’s trajectory like the grasping limbs of a marine beast. At the head of each of them, trailing flames, was one of that particularly sinister breed of Ork known as Stormboyz, borne through the air on crude and loud, yet powerful jump packs. They did not scream or howl as they approached, but there was no need for them to, as their mere movement through the air split it with the sound of a roar. Some of them were aiming their sluggas at the Malagra, others raised their choppas or prepared to toss their stikkbombs, but all in all it was unmistakable they were determined to blow the Tech Priest to smithereens.

Grirkov’s flight to join the Primarch and his van halted, and he assumed a series of evasive, erratic manuevers from atop his Abeyant dais, dipping and obliquely swerving to and fro through the chasms of the spire as he haphazardly attempt to engage the Stormboyz. His voltagheist field was more than up to the challenge of protecting him from their sluggas and stickbombs, with arcs of unfathomable and blindingly intense Motive Force flash-vaporizing the projectiles before they could even get close, as well as fatally immolating those Stormboyz who flew too close to his dais - but in turn, Grirkov could only turn his voltaic rifle on one target at a time, and despite the unwieldy and ramshackle nature of the Orks’ jetpacks, they were more than able to harry and hound the tech-priest from all sides as he futilely attempted to blast them away one by one. And as he was chased through the chained spires and tethered dens of the spire’s interior, the Knights of Awe began to recover from the devastating displacement of their forces.

The chaos of the weapon’s destruction at Grirkov’s hands gave the Knights of Awe a brief respite and just long enough for Prometheus to understand the dire situation he had found himself in. The paths he was expecting to use have now been destroyed and the majority of his forces were now missing. “No! I can not fail, I can not be defeated.” He growled beneath his helm as he drew his power sword, taking another from a fallen Knight, forgoing his glaive. He waded into the ork hordes with a vengeance, hacking and cleaving a bloody path through them that the honor guard fought furiously to keep up with. He began shouting at the orks, losing his carefully crafted composure to the fury of battle and the tangible threat of defeat. “I am Prometheus! Primarch and Son of the Emperor! I shall have only victory! ”

Even as mighty mega-armored Nobz charged the Primarch, they were cut down with expert, though furious, swings of his blades. His fury even began to frighten the smallest orks in the horde, breaking around him to engage the terminators following behind while the biggest orks still threw themselves at Prometheus with enthusiasm. It was only a few moments of swirling battle before Prometheus realized that he was only slaughtering orks without making actual progress, the bridges and ramps had collapsed and had lost him his direction. He speaks in a clipped tone into the vox “Knights! Find me a way to the summit!”

’Son of the Omnissiah!’ Grirkov’s strained voice broke into Prometheus’ vox-line. ’From my aerial vantage point and with a number of auspex skulls, I have already devised a number of suitable pathways that can lead you to the summit! But I cannot send sustained telemetry over the infosphere unless these frakking xenos flies are swatted!’ Even as the message was received, Grirkov’s abeyant dais broke through the cover of hanging Ork garages and shacks to the side of the Primarch’s platform, closely followed by more than six dozen yelping and shouting Stormboyz, their outraged bellows blurring almost indistinguishably with the dull, continuous roar of their crude jetpacks.

As Grirkov closed with the Knights assault the storm-boyz found themselves confronted with the weapons of the dreadnoughts, autocannons ripping ork after ork from the sky. Any who dared to close with the terminators were swiftly cut down and cast over the side. Glaives flashed out from the phalanx clipping the storm-boy, their ‘jetpack’ or the crude rig holding the two together. Several fell to their deaths and the jetpack flew off and exploded in the upper floors of the spire.

With the new telemetry data from Grirkov the assault team rolled forward encroaching on the summit of the spire. The fighting growing ever more furious, if that were possible, Knights even in Artificer Terminator plate were dragged down by ork nobz as large and heavily armored as themselves. Of the massed charge up the tower a bare handful remained with Prometheus. As they reached the ramp to the summit storm-boyz and mega-armored nobz descended. The fighting turned from furious to nearly desperate. With a Primarch at the head however it was not an attack that could be turned aside. Prometheus with his blade and storm shield cut through the warboss’ elite with the precision and skill that could only be distilled from the Emperor himself. Even still an explosion rocked from behind the vanguard, One of the ancient dreadnoughts had been crippled and was being torn to pieces by battle crazed nobz.

The assault reached the threshold, now there were no orks coming from the top to meet them the entire force was behind them trying to drag them down. The ancient Deckard, last dreadnought in the spire, spoke “Go my lord. We shall hold.” The remaining terminators fell in around the ancient save for 5 of the Primarch’s ceremonial honor guard. As he stepped through onto the summit he heard dreadnought loudhailers blare from behind him “Now for wrath! Now for Ruin! For the Imperium!”

Beyond the sloping gateway lay the open sky, almost dazzling after what seemed like an eternity spent battling through the bowels of the fortress. The pinnacle of the spire was a vast, mostly open platform, with no walls but a ring of robust metallic pillars holding its fortified roof in place. Flames in the sky and on the ground below lit the scene with a macabre glow, burning streaks rending the heavens top to bottom as they fell onto the devastated surface of Ullanor Prime and erupted into infernos of strife. The view was something out of a prophetic dream, an apocalyptic scene that could only belong in the direst of omens - yet there it was, in the roars on the wind, in the smell of steel and ashes that drifted up from a hundred battlefields below.

Near the center of the platform, turned sideways from Prometheus, stood what seemed to be a small Stompa, towering even on the wide circular field. Its twisted armour was painted black and yellow, and one of its claws rested on the handle of a terrifyingly large weapon of hideous design - not quite hammer nor chainaxe, but a behemoth hybrid of both, mighty enough to smash through a Knight’s armour with a single blow. There was nothing else on the bare rooftop besides the colossus of gnarled iron, no trace of the infamous Warboss of the Ullanor Empire.

Then the thing moved, and all became clear. It was not a vehicle waiting to be driven by the Ork leader into battle - the giant was Urlakk Urg himself.

The monstrous greenskin heavily turned to face the Primarch. Underneath his titanic armour, his scarred, stony hide was darker than that of any Ork Prometheus had ever seen, so deep as to be almost obsidian-black with the faintest shades of putrid green. His left eye had been replaced with a cybernetic lens as large as an autocannon barrel, and four mighty tusks jutted up from his lower jaw. He snarled, baring files of yellow teeth strong enough to bite through powered armour, and began to heft his tremendous maul.

“Human,” he growled, his voice cavernous and beastly, but far less distorted than any of his underlings, “You might be strong, but your kind is weak. When you die, they will scatter and fall, because they are nothing without your power. We Orks are stronger. Even if you kill me now, we’ll never stop fighting, and in the end we’ll win.”

Prometheus took a moment as the colossal ork spoke, moving his limbs ensuring the servos and range of motion in his armor were still correct after the hellish battle. “My kind… My kind has driven you and your hordes back to this tower. I am but one man, a powerful one to be sure, but an individual. Humanity, the Imperium, is the true power I wield and none can stand before it, Ork, Eldar or any other xenos. Stand now beast and fight or watch as your empire burns around you.” Concludes Prometheus assuming a cautious but aggressive fighting stance mirrored by his honor-guard.

“Your Imperium will crumble the moment its herds find the next shiny bauble to worship,” Urlakk grunted, “Without a born purpose, you stumble around like blind squigs at the mercy of Mork’s whims. Not us! We know what we’re made to do, and we’ll never forget the path of the WAAAGH! We’re made for fighting and winning - and I’ll show you runts what that means!”

With an earth-shaking roar, the Warboss raised his maul, which whirred to life in a nightmare of spinning blades and crackling generators, and sprang forward. He was fast, much faster than something so massive had any right to be. One hand brought down the maul in a wide swing, and the other snapped forth, grasping with a gigantic metal talon.

Prometheus smiled behind his helm, this would be a battle to remember one to be immortalized in the annals of Imperial history forever. He advanced his muscles driving his hulking armor forward faster than the motors wanted sliding past the Warboss’ attacks. His blade flashed out severing hydraulic pipes and power relays in the claw slowing its movement. The honor guard moved to evade the attacks though one was bashed aside by the maul, sent flying across the field with a crunch of buckling ceramite. The terminators also lashed out taking their lead from Prometheus severing further components of the Warboss’ weapons.

Even as Urlakk reared to deliver his next attack Prometheus advanced further driving his blade into the armored leg joints drawing first blood on the Warboss. The Honor-guard however kept their distance knowing they would be a hindrance to Prometheus, and so they harried the boss’ flanks to give their primarch advantage or taking opportunities to wound the great ork.

Though impaired by the breaking of the power lines flowing along his armour, Urg did not relent, forcing his ponderous weaponry into motion with the sheer strength of his body. He scarcely seemed to acknowledge his wound, only briefly gnashing and snarling as his dark ichor dripped onto the ground, and pressed the attack, now wielding his maul with both hands. Titanic blows rained down onto and around Prometheus as the Warboss focused his onslaught on him, uncaring of the terminators’ occasional strike of opportunity against his immense bulk. The floor shook and in places gave way, gaping fissures breaking open under the Ork’s strikes, but he seemed to know where and how to aim to avoid the damaged rooftop collapsing under his own weight. Indeed, the pits became a new peril for the Primarch and his guard, each of them large enough to swallow them on an incautious step and send them plummeting through the tower below.

Prometheus expertly evaded Urlakk’s assaults briefly however one swing from the maul struck him squarely, but it was caught on the giant storm shield he carried. The blow drove the primarch back showering the battlefield in splintered shards of adamantium and ceramite. He simply hefted the great sword in both hands and charged forward again trying for a death blow to sever the ork’s head, but it was a near miss the blade passing just in front of the warboss’ face merely cutting a thin line and severing a pair of tusks. The primarch pressed his advance raining his own blows onto the giant. He sidestepped a savage blow sparks showering off him as the roaring teeth of the weapon clip his armor. Pivoting the Prometheus swings his blade down cleaving through the Orks wrist leaving a sizzling stup and relieving the beast of his hand. As the cascading shower of sparks from the blade screaming through the Overlord’s armor struck the room with harsh flashes of illumination, the Primarch caught sight of Grirkov dashing into the room - having dismounted his abeyant at some point - followed by a small swarm of servo skulls. The Malagra made no evident moves to intervene in the ongoing battle, likely coming to the conclusion that his volagheist field and unwieldy voltaic blaster would simply impede the Primarch more than it would hurt the massive, armored Ork Overlord.

With a growl of rage more than pain, Urlakk recoiled in a wide step. His one remaining hand suddenly swept wide, hurling away his maul in a spinning arc like a throwing axe at two of the Honour Guards as they approached to flank him. Such was the sheer size of the weapon and the force behind the throw that one of them slumped to the ground with a shattering crack and the other was sent careening off the edge of the platform, borne down by the weight of his own armour. Now unarmed, the Warboss gathered his strength and lunged at Prometheus with his one remaining fist, bringing the whole of his mass to bear in a single shattering blow.

Seeing the Ork’s desperate attack he changed his stance and simply allowed his great sword to fall from his hands preparing his own counter. Urlakk closed the distance in a moment his size and momentum a considerable threat to the Primarch, in response Prometheus seized the Warboss’ arm and hauled with every ounce of his immense strength granting even more momentum to the warboss sending the towering beast past the edge of the tower into the air above the raging war below. Dragged down by his weight and blind rage, Urlakk could not so much as try and slow down and he hurtled down with a berserker howl still rising from his throat. In a final furious grasp, he caught hold of one of the pillars at the edge of the platform, tearing it away from its foundation. The entire roof overhead staggered and came crashing down as the Warboss’ roar faded away in the distance and its last echoes were lost upon the wind.

“As my nerves are made still with awe…” Prometheus’ remaining honor guard parted to permit the comparatively diminutive Grirkov to pass and approach the Primarch, his servo-skulls now buzzing in a circular orbit about the father of the Knights of Awe, taking in the scene.

“By your hand alone, the Beast of Ullanor has been smote and cast down! As it is said in the Laws of the Machine God, the Omnissiah Knows All, Comprehends All. For so long as the spark of light that is my spirit shines in this life, it shall sing of the glory of Prometheus, and mark it well, for your father himself shall Know of this! He shall bear witness to this clash, in the pure aggregate fidelity of mine many eyes and sights!” He gestured emphatically to the servo skulls before falling prostrate before the Primarch.

“Glory to the Primarch! Glory to Prometheus! Hail!”

Each of the honor guards followed suit dropping to a knee, their heads bowed in reverence of their primarch. Prometheus soaked in the honor for a fraction of a second before dropping to one knee himself and placing a hand on Grirkov’s shoulder plate “Rise Artisan Malagra Veneratus Prime Numlius Grirkov” he said in a highly respectful tone, when Grirkov looked up he could see the scarred and damaged battle plate Prometheus wore but it stood in contrast rather than lessening his presence. “All of you, rise. I may have defeated the Xenos monster here but the legions, the Imperial army, you Grirkov and your brothers conquered this system for the Imperium.”

Just as Prometheus made the benefacting gesture with his hands towards the semi-circle of warriors surrounding him, a servo-skull shot a particularly aggrandized capture of the moment - with Ullanor’s setting star framing the Primarch in the backdrop as the remaining animated skulls danced about his crown in the fashion of a macabre halo.

The image, which was later submitted to the Imperial Administratum, was instantly seized upon and disseminated almost entirely unaltered as propaganda. The image blazed across countless billions of holo-feeds and picts across hundreds of thousands of worlds. Artists of every field and medium, from painters to sculptors to holo-vid directographers, began to produce innumerable recreations, replicas, and inspired variations of the image. Handsome, framed picts of the image were hung in schools and garrisons, hospitals and Mechanicum shrines, Administratum Offices and even in the streets of Terra itself.

And trillions of Human lips, many of whom knew not even of Prometheus’ name, began to whisper and cry adulation and reverent reference of the depicted figure by the appellation that spread like the Emperor’s own anointed truth across the interplanetary infospheres and the astropathic relays connecting them.

They called that resplendent and glorious figure, ‘The Light Bringer, our Warmaster.’
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Meeting of the Primarchs of the Legio XVI and Legio VI




Location: In orbit over the Industrial World of Yamvan-IV, Saravata, Ultima Segmentum

Date: 6.341.971.M30. - Culling of the Ipsunal Incursion into Saravata



The very fabric of reality tore open, the prow of the first among many warships emerging from the Warp and into realspace at the fringes of the Akhiina system, in the Saravata subsector. As the fleet reorganized itself, Narcarro Salazar sat upon his command throne aboard the Gloriana-class battleship Prince Mesonera. The multitude of officers occupying the bridge were busy collecting reports from the entire fleet, and the Primarch nodded approvingly when the communications officer informed him that every ship was present and that no significant damage had been sustained during their long journey. He turned his bright blue eyes towards the holo-projection representing the Akhiina system.

"Send out a scouting squadron and establish contact with the local authorities." The auspex reading did not indicate anything out of the ordinary yet, but this was a warzone. "We do not want any overly-zealous artillery officer taking pot shots at the fleet."

"At once my Lord," the officer replied before transmitting Salazar's order. As soon as he was finished, Salazar opened a direct vox channel to the entire fleet.

"To all vessels, switch your IFF transponder on. Stay on alert level four until further notice." Ideally, he would have preferred for his fleet to remain hidden for longer, but he was in one of his sibling's domains, and he was not about to give unnecessary offense.

Cobra-class destroyers escorted by Sword-class frigates darted out of the massive fleet at full speed, leaving it behind as the faster ships headed further into the heart of the system. Even though it would take several days to reach the closest planet's orbit, it only took hours before one of the frigates received a vox communication request, and the information that a fleet had arrived in the system began its tortuous journey up the chain of command.

____________

Death. Death and agony surrounded her. It filled the air, overpowered the senses. Around her swirled a sea of suffering, millions of souls in mourning and in pain. To a lesser being, the sensory overload would have been crippling. Sharing in the pain, the fear, the grief, and the doubt of the countless souls that swirled around her was almost too much to bear. Yet bear it she did, bore it she had done before, and she would bear it again. The swirling mass of souls thronged around her as she walked. Fear, awe, adoration, and resent. She met the eyes of every soldier who stood before her, her gaze calm and steady as she listened to them in turn.

The field hospitals and morgues of the battlefield were not an unfamiliar site. Though she had long been chastised by her kin for visiting the wounded and dying of the mortal auxilia that fought alongside the Legion, it was a ritual she would not be deterred from. They marched to their deaths under her orders, and though the deaths of millions seemed a numb statistic, here in the maelstrom of emotion she shared in every iota of sorrow. She walked amongst them not as a great Primarch of the Emperor, beyond them in every way - but as a human. She towered not over the soldiers, wore no gleaming masterwork armor, and she met the eyes of all who came to her.

Voices rose as she walked, and so too did she speak. Condolences, praise for battlefield glories, assurances of promotion, all filed away within the cogitators that hummed quietly within her armor. It was a familiar routine, and one that weighed heavily upon her spirit. It renewed her distaste for those of her kin who glorified the horrors of war, who revelled in the violence and bloodshed of the crusade. It was a cruel necessity, this struggle of theirs, one that she sought to end as soon as could be.

But at times, there were those stood out amongst the crowd, whose questions brought no easy answer. There were those who simply remained silent, watching her from a distance, judging, resentful. It was those who she tried to speak with the most, those who had no gloating or praise, no fawning adoration for the being that walked amongst them.

One stood before her now. A young woman, her eyes bright blue, nary a hint of technological augmetic or of years of campaigning, yet she stared at the Primarch with those same tired eyes. Her soul burned bright amidst the throng of humanity that surrounded her.

“Did they matter?” She asked, blocking Eiohsa’s way. “Did their deaths matter?”

Data flashed through her augmetic ports, relayed from the battle logs. Trooper Konstantia Obel, sole survivor of her platoon, wiped out during a diversionary assault that cleared the way for the Third Battlegroup to shatter the vanguard of the forces of the xenos invaders. Casualties had been unexpectedly high amongst the force, and it was only afterwards that the information was relayed to her that the battalion had completed basic conscript training only a day before. Inexperienced, unprepared recruits thrown into the meat grinder to clear the way for her Astartes forces. It was a story that repeated itself time and time again across the galaxy, a story she herself had penned far, far too many times to count.

Eiohsa wanted to lie. It would have been easy to tell the woman that their deaths had played a key role in securing victory and defending the world. It would have been kinder, in a sense. But she could not. “My orders to your unit were to conduct a diversionary operation, that the forces of the Legion proper could more effectively strike the enemy down. I will not lie to you. Many deaths in your unit were needless, and the burden falls upon my shoulders for ordering your comrades into a maneuver you were not fully prepared for. You have my apologies, Trooper Obel… Konstantia. You have my apologies. I can offer only my assurances that their deaths will not be in vain. I do not ask your forgiveness, nor do I deserve it.”

The woman’s expression did not change, nor did she move from her place. “Are we expendable, Primarch?” She asked, and only now did Eiohsa see the trembling in her body. “Tell me, in the eyes of the Imperium, are we expendable?”

Her words would have brought tears to the eyes of the Primarch had she heard them years ago. But the grief, the sorrow, the pain, and the anger of a million battles across a thousand star systems had hardened her heart and inured her soul. Even so, she could not help but be moved. She rested an armored hand on the shoulder of the woman, “Not to me.”

She began walking once more, her hand remaining on the Trooper’s shoulder. “Please, come, I wish to speak with you further after I meet my brother.”
____________

The massive fleet of the sixth Legion was standing by in the planet's orbit, void shields lowered and weapons powered down. Hundreds of warships, bulk freighters, Imperial Army elements as well as a Mechanicum flotilla which carried with them a Titan battlegroup; all of them were dwarfed by the Solar Dragons' flagship, aboard which the preparations for the meeting were complete. One of the Gloriana-class battleship's hangar decks had been cleared and decorated with the banners of the thirteen Great Companies that had accompanied their Primarch to Saravata. Below these colorful standards hanging from the deck's ceiling, a guard of honor had been assembled; the Primarch's bodyguard, power spear in hand and bolt pistol on their hip, with the spotless red and white of their armor bringing out the shining gold trims, decorations and face plate, faced an equal number of Merendosi Raiders, the Legion's mortal auxiliaries. In contrast to the Astartes, they wore a dark urban camouflage pattern on their Carapace armor and Kalibrax Pattern lasrifle.

At the end of the guard of honor stood the Primarch himself, wearing white pants and tunic, adorned with red and gold embroideries. A red cape was kept in place by a golden aquila pin on his chest. A group of officers stood behind him, holding their helmets in one hand. To Salazar's right was a warrior holding the Primarch's personal banner, representing a dragon breathing fire on a xenos of a now extinct species. To his left stood another holding a two-handed sword in his hands, and a human officer whose face was battered by scars and the signs of rejuvenating treatments.

All things considered, it was a rather sober welcoming party considering the expected guest was Eiohsa izva Bronakavh, Salazar's own sister. Another of his siblings might have been welcomed by an entire parade, but even though Salazar had only briefly met with his sister before, he guessed that she was not the sort to be overly fond of such ostensible protocol and honors. Still, it would not hurt to pay some measure of respect to Eiohsa's status, at least for this first proper meeting.

A signal sounded on the deck, notifying that a shuttle had docked in the airlock. As soon as the airtight door opened to let the guests in, the Astartes next to Salazar struck the metallic floor with the shaft of the banner he held. A second later, the guard of honor stood to attention, the sound of their boots striking the deck resonating in the hangar.

“Salazar, my brother.” Came the voice of the Primarch Eiohsa. “Surely there was no need to go through this much trouble when there are more pressing matters at hand?” She strode through the airlock, an eyebrow raised quizzically. As she drew nearer the Astartes of the Sixth Legion, she raised a hand in a crisp salute to the assembled Astartes, and then to her Brother Primarch.

“It is good to see another friendly face in my home, it has been too long waiting for our first proper meeting. I merely regret that it is not under better circumstances. The forces of these xenos are beyond any peaceful reconciliation. They fight with fanaticism almost commendable in its intensity. Shouting glory for their Great Leader.” She shook her head, her voice lowering. “It reminds of some of the worse elements of our own Imperium.”

An amused smile appeared on Salazar's lips, blue eyes scrutinizing her as they always did. He gave a nod towards his sister before his rich voice replied.

"I thank you for your welcome, my sister. I am grateful for having had the foresight to keep this meeting a secret; I’m afraid even my Astartes could not keep the Remembrancers out of the deck if they learned there was an opportunity to observe two of the Emperor's own children in the same place." He shifted his jovial tone to be more serious. "Especially considering your apparent... Enthusiasm for potentially inflammatory statements."

The smile came back, a bit warmer this time.

"Nevertheless, I am glad to see you again under less dire circumstances. You are right, we have much to discuss. But where are my manners?" He gestured to his right. "This is Ancient Sorrano. My right hand man, if you will. Whatever matter needs to be brought up to me, he will be qualified to hear it." He pointed to his left. "Nocanus Villion, my Equerry." The Terran Astartes bowed his head respectfully, his lighter skin tone and short black hair contrasting with most of the present officers. "And Lord Commander Asier Costales, commander-in-chief of the Merendosi Raiders. His skills have served me well for more than a hundred years now."

"And will continue to do so for hundreds more." The officer added, saluting as he looked up at the armored figure of his leader's sister.

Eiohsa smiled back in turn. “Our kin are well aware of my ‘enthusiasm’, it is only the Emperor who holds the power to punish me for hurting feelings, and I have my suspicions he and I concur on far more than one might think. It is good, though, to meet you and your Legion properly. The wars against the Rangdan certainly did not provide many opportunities for building relationships and comradeship.”

She turned to Salazar’s officers, bringing her hand up in the same military salute to each of them. “A pleasure to make your acquaintances, soldiers. It is good to meet more skilled and dutiful servants of our Imperium.”

A slight frown came over her, and she coughed into one hand. “I apologize for my own lack of entourage. This is one of my aides, Rhena.” She said, gesturing to the woman in question. “And this is a soldier of my armies, I hope you do not mind that she accompanied me?”

The Primarch turned his gaze towards the simple soldier, studying her for an uncomfortable amount of time, as if he'd found her particularly interesting... or suspicious. His even tone confirmed neither as he finally answered. "I do not." He paused. "I bid the three of you welcome aboard my ship. Now, let us go and discuss serious matters in a more appropriate environment. My command room, that is. Besides, my captains have duties to attend to." He turned towards the officers. "Dismissed, gentlemen."

Astartes and mortals brought their fists to their chest as a warrior's salute, before walking away and leaving the hangar, only Villion remaining by his side. Salazar gestured an invitation for his sister to follow him. "This way, if you please."

She nodded, in turn giving a crisp salute to the assembled personnel of her Brother’s Legion. Beckoning her small entourage follow, she took up a steady walk behind her Brother. “It is a surprise to see you here in Saravata, my brother. I presume you have something on your mind? Or perhaps you have come to aid us in our little war against these invaders? I promise you, it is a short affair. Were I less considerate of the state of the worlds after the fact, the problem would already be solved.”

Information flashed through data conduits to her consciousness as she trawled through every record available on her flagship on the Primarch of the VI Legion. Even blueprints of the most commonly used naval vessels, all flashed through her mind at a dizzying, inhuman speed. “Or did you perhaps come to meet properly?”

“Indeed!”, he exclaimed. “I would not pass up the occasion to get to know you a little better, especially since our two Legions have been collaborating closely in the past. There was little time for pleasantries then. But this is not the only reason for my presence; I would not have brought fully half of my legion with me if it was, not to mention regiments and ships of the Army.”

The small group briefly halted before a massive ornate door at the end of the corridor as it opened with a faint hiss. The room behind it, if that term could be applied to a space of such proportions, was a massive hall of marvelous gothic architecture, both cyclopean and delicately detailed. White and red banners adorned with a golden dragon decorated the walls, and between each of them were comparatively small alcoves, aligned and stacking up to the ceiling. A number of these alcoves were occupied by a marble statue of an Astartes warrior in armor, made larger than life and with rigorous attention to detail. A few others represented mortals, their uniforms leaving no doubt that they were of the Sixth Legion’s integrated auxiliaries.

Bronze plaques at every statue’s feet were engraved with a name, a date and the manner of their deaths. These marble sculptures were, upon closer inspection, sarcophagi. Along the walls were arranged hundreds of art pieces, pictures, paintings, sculptures, as well as war trophies and relics: a tattered flag, pieces of a broken sword, an alien armor bearing the unmistakable impacts of boltgun fire. Of the alcoves carved into the walls only a fraction were occupied, yet the statues easily numbered in the hundreds.

“Welcome to the Hall of Heroes, sister. I certainly hope to see you join our celebrations here when this war is over.” Salazar said, as he made his way down the hall at Eiohsa’s side.

“The war is progressing swiftly enough, my brother. Were I heedless for the harm and suffering of my people, it would progress further still. Certainly, the likes of Sarghaul would have seen this war concluded several percentage points more swiftly, but at the cost of great tolls in civilian death and significant destruction to the infrastructure and industrial capacity of the affected worlds.” She frowned, “I am uncertain what aid you may be capable of rendering, we have already received a detachment of the Lantern Bearers in support along with our brother Iniephor himself. I am well aware of your Legion’s abilities in scouting and infiltration, but as these foes are not human, nor even humanoid, I foresee great difficulty in attempting many of the tactics our logs indicate you favor.” Records of past battles and campaigns by the Solar Dragons Legion now filled her mind, processed and replaced by another near instantaneously. “I will nevertheless not deny any assistance you might render.”

A small smile creased her face again, “I am glad, though, to hear that your Legion too celebrates your victories and commemorates the dead.” More information processed in her mind, the light whine of capacitors and electronics a constant presence. “I admit, the practice of preserving the dead in ornate caskets is a strange one to us, but it is heartening to behold the passion and art which your own produce. A cultural exchange may be in order after we defeat these vile spawn.”

Salazar had an unreadable expression on his face. “You underestimate us, dear sister. I cannot say I blame you. We have our ways” He displayed no emotions as he led the group through the hall and to an elevator which closed its doors and started moving upwards as soon as they entered.

“Be assured that I have no doubt in your ability to lead this war to a successful end. Your dedication to the preservation of the Imperium’s domain and infrastructure is… admirable. But your daughters are needed on other fronts.” The Primarch’s voice grew quieter, almost a murmur. “The Ork empire of Ullanor is shattered. Victory is assured. And yet, thousands of our father’s loyal soldiers are still dying fighting the greenskins. They refuse defeat, as they always do.” Salazar’s voice was a growl, as contained hatred and disgust for the xenos echoed in his words. Inside the elevator, an imperceptible change of emotions started to seep into the minds of those in the presence of the sixth Legion’s Primarch, like poisoned vapors. A sense of inexplicable anguish, an irrational fear of something terrible about to happen. Doom. Death. Pain. Oblivion. All of those terrors gradually fading, to let only a greater fear take their place. The fear of fear itself.

The Primarch’s Equerry stepped up to his side. The effects of Salazar’s powers were visible even on his stoic face. “My lord,” he called out. “You are forgetting yourself.”

Narcarro Salazar turned his eyes to his son and blinked. The sense of dread in the elevator disappeared as quickly as it came. “You are right, Nocanus.” He took a deep breath and turned towards his guests. “My apologies. I got… lost in thought, I’m afraid.”

Eiohsa raised an eyebrow quizzically in response. She seemed lost in thought as she watched him, silent and unmoving. At last, as the silence stretched on into uncomfortable lengths, she broke it.

“Fascinating…” she murmured, staring at him with a scientist’s eye. “Your presence in the immaterium, your… soul, it changed. Quite significantly.” A finger stretched out haphazardly, as she cycled through databanks of stored information she had amassed on warp phenomena, including the recently indexed contents of Iniephor’s personal treatise on the ‘Great Sea’. “It was almost as if… a part of yourself took control. It crowded out all else.” She nodded towards his equerry, “It is a most powerful effect, evidently.”

She turned to her own entourage, “I trust you two are well, yes?”

A short nod from each brought a small smile to her lips. “Fear not, even if he did pose a threat I do not believe we would have been in any danger. I know your Equerry would have defended us all most valiantly and effectively, my brother.”

Salazar smirked. "Yes, I believe so. I am sorry for the inconvenience, this should not happen outside of the battlefield. I suppose I am frustrated enough that a fraction of my powers manifested. Lack of discipline."

Nocanus Villion nodded. "We are all frustrated, my lord. It has been a long journey, and our brothers are fighting glorious battles against the Great Enemy as we speak. The men are eager to get back to work."

"I am sure they are. We will have occasions to fight the enemies of Mankind soon enough." The elevator slowed down and soon came to a halt as the doors opened on a room that was rather sober and functional, compared to the rest of the ship. A large table with an integrated holo-display stood in the middle of it, surrounded by chairs which were large enough for a Primarch to sit comfortably. A number of them had their height set for mortals, others for Astartes, and at both ends of the table two were set for Primarchs. The only decoration in the command room was a steel imperial Aquila on one of the walls.

"Please, have a seat." Salazar said as he stepped inside, while his Equerry poured wine into simple glasses out of a crystal pitcher for each of the three guests, as well as for his Primarch and himself. The fragile recipients seemed almost absurd as he manipulated them with his massive armored gauntlets.

Eiohsa took the glass, eyeing it and its bottle with an eye for detail. “Aged vintage, I see?” She raised the glass, nodding her thanks to his equerry. “I appreciate it, brother.” Her form shrank and shifted as she seated herself in one of the chairs, wine held carefully in one hand as she felt the material of the chair. “I hope you do not mind if I drop the formal appearance. It can be rather a chore to maintain airs.”

Serene, inhuman beauty melted away into the face and expression of an ordinary woman as she sipped at the wine, allowing herself a contented sigh. Enormous size and power seemed to vanish into thin air as her form ceased to tower over her brother and mortal companions. “You know, I must admit such is not common where I come from. We have but a few worlds that can still produce such a product, and it is not fair to demand it be shipped to Kayaamat for my personal tastes. Your homeworld must be proud to produce such.” She smiled, turning to her companions. “I am glad you two enjoy it as well.”

Trooper Obel’s eyes were wide at the sights around her, and her amazement and wonder translated to her commander, who gave a reassuring smile. She had before never tasted wine nor had she left her hab-block before being called to war, yet now held a glass of the finest vintage and sat amidst the children of the Emperor himself. She remained wordless, merely staring in awe.

“So, my brother.” Eiohsa murmured, eyes darting over to him, “I have many questions, but I am sure you must as well. It has been long since we met, and we have yet to meet under peaceful times. Where shall we begin?”

The Primarch smiled as Villion inserted a data slate into a port in the table. "Do not worry about formalities, dear sister. They have no place in this room."

Salazar pressed an activation rune on the table and a holographic map of the sector appeared in the air. Ongoing engagements were highlighted, as well as the current location of imperial forces as well as suspected and confirmed enemy activity. “I have brought with me Army line formations as reinforcements for your forces. Princeps Majoris Hordim of Legio Exitium is also waiting for deployment. If there is a need to break a deadlock, her Titans should be able to deal with most of the enemy forces in their path.” The holo-display showed a list of fifteen Princeps as well as their service records.

The Equerry spoke up. "This is Battlegroup Hordim. Two Warlords, three Reavers, nine Warhounds and Hordim's own Titan, a Warbringer Nemesis. Additionally, they've already been assigned escort elements from the Imperial Army. Super-heavies, motorized infantry, triple-A batteries and so on, ready to split up into support groups as needed. There are also Raider strike teams available for use as forward observers, recon teams or emergency reserves."

"Most of my warriors, however, will not be fighting alongside you. My Astartes, the rest of the Raiders and myself will be going into enemy territory and aim for the heart." Salazar pointed at the map, circling an area of space with his finger. "But to strike at the enemy's heart, one must know where it is. Our reports do not indicate the location of the enemy capital, or what serves this purpose to them. Would yours be more up to date, perchance?" He said, turning his gaze back to his guests.

“There is no true deadlock that would require the assistance of Titans to break, brother.” Said Eiohsa, her eye flickering over the data before her. “All warzones are progressing solidly in our favor. The invading horde has a remaining presence upon only a half dozen or so worlds further within my realm, and if my calculations are correct they hold a further fifty seven beyond the official reaches of Imperial controlled space, approximately twenty four of which could be considered developed worlds. Once they have been cleansed from the Imperium the campaign will move much more swiftly. When my own are not in the firing line these beasts will taste the full wrath of the XVI Legion.”

She turned to him. “What I believe your Legion can best offer us lies in your infiltrators. You know of the depth of ability of Saravatian cybernetic technology, yes?” She smiled, “The xenos do not know it yet but we have deciphered their language and extracted many cultural norms - enough such that we believe in short time, skilled operatives could be implanted with this knowledge and deployed on sabotage missions within the upper echelons of the enemy high command. They lack a decentralized command structure, and neutralizing the key enemy figures we have determined are central to their defense will, according to our calculations, accelerate the expulsion of their presence from the system from another two standard Terran months to approximately twenty three days.”

A datapad with the relevant information appeared seemingly as if from nowhere, the Primarch handing it to her brother with an easy expression. “Once they have been expelled, with my people no longer in the line of fire we estimate their total annihilation to follow within approximately one hundred and seven days. Detachments of the Legion and the Sector Defense Force will be deployed to each world, and the largest will accompany myself and my Guard to their homeworld where we estimate victory within forty two days of arrival.”

She smiled darkly, “Iniephor will have plenty to catalogue soon enough.”

Salazar processed the information as she spoke. Glancing back at the holomap, he waved his hand dismissively. “Hordim and her Titans will be free to deploy according to their desire, then. She’s neither hot-headed nor reckless, but the God-engines thirst for battle, so she says. It shouldn’t be an issue to let them hunt. Legio Exitium is not the kind to blindly fire into civilian population centers.”

“As for your suggestion at infiltration, we certainly can make use of the intel you’ve gathered. Some of my most specialized operators would surely be able to sabotage the enemy’s chain of command.” He turned to the Astartes to his side. “When this meeting is over, have Zancador take half of his Drakes and conduct a few raids. We will need fresh material.”

“As you say, my lord.” The Terran gave a curt nod.

“I trust that your forces will be more than capable of exterminating the xenos. We will attempt to make it easier our own way.” He looked at his sister, resting his elbows on the table. “No matter how fanatical they are, they will not keep their composure after their homeworld goes up in flames, with their so-called Great Leader impaled atop the ruins. They will lose heart and break, or lash out in anger. Either way, an easier prey to hunt down, and if they are as centralized as you claim they are, it will also greatly disrupt their supply lines.”

“I expect these Titan legions will answer to the command authority of my or your Legion, correct?” Came the reply, “I do not want the Mechanicum’s ‘god engines’ running amok amongst my worlds and my people, you understand. The world of Furinyaz-III is my recommendation. It was amongst the first taken in the incursion, and the invaders have dug into our own fortifications in the region outside of its primary starport. Progress has been somewhat slow, as… my own creations work against me, it seems.” She smiled a thin, grim smile. “I suppose it is firsthand evidence, at least, that my defenses are as effective as I had hoped. Order the Titans to spearhead a new assault on these defenses - I would prefer the starport remain intact, but the arrival of Titan grade ordnance should accelerate the defeat of their defensive formations in the region by approximately 57%.”

She remained silent for a moment, thinking, before she spoke, her tone shifting to one radically different than the previous analytical and numerically focused ones. “Tell me, brother, of your homeworld.”

Without pause for his response she continued. “Many of our kin think me a fool - or a traitor, even, for my devotion to my people. The likes of our ‘brother’ Sarghaul and his Abyssal Lurkers or Veritas Res and his Truthlayers, they leave worlds devastated in their wake. None of them pay heed to the future, to the need for our Imperium to be prosperous after war. War is all they know. War is all they believe in. Tell me, brother, I know the basics of your upbringing, I can read reports of your world - but would you fight for them? Would you stand against your kin to protect them, or those from another world? Do you believe, like I, that we fight for the people of the Imperium and to sacrifice their lives and wellbeing for a faster resolution to a war is the true treachery?”

Salazar said nothing for a few seconds, before a smile crept up his face, ice-cold blue eyes watching with sincere interest. "One thing at a time, dear sister. I shall tell you about my home. And then, I will answer your many questions."
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Gloriana Class Battleship Ultus-Solis
High Orbit Anchor Over 20-63. Locally known as Praxia


The Ultus-Solis turned with the world below, keeping the sensor-scrambling surge of heat and light from the system’s sun at its back for now. This gave 20-63 the illusion of static behavior from the Citadel-observation deck of the Battleship, the vast ocean of the world’s Western hemisphere sphere sparkling in what would be its midday sun.

Unusually, Sekhmetara rested alone, reclining on a cushioned bench made for her inhumanly grand physiology, her eyes on the dataslate in her hand as opposed to the cosmic view. Her mind blitzed through the information available, a task she had done several times since the alert had reached her fleet. 20-63, known by the locals as Praxia, had seemed to be a routine compliance, notable only in its ease of transition. A splinter fleet of her own expeditionary fleet had encountered the planet while scouting for offshoots of the Xenos enemy she had still been engaged in scouring from 20-62. The local leadership had been more than willing to incorporate into the Imperium and the society had needed only limited restructuring and no deployment of Astartes forces. That was until a recent uprising on the planet that had seen much of the traditional ruling caste murdered, along with the Imperial administrators which had begun to initiate full compliance. The sudden turn had been something unexpected. What had been far more worthy of note was the technological capability employed by the uprising, several stages beyond what had previously been observed in use by the inhabitants. Enough to threaten even Astartes forces on the ground. What the rebels had perhaps not counted on was the proximity of not one, but two, Legion Expeditionary fleets as reports of the revolution reached Imperial command, passed on in dire warning by the last survivors of the Administration on the world, likely now presumed dead.

Initially, Sekhmetara did not wish for support from another Legion, while 20-63 had been brought into compliance by only a recon splinter of her own fleet, and without any of her Legion taking part, it was still a world brought into the fold under a digital signature at least associated with her. She specialized in ensuring enduring loyalty to the Imperium, this was her problem to solve. That was until the identity of the reinforcing fleet had been revealed to her. The Serpents, Nelchitl. It had been too long since she had met with one of her favored siblings, and she relished the reunion, even under the circumstances. She set aside the dataslate, and rose in a shimmer of silk, the gown she wore wafting gently around her form as she closed the distance between herself and the observation glass, her fingers pressing to it as she examined the world beyond. Serene in its axis. A slight grin tugged at her features as she considered how long this serenity would survive the vengeful rage of two daughters of the Emperor united.

“Sire, we are detecting warp-transition at the system’s edge, hail-codes are responsive.” The voice of one of the Mithran deck officers aboard the Bridge chimed in her ear. She spent relatively little time while deployed aboard the Ultus-Solis, preferring instead to lead from her De-Facto Flagship, The Ashanti. It was a smaller battleship, more suited to the rapid turn of warfare she orchestrated. The crew here were more reverent with her, as befitting a ship that functioned more as her mobile palace and bastion than steed of war.
“My sister?” She responded simply, her eyes remaining on the planet as her hand withdrew from the glass.

“Yes Sire, Enemy emplacements are also tracking their entry.” Such a gesture was futile for the moment, the rebels had their hands on dubiously advanced technology, but they remained a substantial threat only to craft in Low-orbit. The edge of the solar system was undoubtedly well beyond the effective range of all but their most advanced weaponry, which could not be fired in substantial enough payload to convincingly reach any targets through the Imperium’s countermeasures. Every now and then the void shields of her own fleet, remaining at High-Orbit, would flare as brief impacts made it through the web of interlocking countermeasures, but never enough to risk damage to even the shields themselves.

“Ready the ship to accept them.” Sekhmetara turned as she spoke, in another elegant swirl of silken robes, her bare feet padding on the carpeted deck as she made her way to leave and prepare.

Hours Later

Sublight travel across a solar system was not a sudden affair, and so by the time the Expeditionary fleet the Serpents had arrived with and meshed with that of the Tears, preparations for a reunion of Legions had been made for some time. The largest, and grandest, of the Ultus-Solis’ landing bays, resplendent in Mithran artifice of orange, gold and brown, had been a hive to activity. The upper gangways had been cleared for the remembrancers and artificers attached to the fleet so that they might spectate the grand event, while the deck itself was lined with cohorts of the Tears of Dawn and their Auxilia allies. They did not attend in as large a number as could have been present within the space, as some of her siblings might have, robbing all sense of personal intimacy from the reunion. Instead, she had handpicked notable formations from the last campaign on 20-62, favoring newer members of the fleet who had blooded themselves well in their first actions.

At the forefront of the gathering of might, the primarch herself stood in her warplate, the predominantly black armour, highlighted with golds and emblazoned in places with orange and red. Her inner circle stood with her, an eclectic group of figures of varying builds. Two were true female astartes, her First Captain in her own plate coloured to match her Primarch, her Chief Librarian in the more traditional orange plate of the Legion. Alongside them, the rather more human and male individual, Kvasi Khafre, garbed in the uniform of the Imperial Questoris rather than the robes of a Mithran noble. He was tall and solidly built for a human, but remained decidedly the shorter of the four.

“I should invest in stilts.” He mumbled to Sekhmetara as they stood at the head of the procession, awaiting the immediate arrival of the Serpents, adjusting some of the service medals pinned to his chest, his thick Mithran accent cloying harmoniously across the Low Gothic words. “That, or I could simply attend all these in hunter’s skein.” The Mithran term for the Questoris suits still caused some amount of tribulation among the more inflexible of the Imperium.

“Such tricks are beneath you brother, I know you have enough pride in you to more than make up for such silly practicalities of physical existence,” Sekhmetara whispered back, her face barely moving in the process, her lips in a slight smirk. In the next moment, the preparatory claxons sounded, the initial layer of armoured plating retracting to open the vast expanse of the landing bay to the void, the atmosphere held in by the shielding.

Within the Stormbird Tzompantli the Primarch of the XVII Legion stood resplendent in her battle plate. Newly restored from the fighting on Arel, Nelchitl’s armor shimmered without the faintest blemish to give away the combat it had just endured. Dim red running lights revealing only freshly painted and polished plate that any mortal would gaze upon in awe. The Stormbird turned gracefully as it approached the Ultus-Solis, the unmistakable transition of an integrity shield giving away the fact that they had entered into the Gloriana’s hold even before the pilots voice sounded in Nelchitl’s ear to tell her what she already knew.

A sense of thrill filled Nelchitl’s senses as the Stormbird touched down gently on it’s landing legs and the engines began to power down. There was a hiss of hydraulics and a subtle release of locking mechanisms as the Stormbirds ramp slowly fell away. The thrill of what was to come only began to build as the ramp slowly lowered to the deck, revealing the magnificent interior of the Ultus-Solis. Before the ramp had fully lowered the honor guard of Serpents began their descent. The bulky figure of First Captain Nenetl in her terminator armor exited first followed closely by the form of Captain Mayalen, recently recovered from her wounds sustained in the final assault of the Arel capital and carrying a pride obvious to all even as she exited the Stormbird on a brand new augmetic leg.

Next was the Emerald Priestess herself followed closely behind by an unmistakably beautiful human female even in the presence of the two Primarchs. The woman wore a brilliant dress of emerald and was followed out of the stormbird by another pair of Astartes splendid in their turquoise armor, helmets in the crooks of their arms.

The newly painted and polished rising sun on Nelchitl’s chest plate appeared to be blazing as she entered the light of the embarkation deck, its vibrance only outdone by the smile of the demi-god that wore it as she laid eyes on her favorite sister.

“Sekhmetara! My sister! It has been too long!” Nelchitl boomed as she leapt off the final half of the ramp making the crossing to her sister and her retinue in a matter of seconds. Stopping before the group of Tears she surveyed them all in turn, watching as pride swelled in their eyes and they stood a little taller at the opportunity to represent their sisters in this meeting of beings beyond them. Her eyes passed over the figure of a human male and continued on as if he were no different than the assembled Astartes before her.

“What a host you have gathered, young too they seem.” she turned to look upon the two Captains she had brought with her and smiled as she laughed, “Nothing like the skeletons I drag around with me!” she turned back to her sister and motioned for the human woman to come to her side.

“Lady Catalina Cadaval, of House Cadaval, Questor Imperialis.” the woman introduced herself with a dignified curtsy to the Primarch of the XXth Legion, the emerald of the woman’s dress flowing softly as she did and wavy locks of brunette hair shimmering around her head as she rose to stand fully aloft at nearly equal height to that of Khafre.

“Would that I could fight alongside your ‘Skeletons’ on every planet.” Sekhmetara jibed in return, her face set in a beaming smile as she closed the remaining distance to her sister. First their forearms met in the respect sign of the warrior, before she pulled Nelchitl into an embrace, resting their foreheads together in an intimate familial greeting from the noble houses of Mithra. “It is always too long, and forever too short.” She spoke more softly, before stepping backwards, her smile turning on her sister’s entourage with the full force of a primach’s emotion. At the greeting from the human women, Sekhmetara’s already infectious good mood seemed to extend further. “An honour, my lady. The Questor Imperialis are held in the highest respect here.” She replied, before inclining her head towards her adoptive brother, who closed his fist over his chest in a dignified salute.

“Lord Kvasi Khafre, Questor Imperialis.” On technicality, her brother had rejected his rightful mantle as Lord of their Household upon his decision to ‘ride’ with Sekhmetara’s first expeditionary fleet from Mithra, and while by all official Imperial accounts his leadership of the Knights Lances was synonymous, such was not the case in Mithran culture. While more martially dressed than his counterpart, the smooth coal of his skin and intricate braiding of his hair more than spoke for his noble heritage.

As the introductions were made, the cohorts of the Tears on the deck turned in lockstep, both saluting the primarchs and clearing an overly generous channel for them to reach the exit from the landing bay, the excitement of the motion seeming to pass through the crowds of remembrancers above, albeit in a far less organised fashion.

“As ever, we have a war to plan.” Sekhmetara spoke, motioning with one arm down the column of space, offering her sister the first stride to the exit.

“Such is the price of the things we do for Father, for the Imperium.” Nelchitl responded quietly to her sister before the two stepped away from their embrace. Stealing a glance back at her Captains, Nelchitl could not help but notice the liveliness in their steps as they attempted to hide the swelling of pride they felt at the Primarch of the XXths words.

“Careful Sister, you may steal some of my best if you keep up your praise.” Nelchitl quipped as the two Captains made their way up to the group.

Quietly turning her head to Khafre she smiled and let out a laugh of amusement, “That you still stand since the last time we met is a tribute to your abilities, though I must admit that it was never in question given your position. I feel the Lady here and you will have much to learn from one another.” Nelchitl responded directly to her sister's adopted brother. Turning her attention back to Sekh she nodded in agreement and took great pleasure in leading the two out through the perfect formation of Tears before them.

The War Room of the Ultus-Solis was perhaps not quite as grand as one who knew the Primarch of the Tears of Dawn by reputation alone might expect. The stylised ambience associated with Mithran culture was still present, but in a more understated, personal way. The central holoith dominated the room, with furnishings all around for an intimate inner circle of Astartes and other such officers to speak their piece in the waging of war. Refreshments were always well stocked beforehand, reducing the need for any unnecessary hangers on, but also serving to highlight a sense of equality among those present. No one waited on anyone, within Sekhmetara’s most private council.

The holoith projected a full image of 20-63, static in its placement as opposed to accounting for rotation. The even blue light of the projection picking out key details on the surface, from geographical notations to the known details of enemy forces. 20-63 was a world a few percent more aquatic than Terra during the bygone age of Humanity’s first forays into the stars, comprising a number of separate island-continents and smaller bodies of land.

“Bombardment is next to ineffective.” First Captain Ahonsa was the first to speak anything of tactical importance, motioning to the pin pricks marking out the urban centres of the world. “Whatever previously concealed artifice this rebellion has implemented, it includes void-shield technology to at least match our own, and they’ve projected them over the cities that have joined the uprising.” The First Captain’s hand drifting to note three green dots on the projection, marking out the only urban centres which had thus far remained loyal to the Imperium, already under desperate siege. “The Loyalist forces are outmatched, almost as badly as if they had attempted to fend off Astartes the first time we found this world.”

The use of ‘we’ brought a slight frown to Sekhmetara’s features, while she had accepted the slight to her pride in order to reunite with her sister and the Serpents, she was still deeply uncomfortable with the idea this new insurrection could be placed at her own feet, or even the Tears, and it took her force of will to not bring this petulant clarification up. “What our ships cannot reach, we must sweep clear then. A true war for the Astartes if there ever was one.”

Nelchitl sat reclined in a chair of such craftsmanship that she could practically feel its cushions through the ceramite of her armor. Absentmindedly she spun a small knife that had been provided with a dish of fruits around her forefinger and listened to the First Captain speak and the response from her sister. There were a great many questions lingering in her mind, though the want to actually ask them escaped the Primarch’s attention. Instead she inclined her head to that of her entourage, now augmented by the arrival of a second Stormbird and several human officers.
The first to speak up was Lord Commander Mandred Leben, a craggy old man of considerable weathering that even the best of the Mechanicum’s rejuvenat treatments could not erase. He leaned forward, the mass of metals on his chest clinking quietly as he did, “Though I have not an answer for the overall campaign, as too much remains yet unknown,” he shot a glance sideways to Nelchitl as he spoke, the implication of his comment threatening to boil over the Primarch’s relaxed visage as he insulted his sister so publicly, “what I can say for certain is that we must reinforce what we hold. To have to launch a planetary assault on such a formidable foe as this? Certainly would be worth far more than what I can give these holdouts in the next cycle.”

Nelchitl, not leaning forward from her position dug daggers into Leben with her eyes as she nodded approval at his suggestion.

Next to speak was her own First Captain, the Terminator armor hissing quietly as Nenetl raised a gauntleted fist to point at the next nearest cities to those of the remaining loyalists planetside, “Has the feasibility of an assault been tested? I could personally lead a capture mission on an outlying rebellious city, gain some breathing room for those we still hold.”

The eyes of the Primarch of the XX legion fell on the wizened human as he spoke. The famed golden orbs of her iris showing no obvious tells of her emotion at a response which came dangerously close to a rebuttal. The Tears of Dawn themselves were used to open dialogue within these chambers, but guests were so rarely among them here, it was a protocol all in of itself. The only noise for a few moments came from the humming of the hololith and the tink, tink of Sekhmetara's armoured fingers drumming on her own arm, before the Serpents' First Captain spoke.

"The only forces planetside, without including the Loyalists and whatever garrison forces may remain, are our recon teams." It was the Primach herself who answered the query, her eyes returning to the spherical map hovering in the air before them all. Her arms had been crossed before, but the gesture now seemed more guarded than casual, before she extended one gauntlet, flexing the fingers on her hand. The motion turned the world, before magnifying to a specific region, the world's equatorial island continent and home to the remaining three green dots, albeit with a fair number of red 'hostile' markers as well. Whatever the case, the Primach had not responded to the near-rebuke with either acceptance or rage.

"The main starport remains loyal to the Emperor, which is at least one blessing, we can set down whatever we require at least in this region." Ahonsa continued her appeasement of the details shown before them, one of the three green dots temporarily highlighted. "The rebels know this as well, as their greatest focus is currently set upon the city, Ilos. If we need to relieve pressure anywhere, it's there." The dark-skinned Astartes continued, her features almost miraculously free of scarring for one of her rank, in part due to the freshness of the title. Her hair, usually a stark white and styled in the war braids common among the tears, almost looked blue from the reflection of the Hololith.

"Very well, a test of their defences then." Sekhmetara spoke again. "The first wave of our deployment will reinforce the loyalist cities. First Captain Nenetl, the most pressing target to fall first is the city the locals know as Fios, its position allows them continuous bombardment of Ilos." As the Primach spoke, one of the red dots closest to the highlighted green point flared with an outline. Even on a digitised map, the distances seemed obviously proximate. "If my sister agrees, that is the first strike I believe you should make, The Adzera will support you, and I'm sure the Khafre Lance will be eager for the glory." Using the colloquial name of the Tears 6th Chapter, the Primach of the XX Legion moved another finger, adding the notation to the map, notably clearly marking the Serpents First Captain as the clear overall commander of the engagement.

Finally, the Primach's gaze settled on Leben once again, before, in a dangerously friendly tone, Sekhmetara asked, "If I may ask, my Lord, do you consider me a complete fool?"

“Of course Lord, the honor will be mine to lead such capable forces planetside. I assure you that you will not regret your choice.” First Captain Nenetl thanked the Primarch of the XXth before shrinking back into her seat as the demigod took on Lord Commander Leben’s seeming petulance.

The old man however, did not shrink at the comment, in fact there was barely a hint of any sort of reaction at all on the age-weathered features of his face as Sekhmetara brought her attention back to him. Though Nelchitl would have been delighted had Leben managed to hold his composure in any other situation, she was furious at the insult he had given her sister and she as well waited anxiously for his answer.

“Quite the contrary Lord.” Leben began as he sat a bit straighter in his seat, medals clinking as he did, “I think you a Primarch. A perfect being of war and diplomacy, molded by the Emperor’s hands in His image. I think you Fleetmaster of grand armadas that stride the cosmos themselves. The Head of 75,000 of the Emperor’s greatest warriors to ever live, and the leader of inexhaustible Auxilia.” he deigned his head at the hololith as he spoke, “I believe you in a position to awe a mortal such as myself with your strategic knowledge, your understanding of the world we sit silently above and the forces we call our enemies below.”

“You have not met many of my siblings, then, if you think such traits make us impervious to the odd foolishness.” Sekhmetara spoke flippantly, matching the man’s resolute nature in the face of her Emperor-crafted superiority with a casual nature as befitting their surroundings. “Your comments are noted, my Lord, and should I request or suggest such a broad action in one swoop, I shall hold your council in mind.” The Primach of the Tears of Dawn at last moved in full, taking one step and lowering herself onto one of the available seats designed for a Primach’s build, her hand wafting through the air again to pull the holographic display back to a full display of the world.

“I have been given no reason to doubt your capability, First Captain, and I do not anticipate any action upon this world showing me otherwise. While you test their defences, I believe my sister and I shall have to see to the defence of the Starport, loathe as I am sure we both are to such war, it is paramount to the war effort should we wish to land the entirety of our forces. My Legion’s aeronautical formations will keep the enemy on their toes planetwide, while we forge a ‘beachhead,” She spoke now with the imperious authority she was known for, albeit not among the more personable quarters within which they currently sat, at the last moment, dipping her head towards her sister. “Unless you have any suggestions?”

Nelchitl sat silent for a moment as her sister gave her a chance to make any motions of her own, but instead she waved a dismissive gauntleted hand at the thought, “Anything that I could suggest would merely burden your plans, simply point me at what needs to die or be ours instead of theirs and it shall be done.” Nelchitl offered before sitting up fully in her seat. She quietly surveyed her officers and held her gaze on Commander Leben just a brief moment longer than the rest before she was satisfied that none had anything to add.

Planetfall

The war began with as much force and severity as could be expected of the two aggressive legions spearheading the assault. The greater portion of the assault touched down in Ilos. A defensive action in name, neither Legion, or their primarch, was inclined to sit back or dig in. The surge of force and movement became a counterattack rushing to sweep the besieging forces away, the air roaring with the engines and firepower of Stormbirds and Thunderhawks as the wrath of the Emperor was brought down on those who rejected his word.

Under the cover of the vast arsenal of firepower unleashed and the more than distracting presence of two Primarch’s in the field, a splinter force of the assembled legions and their supportive forces diverged from the initial objective, striking at the smaller nearby city of Fios. Situated much higher on the slopes of one of the world’s few mountain ranges, it’s position in rebel hands had allowed continued bombardment of the loyalist city. Unfortunately for the rebels, terrain was no great bastion against the fury of the Astartes. The first strike would no doubt have to be fast and brutal, carving out a significant portion of the city to allow for the Knight Lances to be dropped into position.

In most cases, any member of the Tears of Dawn would be loath to find themselves beneath the direct command of any Captain from another legion, perhaps seeing it as a blow to their martial pride. The bond between the Tears and the Serpents, while not the most ancient of Legionary relations, was fierce. Every Astartes-Sister assigned to the command of the Serpents First Captain was as dedicated to showing her the strength of the Legion as they would be to any of their own commanders. This was no different for Captain Bahati Khafre as her forces blazed into Fios. The young captain felt not only the urge of all sisters of her Legion to prove the capability of the Tears despite the generally small scale of the Legion, but also the weight of her dynastic name. She was the only member of her sire’s adoptive family to be young enough to join the Legion, and each day sought to prove herself and her bloodline anew. Right now, her task was to move in support of the Serpents main thrust into the city. As was common for the rites of war the Tears held most dear, the encarmine forces of Mithra’s Legion had struck deep into rebel territory, deploying via air assault to cripple key installations while their sisters in The Serpents of the Sun acted as a more decisive, crushing strike. Bahati’s company, the 5th of the 6th Chapter, had destroyed the first of the enemy macro-anti-air cannon bastions, paving the way for the bulky dropships of the Knights Questoris to make an approach. Now they simply needed to fight their way through fierce enemy resistance to unite with the main force.

The marines, emblazoned in the orange and gold of their legion, pushed through the besieged city with great speed and purpose, sycthing through enemy formations before they even knew the threat was at their back. The foul xenos-like technology of the foe enabled them to pose great risk to even Astartes, sleek energy based weapons which hummed with a force similar to their own plasma guns, and discharging bolts of power just as fearsome. Ultimately, however, those they had fought so far were still rebels, disillusioned armed militia. For all the advanced technology they had, they crumpled beneath the advance of the Tears, particularly while caught unawares. The sky above the Legionnaires still screamed with the jet engines of Stormbirds, the gunships venting the Imperium’s ire on the city continuously, preventing the enemy from moving into position to threaten the isolated pockets of Tears of Dawn forces before they could reunite with the Serpents. It was not a strategy without risk to their pilots, and Bahati momentarily threw herself into cover within a crumpled ruin of a building as a gunship detonated in the air above her forces, streaking the streets below with superheated metal and plasma. The Tears were masters in aeronautical warfare, however, and such events were rare.

“Two minutes until contact, Captain.” The vox system within her helm relaid the message from a passing Thunderhawk tracking their motion along with the allied forces they were fighting towards.

“My thanks, hunt well, Sister.” She voxed her own response, before redirecting the tactical alert to her whole company. Unusually, the majority of her forces were on foot or equipped with assault jetpacks, the longer form of their jetbikes less useful within the tight confines of mountain city. At the brief command passed to them, as a whole they reloaded, preparing to engage with the greater bulk of the enemy forces. A moment later, and with a leonine roar of combustive jetpacks, the Tears of Dawn surged into the fray.

The flames of a burning Land Raider licked at Captain Nenetl’s Terminator armor as she took a moment to reload behind its shattered carcass. Several bolts of energy from the rebels down the thoroughfare slammed into the blazing wreck with force enough to shake it slightly where it had died and the First Captain took pause at the fearsome power of the weapons they faced. Turning her attention back to the task at hand she quickly surveyed the status of the First Company before emerging from behind the wreckage of the Land Raider with her bolter barking at the positions down the road. Several of the closest of her Sisters joined her as she made her advance on the rebels’ positions, adding the fierce sounds of their bolters to the already deafening din of combat raging within Fios. In moments the rebels at the end of the road were nothing more than suggestions of organics plastered within the blasted out buildings they had used as their ambush positions.

Displeased at the loss of a Land Raider, Nenetl voxed for the column behind her to dismount the rest of the Fourth Company to push the assault on foot, leaving the Land Raiders behind the thick of the fighting. There were no dissenting responses to the order, and Nenetl smiled as the full weight of a second Fighting Company of her sisters was added to the already nigh unstoppable First Companies Terminators.

As her Terminators advanced with her, the First Captain received a packet of encrypted vox traffic from the fleet in low orbit above. With pride and a hint of rivalry in her voice she opened a vox connection to both companies close enough to receive from her suits caster, “Sisters, the Tears report destruction of the anti-air batteries further within Fios! The Knights descend from above as I speak, and our sisters in the Tears close on our position with every passing second, don’t let their glory outshine that of the Fifth Sun!” In response to these words her helmet was flooded with the animated responses of more than a thousand Astartes practically in unison, “For the Fifth Sun!” they bellowed as the Serpents cleaved their way further into the city.

A bolt of energy burst harmless on the pauldron of Nenetl’s armor as she relished in the war cries of her sisters and dispatched the rebel that had dared to fire upon her without even a stutter in her step. The report of her bolter and the ever present whine of Stormbird and Thunderhawk engines above were drowned out by the hiss of static as a line was opened between the Serpents First Captain and that of the Tears Fifth. Silence lasted for only a moment as the connection stabilized and Nenetl surveyed the newest obstacle her Serpents would face ahead of her.

A wide parade avenue stretched perpendicular to the Serpents’ direction of advance, some 600 meters across and littered with the wrecks of civilian and military vehicles alike. On the far side of the avenue hab blocks of considerable height stood vigil over the Serpents’ only approach across it, the rebels' energy weapons and a considerable detachment of far heavier weapons reaching out across the open area to bring death to the halted line of Serpent Terminators and Astartes.

“Captain Khafre, we have met heavy resistance,” within her helmet Nenetl spun a three dimensional holoprojection of the area, marking out the positions of the rebels on the far side of the avenue and those of her own Serpents, “I believe that your sisters would be most successful in taking the rebel positions across from our own. How you do it is yours to decide, you know yours better than I.” a round of something far heavier than a bolter round exploded against the
wall a few meters from Nenetl, showering her in debris and hot shards of rebar.

“Though whatever you decide, make it fast Captain.”

Bahati paused only to vox a code based affirmative to the First Captain of the Serpents, before her company set itself into action. The enemy position was heavily defended, but largely focused on the more overt force of the Serpents First Company bearing down on them. The Tears would exploit their corridor of focus.

Even over the cacophony of battle, the roar of a company’s worth of jetpacks surging into life carried over the war torn streets of the city as the Tears of Dawn leapt into the sky. Each became a mote of light and a centre of motive force as they lunged upwards, only to crash down in a shudder of weight and power.

The first to move were the Support Squads, their jump packs used to power them into firing positions among the taller buildings overlooking the enemy emplacement. Those in these squads equipped with bolters soon turned to clearing enemy resistance found among them, while the rest, shifted rotor-cannons into position, the heavier plates of their modified armour locking into place, before the weapons began to blaze away. The faces to the buildings they occupied erupted into a cascade of power as the rapid firing weapons bore down into the enemy emplacement, ripping apart human, rocrete and lighter armour at the surge of suppressive fire. The support squads were firing even as the majority of their sisters were still in the air, keeping the enemy from being able to turn their weapons upon this new threat even as the main descent began.

Bahati Khafre slew one of the prominent looking foes among the enemy position simply by landing upon him, the mortal’s body compacting in a spray of arterial gore as they came apart beneath the sudden application of her ceramite bulk. Before those around her first target could react, two more of them were bisected, the curved blade of her power-ankh passing through them with a sizzling flare of the power field. All around her and among the enemy, the assault squads of her company were crashing into the enemy. The retort of bolt pistols and angry roar of chainswords heralding the slaughter that commenced. The enemy here were heavily armed and armoured, but not close to enough to shrug off Astartes assault squads on initial impact. Perhaps given time they might be able to reorganise and fend them off, but the Tears were not striking alone, they simply needed to hold the enemy’s attention for long enough for the Serpents to catch up.

Thoughts of the wider tactical situation were momentarily pushed from Bahati’s mind as a surge of green energy wafted past her. Even without striking her, the cogitatal display of her helm registered dangerous heat exposure, and the bolt crashed into one of her sisters as she landed, turning even the Astartes armour liquid and annihilating her on first impact. Bahati’s eyes traced the arc of fire to one of the enemy’s heavy guns, having been turned swiftly to face the flanking assault of the Tears. Bahati snarled, before unleashing a warcry over the vox system, and leaping forwards, a cry that her whole company soon echoed.

“For Aurelia! For the Emperor!”

From her position across the avenue Nenetl watched the brutal opening of the Tear’s assault on the hab block with a sense of pride welling in her chest at the chance to share such moments with her sisters in the name of the Emperor and the Imperium. There was a sudden and expected lull in the volume of fires reaching out across the parade avenue and Nenetl had no need to vox orders for what came next.

The Serpents, battered by the entrenched positions but not yet broken, surged forth across the avenue. Bolters barked and distorted war cries resonated from the vox amplifiers on the suits of hundreds of Asartes as they covered the distance in mere moments. Their movement covered by the glow of plasma and detonation of heavy bolter rounds from Devastator squads, and aided by the confusion being sown into the enemy by the Tear’s assault, Nenetl and her companies were across the gap with only a handful of losses to show.

Nenetl grinned in satisfaction as a squad of Astartes from the Second Company made entry into the nearest hab-block and the interior lit up with bolter fire. Not wanting to miss out on the action herself, Nenetl and another of the First Company Terminators pushed hard for the nearest wall adjacent to what appeared to be an entrenched heavy weapons system that was still answering the Serpent’s advance with iridescent death.

The wall of the hab-block gave way easily to the powered forms of two Terminators as they simply ran through the minor obstacle. Debris still falling around her, Nenetl mag-locked her bolter to her thigh and shrugged the lightning claws from their rails in her gauntlets as if second nature. Her helmet display easily cut through the dark interior of the hab and outlined the enemies just meters from where she entered the room and the First Captain was quick to cover the short distance to them. Letting her lightning claws loose on those foolish enough to betray the Imperium, the Nenetl and the second of her Terminators left the heavy weapons team in ribbons and the weapon itself in a similar state.

The blades of her lightning claws sizzling as the fresh blood boiled upon them, Nenetl opened the vox between herself and Captain Khafre once more, “My Serpents take the hab interior and we continue our push onward for the city center.” she began as she calmly burst through a wall into another room and let her lightning claws loose on a second group of unsuspecting traitors, “My gratitude for the assist Captain.” She cut the vox as she pushed into a long hallway and began her advance on a barricade at the far end of the hall, iridescent energy beams reaching out to greet her as she unlocked her bolter from her thigh in answer.

Angels on High

The dropship shuddered violently as it made its combat descent towards Fios. Catalina had been on drops before, far too many to count at this point, but even still she fought down the sinking feeling in her stomach as she sat reliant on another to get her to the battlefield below. She took solace in the fact that at the very least she was at the helm of Paramis, the Throne Mechanicum humming behind her as she pulled up a scrolling list of information on her retina. She felt the familiar sinking feeling in her stomach loosen as she flash read the information scrolling by, two of her Knight’s Paladin had already made it to ground and were almost immediately engaged with a small formation of enemy tanks, and she herself would be joining them in less than a minute if the data readout was correct.

The interior lights of the dropship’s bay changed from a cool amber to blood red as the disconnected and careless voice of a servitor began to count down to deployment. “Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve,” it rasped as Catalina ran one last check of all of Paramis’ systems even though she had done so a hundred times over up to this moment, “Nine, eig--” the servitors voice shifted suddenly to agonized screaming as the far wall of the dropship tore open in a hail of spalling and liquified armor. For a moment Catallina watched in awe as the tear in the ship ripped down into the decking and traveled across the bulkhead exposing a rift to what could be compared to something like hell below the dropship as beams of crisscrossing energy and explosions filled the small window into the battle taking place beneath her.

“Drop drop drop.” came the disconcertingly calm voice of the dropship’s pilot over Catalina’s vox link while she watched in morbid amazement as the tear in the hull yawned open and the bow of the dropship began to peel away from its aft section. Her eyes stuck on the unfolding demise of the dropship Catalina felt a sudden and overwhelming need to jump as Paramis made it’s desire known.

Catalina fell, the storied honor banners of a hundred battles burning and smouldering as the Scion of House Cadaval and her machine dropped the final fifty or so meters to the earth below the dropship. She landed hard enough to be thrown forward in her throne, the neural sockets connected to the ancient machine throbbing in pain as they pulled and strained with her sudden motion. Paramis groaned as the Paladin rose to its full height, the dropship crashing to the ground in two separate explosions of fire and metal behind the impressive piece of Imperial technology as it sounded its warhorn above the cacophony.

Catalina received a short data burst as the remainder of her Court touched down nearby, an unmistakable grin spreading across the Scion’s features as she picked out a tank platoon on auspex and acquired a target lock.

“Paramis, engaged.” she voxed to her cohort along with an encrypted data packet containing an updated axis of advance on House Cadaval’s main objectives.

“Huntsmaster, the dropship containing the Paramis is enflamed.” The voice broke Kvasi from his enforced meditation, the calming rest before the storm. He sat within his own Throne Mechanicus, the data stream of the battle rushing to his mind even as he pulled himself from the centering of his mind and body. Even through the filter of vox transmission, the voice tone was notably level. A priority alert from one of the Tech Priest adjutants of his own vessel. His mind drifted to his brief meeting with Catalina prior to the war council. That would be a real shame. Thoughts of both the tactical situation and the particularly flattering cut of her emerald gown with the same thought.

“Confirmed engagement?” He spoke back, rolling his form within the tight confines of his vast warsuit, the Questoris knight mirroring the motion, albeit in a less fluid flexing of its shoulder mounted pauldrons.

“Yes, Huntsmaster, two….reconfirm, three House Cadaval vox-codes transmitting. Enemy engagement confirmed, hostile positions moving to respond, cordone established.” The tech priest adjusted their report mid flow with only a minor delay to account for the adjusting stream of data.

“Very well, adjust landing vectors for skyshatter drop, transmit new orders to the Lance.”

“By your will, Hunstmaster.”

At the mechanical tone of confirmation, Kvasi allowed himself a grin. No doubt the tech priests would lecture him again about the unnecessary risk of his favoured method of attack, but they did not have the call of war in their ears, the ghosts of centuries of Huntsmasters clamoring at them through the arcane code of the Throne Mechanicus. One could only restrain them so much. When he spoke next, it was to each and every member of his lance about to deploy.

“Bring the sky down on them.”

“Aye, Huntsmaster.” The call returned to him at once, before with all affirmatives acknowledged, the doctrine was put into place. It was not simply his sister’s Legion which favoured wrath from the air. A cogitator chimed once, twice, thrice, before the floor itself gave away, opened to the ground below. With a surge of motion, Kvasi Khafre and his warsuit, Ikenga dropped into the air below.

Even through the Throne Mechanicus, air and noise ripped at Kvasi, the speeding form of his dropship already roaring past him, practically throwing the precious ancient knight-suit like a projectile at the enemy it banked low over. The full weight of the suit slammed into the top of one of the enemy vehicles, pulping metal and the humans within in an instant. The force slammed the knight to one knee, but suit and pilot rose with a warcry and blast of warhorn. Ikenga’s right arm was unique, the limb fashioned into a colossal ankh, the blade of nobility from Mithra and its moons, the vast sword slicing through another enemy before the warsuits left arm, the churning assault cannon, ripped apart the front face of a hab block from which he was taking insignificant small arms fire, a contemptuous gesture of wrath in the face of ants.

“My Lady, we request to join your hunt, the killing here seems plentiful.” His vox opened up to address Paramis as his knight suit identified the foremost of the allied knights nearby, and its noble pilot’s survival.

Catalina turned in her cockpit as she tracked a volley of tank shells racing over the battlefield toward her, the battlesuit around her turning in tune with its pilot. With a simple thought she reoriented her ion shield to meet the incoming rounds as easily as she breathed. The several of the tank shells missed altogether, but two crews seemed to find their aim as a round whizzed harmlessly off the ion shell and up into the sky above Paramis shortly followed by the second shell being redirected in a similar manner.

With a short burst from her battle cannon Catalina watched as the rounds found their marks and the platoon of tanks met their end. Her mind once more pulled away from the sight of her handiwork, Catalina focused on a series of hab-blocks nearly three kilometers away. Auspex readings streamed into her mind and wire overlays automatically placed themselves over the form of a tank and several mechanized vehicles flittering between the structures.

“Lord Khafre,” she responded as she let off a loose volley of shells at the habs, “There is no need to ask, prey is plentiful and the killing easy.” she laughed with the laughter of a hundred of her ancestors echoing in her mind as a vehicle burst into flames with the hits of her first volley.

Catalina transmitted a quick data burst to the Lord Khafre and pinged her Court to form for an urban assault through the hab-blocks ahead.

“With you, my Lady.” came a swift response from the first of her Court, Stella Invicta, quickly followed by the response of the pilot of the Absentia. Sifting through the battle data in the breadth of a second Catalina decided that the portion of her Lance committed to the assault was operating effectively and required little need for her own personal direction.

She grinned, Paramis blaring it’s warhorn as Absentia and Stella Invicta rushed past her on either side, their battle cannons firing as they did. Falling into a loping run at the center of her Court, Catalina processed the information streaming through the Throne at a dizzying rate while they neared the habs. The vehicles were shifting and disappearing behind the buildings, and several were futally holding their ground and beginning to fire back. But the strangest of all was the hab-blocks, a handful of which were showing heat signatures too hot to be empty. “Care be taken ahead, I will not lose a Knight here to overzealousness,” she felt the disappointment of the minds of the pilots before her washing over her own thoughts, their desire for destruction and victory failing to overwhelm the Scion’s own desires, “but bring the Emerald Priestess her hearts!” she yielded to the Throne.

The Mithran Knights continued to strike like hammerblows into the stone and chrome of the city, leaping from their descent craft in terrifying displays of force and agility to bring their wrath to the enemy. Ikenga had been the first Mithran Questoris to land among the foe, but soon the whole Lance was in motion, forming up behind Paramis and its Court as they pushed forwards to their collective objective. The warsuits of the Mithran Questoris movies with the fluid gait of hunters and predators both, holding behind the wedge of their knightly allies as they closed the distance. As the Paramis detected the anomalous heat signatures, Ikenga’s own suite of sensors picked up the same impending threat, chiming in the mind of its pilots. Checking the advance of the knights wasn’t an option, for both reasons of pride and expedience.

“Bondsmen, preysight, targets adjacent. Good hunting.” The mind impulse Kvasi pushed into the lesser suits of his bonded armiger retainers flooded between Ikenga and the smaller questoris walkers. The tactical information and order preceded his words by microseconds, the latter a sign of the social bond the Huntsmaster kept with his retainers, the former the necessity of war. Even more so than the Knights honorbound to him, the Armigers were unable to disobey, the weaker machine spirits within their suits entirely overcome by the will of Ikenga and it’s pilot. The fact each would willingly follow the Huntsmaster into the fires of any conflict was entirely incidental.

“Acknowledged, Huntsmaster.” The voice of Bondsmen Elyssa nevertheless, confirmed the acceptance of the order, before the pair of Helverin Warsuits veered off. Even more agile than their Questoris masters, the Armiger suits spun on a dime to rush down a narrow side street, the crackle of their autocannons shredding the present enemy attempting to avoid the presence of the heavier knights. Once in position, the armiger’s lunged upwards into the air, with a surge of hydraulic pistons, the twenty foot tall warmachines crashed through the side of the hablock, rockrete turning to powder beneath the sudden force. Even as the building shook, the crack of their autocannons resumed as the warsuits plowed forwards. Designed to withstand the full extent of natural disaster, the hablocks swayed but did not break from the damage caused and the presence of the Armiger’s as they moved through them, hunting down the source of the potential threat.

As the second Armiger lunged from one hablock to the next, it was momentarily lit up by a surge of green energy, the powerful blast enough to stall its forward motion, rip through it’s shielding and scour the metal beneath. With a heavy clatter, the wounded suit crashed back down to the streets below. A costly loss, even if it would not prove fatal, but in turning the concealed heavy weaponry on the bounding armiger, the enemy had exposed their ambush to the remaining armiger as well as the Knights themselves from afar.

Bondsmen Elyssa’s suit was more fortunate, the agile warrior and warsuit able to sidestep the secondary shot, before opening up with both autocannons into the enemy hidden implacement. Rebels scattered to dive into suitable cover or bring more of the larger, Knight-Killer, weapons around to bear on the armiger. It was not a firefight the lone armiger would win, but that was not the aim, instead, Elyssa looked to hold their attention so the Knight lances might survive unscathed.

Pushing their way into the hab-block, the Knights of Cadaval unleashed fire and fury into the seemingly unordered retreat of the rebels. Tanks died, throwing their turrets into nearby buildings as their munitions cooked off in devastating explosions. Armored personnel carriers erupted in flame as fire from the Knights swept over them, their helpless passengers and crew stumbling from their carcasses engulfed in flames.

Catalina allowed Paramis a moment of satisfaction as she crushed an anti-armor weapon beneath her feet, her ancestors content with the simple brutality of the act she felt their minds pulling back from her own.

Several buildings over, Margrave Sebastián Torres of the Absentia was prosecuting his own personal war. Auspex read the locations of the heat signatures just forward his position, and if his datalink read correctly, so too were the positions of two of the Mithran Armigers, one still functioning and within the building itself. He blink stored the breadth of the tactical data to his cogitators for review once combat had ceased and felt his Machine move as if anticipating what he was to do next.

With the practiced precision of decades of experience hooked into a Throne, Absentia’s massive chainsword swept through the wall of the hab-block, turning rockrete, steel, rebels, and weapons to dust and gore as it swept through the length of the building passing narrowly out of range of the Mithran bondsmen within. With a thought he captured the name of the Armiger and pilot as he continued past the building and relayed a closed impulse to continue their assault to the surviving war machine.

Around Absentia the city was alight with the flaming hulks of armor and heavy weapons. A beam of some sort reached out to touch the Knight but deflected off of the crackling energy shield as an answering volley of rounds met the weapon with devastating effect. “Absentia reports victory, the rebels are crushed.”

“Invicta reports the same, the traitors are shattered. Bondsmen harass their withdrawal but are holding for your commands my Lady.”

Catalina felt the elation of victory flowing through her Throne but did not let it cloud her mind, there was still fighting to be done here. Of that she had no doubt.

“Consolidate and continue the assault.” she quickly answered with a databurst to her Court. She opened a private vox and directed her attention to the Lord Khafre, “Unless you have other plans, you are free to remain in step with the Knights of Cadaval.” she offered as her augors picked up further targets consolidating within the city ahead of her.
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Central Spire
Delos Hive, 20-63 [Praxia]


The death wrought throughout the final bastion of traitorous resistance within Delos Hive was astounding. Her daughters lay in scores, crumpled and unmoving, with the number of Imperial Army surrounding them far more than Nelchitl was comfortable counting. The numbers crunched in the mind of the Emerald Priestess were nearly enough to dampen her mood as she stormed forward in a flurry of death at those traitors fool enough to meet a Primarch in direct combat. She swung her massive chainsword in a sweeping ark in front of her, eviscerating a cohort of armored humans in the strange power armor that many of them further into the final hive spire were equipped with. She revved the chainsword, its teeth spinning wildly as she did, freeing bits of armor and flesh alike as she finished the math in her mind and despaired at the losses her Daughters and the human Auxilia must be suffering storming the last sanctum in the hive.

Her vox crackled into life, filling her helmet with the distorted voice of a man in the midst of combat. “The 250th is halted in--” the transmission was drowned out by the sounds of massed gunfire and a sizable explosion that Nelchitl could feel through the soles of her armor, “--assistance required urgentl--” the transmission cut completely and the Primarch found her already burning rage stoked further at the thought of the Emperor’s chosen in such desperate need.

“Communications, get me the last station's location. Send me the 31st Company at all haste, and reroute the nearest Exertus forces to assist at once.”

There was a curt response and a data burst quickly streamed into the Emerald Priestess’ helmet.

Nelchitl felt an unusual emotion welling in her chest as anxiety began to grip her. She continued to fight, felling groups of the armored traitors in flashes of plasma and brutal strikes of her chainsword. All the while she brooded on the happenings about this world. Her daughters were heavily engaged at every turn, House Cadaval; lauded and venerable; had lost several of their exalted machines, and there seemed no end to the engagement as the Imperial forces inched forward into the traitors bleeding for every step. Their numbers were great, their equipment advanced and unknown even to the Tech Priests of Mars, their tactics seemingly hand-tailored to counter the armored shock tactics of the Emperor’s Angels. The depth of betrayal on 20-63, on Praxia, was beyond the scope that Nelchitl had ever thought possible in her Emperor’s Imperium.

There was far more going on here than so seemed. She required answers, she required more forces; more ships, more equipment, and more men. She crunched the numbers and silently relished in the short releases of violence as she tore her way forward. More than anything, she required the guidance of her Sister.

Opening a private vox line directly to the Huntress. Nelchitl spoke quickly, the frustration in her voice evident, “Sister, we must end this at once. We take far too many losses, my committed companies are becoming no more than tatters. I fear your daughters fare much the same.” a coded data-burst would be sent between the two Primarchs containing the position of the Exertus regiment as she continued on, “I move to assist an Exertus regiment and have vectored more forces to assist, join me and we shall finish this in one final stroke.”

As her sister’s voice reached her, Sekhmetara rode the winds of rage. She allowed the emotion to surge through just as much as she drifted across the air herself, the modified chassis of her jetbike roaring beneath her as she regarded the vast battlefield of the traitor hive below her, drawing closer to the towering central spire which comprised their final objective. They had won every battle, yet they were losing the war. Losing because there was information and factors they were not privy to, a state of affairs that enraged her more than anything else. Her daughters were the fine blade, measure twice, cut once. Now they were swinging wildly in the dark. Still, her daughters may have been precise by the standards of her expansive, varied family, but they were still Astartes. For every one which died, the rebels bled in their hundreds. It was not a trade she would allow to continue.

“As you say Sister, I fight with you.” Sekhmetara replied, before she lunged from the saddle of her vehicle. From the streamlined armour of her suit, blade like wings extended, a series of grav-chutes of much larger design to account for her Primach build, the Queen of Mithra surged through the air, tucking her form into itself as she crossed the distance to the spire. Her form struck the observation glass panel she was aiming for with the force to turn an Astartes into a smear, but likewise enough to shatter the reinforced glass. She was not Astartes, and her armoured form wrenched through it, barely checking her momentum. She was falling, but to those within, she was akin to an avenging angel falling from the heavens themselves, surging into the vast chamber beyond. The enemy were rallying to engage her sister’s position within the same hall, they would never get the chance. The Huntress fell among them, the long, slender haft of her glaive spinning about her in a movement that was as much a dance as it was warfare. With every slight turn of her body and weapon, lesser humans died. The mysterious power armour the more elite rebels wore could turn aside bolter fire, but it could not turn aside her. Her weapon sliced through Ceramite with the barest pop of pressure, the human within each suit turned to jelly by the sudden expansion of force and heat. Her sister killed as well, perhaps with less grace, but with insurmountable aggression which more than made up for their difference in efficiency of movement. Two whirlwinds of death storming towards each other. The final foe sought to hold her in combat for a moment, a figure which would have towered over a mortal man wreathed in armour more akin to the tactical dreadnought armour spreading throughout the legions. Flensing claws wreathed from gauntlets as the being yelled a challenge to her.

She did not have the time or will for a duel with mortal traitors. As the human began his charge, a blazing halo of solar light bathed around her features, her human-like eyes becoming obscured by golden light, before the power leapt from her. The gifts of her birth made manifest, the streams of white hot energy forced into reality burned through the air, striking the traitor with enough force and heat as to render them into cauterised flesh and ash in moments. Sekhmetara did not suppress the sneer as she regarded what had become of an enemy that had thought themselves worth more than the briefest moment of her time, before turning to regard her approaching sister.

“My daughters will keep them from reinforcing the holdout, we cut off the head here.”

Were it any other day, any other war, Nelchitl may have found herself incredibly moved by the preternatural resemblance her Sister held to the Emperor on that fateful battlefield of Ixhun where they first met. Descending from the heavens as if held aloft by unseen wings, Sekhmetara unleashed a dazzlingly brilliant psychic assault on a mere mortal fool enough to stand in the way of the furious Primarch. Like the appearance of her father, Nelchitl watched as the radiance of a star was unleashed on the traitor, leaving only ash where they had once stood defiant before the closest thing to a demigod the universe may have to offer.

Coming alongside her sister, Nelchitl placed a gauntleted hand on her shoulder and raised her chainsword to point toward the still resisting traitors.

“One swing of the blade and we finish this action.” she scowled as a bolt of energy deflected off her armor, “I tire of their insistence.”

Taking her hand from her sister Nelchitl removed her helmet dropping it where she stood. The discordant melody of the furious combat around her and the flavors of death and ozone filled her senses. Raising her chainsword high she bellowed as her daughters from the 31st Company arrived to join their Primarch and sisters from the XXth.

“For the Emperor!” she raged, the sounds of her daughter's responses all but drowned out by her singular focus to end this futile last stand once and for all. She crossed the great hall in moments, her chainsword sweeping through traitors in one hand, and buckling turncoats in hammer fisted blows with the other. Blood-lust overcoming her every desire, the Emerald Priestess ripped into the enemy ceaselessly, every blow killing and maiming. She worked through the mortals in front of her with brutal efficiency, the lithe flowing form of battle of her Sister and the Tears nowhere to be seen in the ranks of the Serpents and their Primarch as they crashed into the defenders. So savage was the assault of the Serpent’s to end the battle, that the amount of matter building in Nelchitl’s chainsword became so complete that the Primarch of the XVIIth began using it as a crude club against the men around her.

Breaking through a crude barrier, Nelchitl left the useless weapon impaled through a fool behind her and began killing with fists alone. Laughing and howling in equal parts as she crushed heads in her hands and bludgeoned traitors to death with the bodies of their comrades. Her lauded Serpents of the Assault squads joining in the horrendous melee around her with cries of reverence for the Emerald Priestess and the Emperor alike.

While Nelchitl and her daughters fought like the roaring wind of the hurricane, pulling the enemy apart, often literally, Sekhmetara advanced as its eye, a centre of calm in the torrent of violence raging around her. Were she not a being of genetic perfection standing in shining armour of her home planet’s distinctive weave and scheme, she might almost go unnoticed. The enemy were, by nature of the Serpents hacking them to pieces, forced to essentially ignore her as she took in the scene, noted the flow of combat and the enemy. She did not care for their individual deaths, although her super-attuned senses noted every Serpent who fell. Another name to a growing list of crimes committed by the traitors in the name of a false freedom. It was not her blade which lashed out for vengeance now, but the weapon of her other hand. With almost dismissive gestures, the battle-gauntlet erupted with precise volkite-fire, the invisible death cooking rebels within their armour, turning them to slurry within the protective shielding which could blunt the chew of bolter fire. She seemed passive, but she was anything but, each decision a scything blow to the enemy’s ability to reform and repel the invaders from their final sanctum in the hive.

When the fighting pushed up into the final chamber, the den of betrayal which had spun this city into its throes of defiance, she changed in a blur. Sekhmetara leapt, springing like the tyrantigers of her homeworld through the air, the six arms of her grav-chutes extending outwards. The blade-like appearance of each arm proving that appearances are not always deceiving, slicing through those who tried to move to flank her even as she was carried through the air, the mono-blading along each wing slicing as lethally as her spear. She landed among their council of dignitaries, those panicked faces who had brought ruin to their people. She had decided which one she would spare before she had leapt, the rest were dead with the next blink of the eye, her glaive moving faster than the human eye or mind could follow.

“You.” She spoke with dripping contempt as she seized the flabby form of the politician by the neck, hefting the man’s considerable bulk from the ground into the air before her. Despite appearances, he did not mentally collapse as many did. Of course he whimpered and gasped, but that was the biological reaction of any human caught in the vice of a superior predator. He did not, however, fight to beg her for anything through his collapsing larynx. Her very low impression of the man increased just a little. At least they had something approaching fire.

She reversed her grip, allowing the man a gasp of air, before clutching his neck from the back as she held him aloft, turning him around the chamber so he could witness the slaughter of his people, pulling her lips up beside his ear as they watched together. “Do you see what you have done? What your cry for false-freedom has earned you? You had your place in this new galaxy of reason and progress, my legion would have brought you all into a glorious future.” Her voice was barely a whisper, before one hand took the back of his head, forcing the man to look upon the advancing form of Nelchitl, ripping through armoured rebels with her fists alone. “Now this is the future of your sorry little planet.” She dropped the man, letting him slump with a moan of pain and fear forwards. Slowly, her foot pressed to the back of his head, pushing him forwards into a pool of spent viscera collating on the floor from his many slain colleagues. It was no effort for the primach to hold him there as he drowned, each second of struggle a soothing balm to her rage at the situation. The man died well before Nelchitl reached her, and the serene calm had returned to Sekhmetara’s features.
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High orbit of Ullanor Prime
Two days after the fall of Urlakk Urg


Daena sat impassively upon the bridge of the Redemption, the ordinarily formidable seeming Gloriana appearing tame in comparison to the Emperor’s own magnificent warship. Thus she had always been, the demure and silent companion following after her master where and when he bade it. Both he and fate had conspired in equal part to keep her role in these endeavors dull and unheralded in Imperial annals, but fame was not her concern. Indeed, it had been those consumed by honors and glory that had left her in such a state, the woman dutifully cleaning up her brothers’ messes. While the others who had taken part in the campaign arranged trophies and spoils, she conducted a far less glamorous phase of the war.

Gazing into a great hololithic tank depicting the Ullanor system, Daena could see the sigil of the Doomsayers on almost every world, each marker denoting women clad in silver and black taking the place of their ‘victorious’ brothers. It was all too common for Astartes to depart from the battlefield when victory was declared, leaving behind the Auxilia to complete cleanup operations. Such was grim, dirty, and dangerous work - often deemed beneath the ‘value’ of a Space Marine’s time but evidently worth the lives of the Imperial Army. One need only look upon the foreboding armor of Doomsayer Destroyer Squads scouring the system of the most minute trace of greenskin life to understand how strenuously she disagreed with such thinking.

It was perhaps surprising to a casual observer that the only world where she did not feel the need to act was Quartus, its rune dull without the glowing symbol of an active Chapter. Although Sarghaul was not known to care for the lives of mere mortals, he was known for completing tasks such as these, and the Primarch was confident that her brother would not remove forces from the planet until its surface was cleansed of every ork spore. For all of his faults, and Daena could name many, one that she could never attribute to him was a lack of thoroughness. Would he only ensure that such commendable behavior was always put towards worthy ends...

With a sigh, the demigod shakes her head before she can lose herself in a reverie, bringing the hololith to focus upon the world she was currently above - Ullanor Prime. She was neither ordered nor requested to attend to her father’s side when he descended upon its killing fields, and so had not. Her fleet had entered the system shadowing his own, and fought where and as he directed - which more often than not meant that it did not fight at all. Dispatching individual Chapters to where she deemed them best suited, she retained the bulk of her forces waiting for a command from her father that never came. That a part of her had always suspected would never come.

Regardless, she did not consider it a waste. Playing hero on the surface was pointless when her time could be better spent coordinating her forces from her command ship, one more divinity among the rabble would not turn the tide. Her Revenants had departed with her father and his finest of warriors however, and they had paid a dear price in blood and bone for their zeal. Even now her forces were recovering their bodies, usually from great mounds of corpses created during the thickest of the fighting, many having been slain alongside the Emperor’s own Custodes. Many of her siblings would consider that news a point of pride, but Daena merely filed it away with a dull recognition.

After hours of detailing orders to her Chapters, she was eventually confident that the cleanup could run itself for the foreseeable future. A corner of her lip twitched at that thought, the woman realizing that she had made a joke. It had been some time since she had managed that. With those tasks accomplished, she turned to a far more morbid responsibility, pulling open the latest reports on all under her command who had perished for Prometheus’ trumpeted victory.

A veteran. A Revenant. A newly minted Battle Sister. “My lady.” A Techmarine. A Revenant. “My lady.” A Tactical Marine. A mother. A Scout.

“My lady!” The shout finally freed her from her morose contemplations, the Primarch looking up to the power armored frame of Vairya Kurus, Legion Mistress of the Doomsayers. “My lady,” she repeated for the final time, looking down on the seated demigod with poorly hidden relief. “Malcador has forwarded us a report from your sisters. He does not order...” she began, trailing off.

“....but he implies,” Daena finished for her. “Let’s hear it then,” she said with a firm nod, vigor returning to her frame as a problem was presented to her. Quietly, a part of her wondered how the Sigilite always seemed to know when she required such diversions.

“The disturbance began on 20-63, designated Praxia by the local human population. It was brought under Compliance some time ago without serious fighting. A rebellion has broken out recently however, Lady Sekhmetara’s scribes reporting that the rebels have arms far more advanced than the local industry could produce, and of a different make than the armament of the Imperial garrison. She rendezvoused with Lady Nelchitl and engaged the enemy on the ground. Both Legions report that enemy weapons are capable of felling Astartes and that attached Knight Houses have suffered losses far in excess of what the inhabitants should be capable of.”

The feeling coursing through Daena’s body as she processed the report was less the thrill of the hunt, and more of a boulder being rolled downhill. She and Vairya consumed all available information with a mechanical thoroughness until there was nothing left of the initial report. Her demeanor shifted as she did, the lethargic woman slowly rising as if she were a spring being wound. Ullanor fell away, the bridge fell away, even Vairya fell away as curiosity morphed into obsession. A bloodhound given a scent, she began teasing and pulling at every lead from the scraps of data available. An external force interfering with the world was obvious. But who? Many foes, human and otherwise, had attempted to incite rebellion before. Many had gone so far as to arm the rebels. But none had armaments similar to these. Daena permitted herself to feel excitement as she realized that this was something altogether new.

Eventually, the Primarch was satisfied with her research and began to give her orders. Any doubts she had on following Malcador’s unvoiced request had by now long vanished. “Prepare the First through Fifth in their entireties, as well as the Thirty-Eighth, the One Hundred and Sixty-Seventh, and as many Chapters with below average bloodright that can meet us en route. Work with the Navigators to chart a course that will take us through the territory garrisoned by the Ninety-Second, we’ll replace their deployments with the One Hundred and Sixty-Seventh as we go.”

“Of course, my lady. I assume we shall take a full Administratum detachment with us?” the Legion Mistress asked, both women already knowing the answer. ‘Administratum detachments’ were an all too common sight for errands run on the Sigilite’s behalf.

“Elucidators and Remembrancers,” Daena replied with a simple nod, before going yet further. “The Hohenheims as well, both of them. Leave the civilians and baggage train here with the rest of the fleet, we’ll be travelling through Compliant space. Standing orders for all remaining Chapters are to scour the system of hostile xenoforms and then proceed to previous orders. No doubt there will be some outlandish ceremony, I leave attendance at the discretion of the Ladies Commander. Yekterina will remain behind as well. Little remains in Ullanor save burning and speeches, my daughters do not need my oversight for the former and my Equerry shall suffice to attend the latter.”

“Is there anything else, my lady?”

For a fleeting moment, the Primach’s eyes flicked to the sight of Ullanor Prime far below them, its verdant expanse visible from the bridge. Of the horrors her daughters had borne witness to, and of the renown that was being given over to other men. A quiet, distant, part of her enchained psyche dared whisper the word lesser, taking advantage of the fraction of a second that her thoughts had dwelled on her brothers’ fame. A vision of every voice within the Imperium singing praise to her unfurling within her mind’s eye, a possibility that could be reality if she would only just reach out and -

And then she suppressed such foolish thoughts and gave her orders.

“Prepare the Astropathic Choir. Have them send tidings to my dear sisters.”
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Year: 000.M31

The Aftermath of the Ullanor Crusade

The destruction of Urlakk Urg’s remaining forces took little time indeed. With their leader dead at the Primarch Prometheus’ hands, the remaining Orkish forces were routed with contemptuous ease, as many of them falling to the axes and guns of their fellows as were slain by the might of humanity’s hammer of Armsmen and Astartes alike.

In due course, and with the dutiful scouring of each planet by the Imperial Army and the Legio Astartes - in particular the women of Daena io Azrael’s Doomsayers - not a spore of Orkish DNA could be found anywhere in the Ullanor System. It was said, therefore, that the Orks as a species could never threaten the Imperium so seriously again: its might was too vast, and no Waaagh! of significance could hope to form with the galaxy under the Emperor’s gaze. The greatest victory the Imperium had known to date, outshining even the Rangdan Genocides in scope.

With this, then, the Emperor declared that a great triumph would be held, on the very planet that had once been the Warboss’ center of power. It was to be renamed as Mundus Tropaeum on all galactic maps and records of the Imperial Tithe; it would be a trophy world dedicated to the victory of the Imperium over the Orks of Ullanor; and the celebrations to take place would bear humanity’s mark like nothing else could, an Imperial march beyond comprehension of any one mind.

Before such could come to pass, though, it first had to be remade. The next year of the planet’s existence would be dedicated to this task: the Mechanicum brought its full power to bear, sending forth geoformer platoons, with world-engines and mobile stone-burners and countless servitors, prisoner-slaves, and thralls, to reshape the very world in the wake of the devastation that had been wrought, an entire continent flattened for the occasion. As the centerpiece: a highway of solid granite, smoothed to perfection and crafted 5 kilometers wide and 500 long, with the skulls of countless Orks lining its edges all the way down the path, and Promethium lanterns fitted to cast light across all its surface. And at its far end, a mountaintop citadel of black marble and granite, crafted on Terra and transported piece by piece to its resting place on the newly-dubbed trophy world. A fitting pavilion for the Emperor, Primarchs, Council of Terra, and other members of the Imperial nobility.

In another time, this would have been the end of it. A march of armed forces greater than any that would be seen before or since. Yet, in this era, there were complicating factors in play - and discussions that needed to take place before the triumph’s eventual order could be planned.




Year: 001.M31

Before the Triumph of Ullanor


The room that had been created to host this discussion had been carefully constructed. It had to be large and stately due to the fact that there would be several Primarchs attending in person to have a meeting with each other alongside the possible presence of the Emperor himself if he decided to attend to the matter personally. It also had to be absolutely secure; The range of topics that the Primarchs might have needed to discuss privately among themselves were wide and many of them required the highest of clearances to even know about, let alone be informed of the details.

There was also the matter of the unofficial rule for meetings between the Primarchs: While in the public eye, the Primarchs needed to show a united front. The Primarchs could not be seen publicly fighting or undermining each other because that would in turn undermine and weaken the Imperium and the chain of command. In private all bets were off, provided they refrained from actually killing each other.

As he sat in a chair designed for him, Micholi’s expression was that of feigned ignorance. He was well aware of why one of his siblings would have called this meeting and the matter that was going to be discussed, but he was more than happy to leave some wiggle room to be surprised by something else taking the floor. There were other matters that were important that they might have wanted to discuss after all.

As the door was sealed, there was a moment of pure silence in the chamber before Micholi decided to break it with a simple “I believe everyone is here. Shall we begin?”

Prometheus leaned forward his annoyance plain to see, something nearly unprecedented for those who know the Primarch. He sighed heavily. “To the heart of the matter then, I'll not have Xenos in the Triumph, it is not for the likes of them. However… I know that you will argue this matter in your ‘oh so reasonable’ manner until the last star burns out.” He stated matter of factly. “But... to what lengths would you go to force this issue I wonder?” he asked, his tone on the edge of threat.

Micholi’s face was blank of emotion as he turned to look at Prometheus. His words were calm and collected, but there was a finality to them that gave them weight. “As far as I need to, brother.”

Further annoyance crossed Prometheus’ face briefly. “I thought as much, I suppose then we shall be in this room forever arguing like ancient and senile senators,” said the Primarch dryly.

There was a small nod. “Indeed. So what is it going to take to get you to stand aside and allow proud veterans who have fought, killed and lost comrades in the service of the Imperium to take part in the Triumph without complaint or issue?”

“Without complaint? Even our father could not order such a thing. That said…” Prometheus began to outline a series of accomplishments and records of such exemplary standing that no unit in the Imperium could hope to achieve. “Those are the only Xenos worthy of attending.”

Micholi took a moment to look through the list that his brother was offering. The standards would be rather steep and would clearly reduce the number of xenos soldiers able to take part to a massive degree… but by cherry picking those individual soldiers who met the standards he could put together at least a squad of what would be some of the Imperium’s best and brightest. Pondering for a moment and looking through a data slate of his own, he slid it over the table to Prometheus.

The data slate offered some additional accomplishments and records that were clearly not on Prometheus’ list, but shared a similar theme; namely, all awards were acknowledgements of the saving of human life to various degrees. “While generally not as well remembered as those soldiers who take down great enemies or capture important objectives, I would argue that promoting those soldiers who have proven themselves via the protecting and saving of human life would still be acceptable to your beliefs.”

Prometheus frowned as he read through the data, It was a restrictive list to be sure, few would meet such a standard. However, these were soldiers, not aid workers, and a celebration of valor was the whole point of the Triumph. “Your list… certainly has a theme, and I am not so unreasonable as to not consider it. My concern is your list does not contain a single medal of heroism, valor, or even combat excellence. Any medicae in the Imperium could attend. Without unit distinctions of valor, their presence is unwelcome.” He concluded while sealing off the option of picking individuals of distinction.

“Would it truly be so terrible for us to offer the doctors, healers and medics of the Imperium the same honor and respect that we offer to its warriors?” Micholi asked with a surprising, if minor amount of good humor. Shaking his head slightly as he chuckled, he let out a sigh. “Very well… if these are the standards that you are going to impose on all units of the Imperial Army to attend, then so be it. If nothing else, it will ensure that only the best of the Imperium are in attendance.”

Prometheus simply scoffed at the implication that medics are not deserving of honor, obviously that is not what the Triumph celebration is about. Otherwise he remained silent on the matter, allowing his brother the petty barb.

“We are discussing Xenos, not the Imperial Army,” he said evenly as if this point had already been concluded.

“Are we?” Micholi asked, an eyebrow raised as he looked at Prometheus was something of amusement. “They are a part of the Imperial Army. Proudly serving the Imperium that they are a part of just like any other squad, regiment or otherwise. Yet, you would reject their contributions as if they were incompetent or their actions dishonorable and unvalorous. If anything, they have fought and worked twice as hard as most human squads to get a fifth of the recognition and respect.”

Prometheus leaned back and stared at the ceiling, Micholi’s praise of Xenos falling on deaf ears. Perhaps there is another solution, he thought to himself, a bit underhanded perhaps but would serve the same purpose. Finally he shrugged. “Fine, in that case the Xenos must be situated in the rear of the Triumph,” he said, seemingly conceding that all units in the Imperial Army would be held to a similar standard as the Xenos. Though, he had no intention of following such a requirement, nor would any general in his favor need concern themselves with it. The Triumph celebration would be filled regardless. The Xenos though, they would necessarily fall under more scrutiny.

A small smile graced Micholi’s face as he answered “That is acceptable,” to his brother, even though he already had plans of his own settling into place to ensure that any... incidents were kept to a minimum going forward. With one of the bigger obstructions out of the way, he turned his head to gaze over and see if any other concerns were going to step forward and let themselves be heard now.

“Be lucky that Prometheus is more amenable than I, Micholi. Were it my choice, only the beings in the Triumph would be those of the Legions,” chimed Usriel, looking at Micholi. While his features were blocked by the helmet he wore, it could be easily deduced that he was scowling at the choice of the Primarch he had fought side by side with.

“And I thank you for your even handed approach Usriel.” was the surprisingly simple answer the scowling defender would get in return from Micholi.

A dark-armoured figure stirred in the shadowed zone at the further end of the room. Though he had returned to the system in preparation for the Triumph, Sarghaul had been remiss to attend the meeting in person. The Tartarean Primarch instead preferred to withdraw in meditation to the more remote battlefields of the system, still bleak and scarred from the titanic conflict that had been waged over them. In his stead, he had appointed one of his gene-sons to act as the Ninth Legion’s voice at the gathering. Elder Manceps Nuvornal, an overseer of abyssal war-beasts, had until then remained in the gloom as was the habit of his kind, but presently he moved a step ahead. Though he was dwarfed by the sons of the Emperor, there was something unnerving in his silence, only occasionally broken by fragments of churning breaths.

“Lord of the Second,” he inclined his head in a formal, if dry display of reverence as he addressed Micholi, “My progenitor bid me pose you this question in the presence of your brethren. If your inhuman auxiliaries have not fought for Ullanor, why should they reap its honours?”

Micholi sighed a little at the question posed by Nuvornal before answering “Because the Triumph isn’t just about Ullanor. It’s a chance for the Imperium to celebrate its best and brightest in general. After all, I’m guessing that your Primarch is not intending to exclude those Abyss Lurkers who came to assist my forces at Laeran just because they weren’t fighting orks here.”

The Manceps nodded again. “He shall hear your words,” he replied in the same dull, toneless voice as he withdrew once more.

“If this convocation of the holy and most high sons of the exalted and ineffable Omnissiah would, in their limitless grace, please momentarily recognize the voice of Archmagos Rarnet.” The heavily distorted crackle of a tech-priest’s voxcoder burbled. The speaker was one of the Mechanicum’s tech-priests, a veritable army of which had been sent to service and manage the technical aspects of the Triumph. Primarch Augor Astren, who was not in attendance and who had broached no objections, had offered his seat at the table to the Mechanicum’s representative - as evidently, the Mechanicum itself had an opinion or two on how the Triumph was to be held. “I have been charged with the organization and deployment of all blessed simulacra and other servitor-mediated functions and facets of the Triumph. I have a pertinent report of concern slash note slash condition contingent line errors regarding the xenos legions. In keeping with the most righteous and venerated doctrine, I will begin reciting the preface of my report; the most sacred of addresses of your peerless personnages and the glories and honors due to you. Estimated time to completion is four hours, thirty-three minutes, twelve seconds, and fourteen millisecon-”

“Forgive me Archmagos, but while I cannot speak for my brothers, for the sake of time I will humbly request that you forego my titles, glories and honors.” Micholi offered politely. He did offer his siblings the chance to speak for themselves if they wanted the Mechanicum’s representative to flatter and praise them or not. “But otherwise you are acknowledged, feel free to address what is concerning you.”

The Archmagos’ voxcoder seemed to whir, click, and buzz for several seconds - perhaps the mechanical savant’s equivalent of a hesitant pause. “Doctrine does not require continued recitation minus complete fidelity to the breadth of all that is most glorious in its knowing. If there are no objections I shall proceed with my report.”

He waited pointedly for several moments for an objection that did not come before continuing.

“Oh holy of holies, Primarch of the Second Legion. Amongst the many Tech-Priests and others of our order who contrive and toil to make the Triumph possible, there has been unsettling discussion regarding the inclusion of your xenos legions. Inferences and suggestions of a plot to humiliate and degrade these exemplars of the lesser peoples under the infinite eyes of the Machine God, with automated dispensation of decaying produce and vegetative matter; reconsecrated holo-projection and transmission to either censure or else deface high-fidelity imagery of the same, etcetera, etcetera. While the speculated number of known and unknown actors in this matter are few, their numbers are great enough and the likelihood of their acting is high enough that it warrants due warning. The Prefecture Magisterium has already been alerted, and have issued an advisory that they are disinclined to investigate or prosecute as such conspiracy does not violate Mechanicum dogma.”

For a moment, Micholi looked at the Archmagos with a cool expression… before he nodded his head. “Archmagos Rarnet, I would first like to say that your dedication to the Omnissiah, though I personally will address its aspect as the Emperor, does you great credit. However, while I find your warnings and concerns of agents of the Mechanicum letting their personal feelings get the better of them within the realms of expectation, the news that the Prefecture Magisterium are intending to turn a blind eye to this matter is something of a concern.”

“After all, the Emperor is well aware of my intention to allow my Xenos legions take part in the Triumph and has made no objection to it. In fact, this Triumph is personally being overseen and the final approvals go to him. So the fact that the Prefecture Magisterium is ignoring reports that there are members of the Mechanicum who are actively planning to interfere and sabotage an event designed to capture a fraction of the glory of the Imperium, Mechanicum and the Emperor combined is… well, utter neglect.”

“The second of the holy sons and daughters of the unfettered and immaculate Omnissiah is most wise and astute in his observations.” The Archmagos bowed so low so quickly that he nearly slammed his metal-plated forehead against the top of the great table the gathering was seated around. “The crux of the issue is one of great doctrinal argument and theological debate. The suspected actors are not behaving in good faith; they plan and conspire to such ends preemptively due to base and errant emotional fallacies. However, their supposed justification - which evades review, as they do not prostrate themselves before their betters to explain it as would be proper - is that the Omnissiah’s permission has not been expressly presented, as inclusion of the xenos legions is a right afforded to you by your most venerable and sacred of stations rather than a matter requiring the Omnissiah’s leave. The Prefecture Magisterium has no authority to castigate or consign such behavior; to act so would be in breach of their function. It is the Mechanicum’s recommendation that the Administratum and the Arbites be tasked with such instead, as their authority covers a breadth the Magisterium’s does not.”

“I see…” Micholi muttered quickly before taking a deep breath. “I confess, Archmagos, that under normal circumstances I would prefer to find a solution in which the Mechanicum policed itself. While I and my siblings are well aware of the respect and reverence that your organization places upon us, we are also aware that our positions and the requirements of the Imperial Truth that apply to us make our involvement with internal affairs of the Mechnicum… rather complicated. Might I ask your opinion on how the Treaty of Mars might interfere with the Administratum and Arbites handling this matter rather than allowing an internal branch of the Mechanicum handle this instead?”

“Highest and most glorious child of the chosen peoples, it is this humble Archmagos’ opinion that the Treaty of Mars would not represent a substantive obstacle to investigation and prosecution of these malfeasant actors.” The Archmagos’ voxcoder then fell into a series of low-pitched hums and clicks that subsisted for several seconds before continuing. “To be completely transparent however, I must forward warning that any external investigation, recommended by our most sacred institution or no, is unlikely to discover or deter the perpetrators due to rampant and obstructive emotional sentiment amongst the Triumph’s many operators. It is thus my personal recommendation that the only ward against such activity is not to tempt it. Though of course, your decision, just and total in its magnificence, is unquestioned as your sole and absolute right as a venerated emission of the Soul of the Omnissiah.”

“If I may,” Usriel began, looking to the Archmagos, “Should these actors go forth with what they are planning, it would be a slight against the Omnissiah. This is a time to celebrate him, the victories he has brought forth to us all as a whole. Send a warning, that if anything be attempted, that I shall investigate the matter personally and bring justice upon them. That should be enough to ward many away.”

“Noblest and high-anointed nineteenth child of the Omnissiah,” Rarnet began, “Your reasoning is most peerless in its foresight, most crystalline and flawless in its structure, and doubtlessly reflects the infinite encompassment of all knowledge that is the Machine God. Such a measure would be efficacious. If you possess such willingness, begging your forgiveness for such impudence as to suggest action not considered prior, might you be willing to begin a preemptive investigation at the closing of this most sacred of convocations? The direct hand and presence of the Omnissiah’s children in the warding of such a matter would have great and immediately observable effect on such schemes and could feasibly waylay them entirely.”

After letting the question hang, the Primarch of the Steel Sentinels cast his gaze back to the Archmagos, “If you deem it wise for a preemptive investigation then I shall do so, wise one. Further, I would ask you to assist me in such an endeavor, if you’d aid me.”

The Archmagos replicated the first bow that had almost slammed his head into the table. “Holiest of holy champions, it would be my boundless joy and pride to assist you personally in this endeavor. May the Omnissiah beneficently grant us clarity and foresight unparalleled.”

Micholi carefully rose from his seat at the table, taking a deep breath as he calmly started to walk towards one of the nearby walls in thought. As he listened to Usriel’s suggestion and… actually took comfort in the fact that his brother would have his back on this, if for no other reason then because he wouldn’t let some upstart tech priests try to make a fool out of the Imperium. However, there was a way out of this situation in which a minor purge wouldn’t have to happen, there wouldn’t be a risk of the Triumph being sabotaged and the driving issue that forced this conversation in the first place would be kicked down the road.

Asking his question aloud for anyone in the room to answer, Micholi asked “How many of the forces currently assigned to take part in the Triumph were actively a part of the campaign for Ullanor? What percentage of it belongs to other Imperial forces who are being honored for their actions and achievements elsewhere?”

“Because while I could never stand for any member of the Imperium whom had fought and earned the right to be acknowledged for their achievements, if the Triumph truly was dedicated solely for those who took part in the campaign for Ullanor then… it would be utterly rude of any of us to try and slip in forces that hadn’t taken part.” Letting this hang in the air for a moment, Micholi turned to face his brothers and the representative Archmagos. “Of course, for this to hold weight, only forces that took part in the campaign for Ullanor can take part in the Triumph.”

Usriel silently looked over to Micholi, uttering his words, “There were many of the Mechanicum that took part in the campaign for Ullanor, too many to accurately count. It is likely that whoever is a part of the plot has connections or was a part of the campaign. Your thinking is with flaw, Micholi. You look to those outside and not the ones already within.”

Micholi took a deep breath and let out a sigh. “You’re right brother. For a moment, I let my concerns about ensuring that the Triumph happened without issue get the better of me. Even if we had accepted my compromise, it would not have fixed the bigger issue at play here. At best, it would have just kicked it down the road to be dealt with later. If you’ll have me, I would be happy to volunteer my time towards aiding your investigations however I can.”

“How well versed are you in the Canticles of the faith, Micholi?” Usriel inquired, his hidden face looking over to the other primarch.

“I suspect there are many that I have not been made aware of. However, the Night Watch is trained to be able to recognize situations where others can perform underhanded tasks.”

“Then should I require your aid I shall call upon it, for the time being, it may be best that I handle it myself as to avoid provoking any unnecessary issues,” Usriel said coldly before gesturing over to the Archmagos. “After all, I’m sure the Mechanicum would not like Astartes in their affairs. That said, I’m sure you yourself would provide an excellent unbiased thought in the situation as I had, like Augor, been raised with the Mechanicum’s beliefs.”

Micholi offered a respectful nod as he returned to his seat. “I will leave the matter in your capable hands then.” If he was talking to Uriel, the Archmagos or both of them at once was anyone’s guess.

Prometheus leaned forward once again. “A point has been raised several times that bears further exploration. Your Xenos did not fight on Ullanor, and there are elements of the Mechanicum that might try something against them. Furthermore, I know many Imperial Army units are not fond of the aliens. There are no plans I am aware of, but soldiers can get carried away, especially during celebration or if intoxicants have been found.” The Primarch rubbed at his chin in thought giving the appearance of deep consideration.

“It may be prudent to ensure that only those forces that participated at Ullanor attend, none of us would want an embarrassing incident to occur,” mused Prometheus, which would have the added bonus of possibly excluding the Night Watch Legion from attendance. He truly did not want an incident to happen, a drunken brawl or fire fight between a xenos and imperial army unit would be hard to hush up and ignore, especially with the Edict’s architect in the system.

Micholi shook his head at Prometheus’ words, even if they were merely raising the very compromise that he had suggested moments before. “Prometheus, Usiel has raised a point of grave concern. I have always known that the acceptance of Xenos races into the Imperial fold was always going to be a matter of contention. The fact that we’re having this meeting to begin with is clear evidence of that… but while one always needs to keep the emotional heart of humanity in mind, the Imperium demands a level of professionalism from its members.”

“It is one thing to hold negative opinions on the Edict of Tolerance or the Xenos races accepted by it; we could argue its flaws and merits between us for years in this very room and while I may disagree with all three of you on a number of matters, I would like to believe that there is enough mutual respect and professionalism between us not to let such disagreements effort our work towards the Crusade or spill out into the public eye. This organized group of Mechanicum personnel are fully prepared to sabotage an Imperial Triumph organised and attended by the Emperor himself because they have chosen to pursue their petty grudges over the good of the Imperium and the relationship between the Imperium and Mechanicum.”

That last point caused him to turn his attention towards the Archmagos. “After all, even if these individuals are working by themselves, they are still members of and represent the Mechanicum. Mechanicum personnel sabotaging an Emperor attended event would be a political incident. The last thing we all want is a rift between Earth and Mars forming…”

The Archmagos’ vox-coder clicked, exactly once. This was then followed by a pause of precisely two seconds before the Archmagos answered, during which a flurry of vox-hails rebounded between him and several other members of the Mechanicum delegation. Though such a pause would have been well in keeping with baseline Humans, or even with most augmented Humans - it was telling for such a high-ranking member of the Mechanicum. Especially here and now, at that very meeting, regarding that specific topic.

“Agreed.” Rarnet buzzed. “Though of course, it goes without saying that if no Xenos Legions are present at the march, no such incident is predicted to transpire. As I have said. The hallowed nineteenth Primarch’s pending investigation notwithstanding, the most immediate and efficacious deterrent to such a calamitous mishap would, as stated prior, be to not tempt it.”

“True, but if these individuals are prepared to let their own agendas take precedence over that of the greater Imperium and Mechanicum that is an issue that needs to be addressed and if the Xenos Legions are no longer a presence in the Triumph, then they will simply slip back into the rank and file until another time. After all, if there is no need for their plans to be acted upon, they will likely just delete them and finding any evidence at all of who was involved would be next to impossible.”

Micholi paused for a moment to let that sink in, before suggesting a plan. “For the purposes of Usriel’s investigation, for the time being we need to keep the Xenos involvement in the Triumph. If they are uncovered in the process of the investigation and thwarted then there isn’t going to be an issue… but for the sake of stability, if the Triumph draws close and we are not in a position to deal with this situation I will reluctantly withdraw the Xenos from the line up, alongside those forces who fought at Laeran. Publically it will simply be a matter that the Triumph was for those who fought at Ullanor and had nothing to do with this offshoot of Mechanicum personnel.”

“That does not change that I will investigate the matter,” came Usriel’s stern voice, “A plot to undermine the Triumph, and the Emperor, is still a plot regardless of whether it comes to fruition. I have dealt with enough rebellion to know how such courses go.” The Nineteenth Primarch looked between Prometheus and Micholi before stating, “I say allow the xenos, those who showed up later in the campaign for Ullanor, even if located at the very back. Those who would play their hand will do so or they shall not, depending on whether I can curtail this. It will show us who is loyal to the Emperor and his victories, and who is not.”

Prometheus frowned slightly at Usriel. “A plot is unfortunate to be certain, but is it a crime if nothing ever comes of it? Besides, I raised another concern in that the Imperial Army troopers may, in their excitement, cause trouble. We all know soldiers fight or bicker amongst themselves, and if their blood is up death or serious injury is a possibility. With xenos this would be doubly true, there is little love for them among most of the Imperial Army. Would you suggest removal of all Imperial Army regiments to protect your precious aliens?”

Micholi looked at Prometheus for a moment as if what he said was the most naive, silly thing he had heard come out of his brother’s mouth. “Brother, we are speaking of soldiers of the Imperial Army who are going to be on parade in front of not only the Emperor, but the Imperium as a whole in the present as well as future generations. I am fairly confident that, even if the average soldier somehow didn’t understand the importance of showcasing their discipline and being on their best behavior for this occasion, there is a long line of officers, NCO’s and discipline masters who will want to make damn sure that the reputations of their respective units and regiments, as well as their own, are not tarnished.”

“Assuming they themselves do not hold similar conspiracy in their hearts, noble Primarch,” Rarnet interjected. “Remember that the Imperial Army, while stringent and dutifully capable warriors, are made of a more common proverbial clay. These are not lawmakers nor zealous adherents to any faith. If Tech-Priests would fail to fully realize the scope of their responsibilities here in the Triumph, even the upper echelons of the Imperial Army may fall prey to similar sentiment.”

Micholi did have to concede the point a little, but he quickly countered “Oh, I fully suspect there would be many that would love to have the excuse of friendly fire to cover their actions. The difference between the Imperial Army in this circumstance and the Tech-Priests who are so concerned is that of anonymity. The Tech-Priests, while we intend to unmask them, have the benefit of being so distanced from the results of their actions that they might escape the consequences of them. Any soldier that started a shoot out or brawl during the Triumph wouldn’t have that benefit and there would be dire consequences for not just them, but the rest of the unit and regiment they were a part of. Doesn’t matter if the targets are xenos or other soldiers in this regard.”

“I certainly doubt any soldier would act so rashly while any of us are on the podium much less our father, my concern with the army is before or after the parade itself there will be plenty of time for an unfortunate situation. Will you deploy and remove the xenos as a lightning strike team?” Growled Prometheus, his frustration growing.

“Enough,” Usriel said, annoyance now clear in his voice before looking to Prometheus. “Prometheus, I have fought side by side with you, our sons died side by side. Consider, just this once, to end this nonsensical discussion. The xenos, before or after the parade, is none of our concern, only the concern of their commanding officers.”

He allowed a beat of silence before looking to Micholi, “I care not for the xenos, but this discussion has gone far enough and taken up too much of our Emperor’s time. After all, I doubt he cares about our squabbles.” Still looking at Micholi, he walked behind Prometheus before clasping a hand on his shoulder, “This is a time for celebration. A time of praise for Imperial victory as deemed by the Emperor himself. Enjoy yourselves lest you turn out like me.”

Micholi did not say much in response to Usriel’s words. Instead, he respectfully bowed his head and answered “Understood and well spoken.” before turning to look at Prometheus and the other representatives. “Before we adjourn, are there any other matters that anyone feels need to be raised while we’re all here?”

The armrest of Prometheus’ chair cracked as his frustration was taken out upon it, “Take your victory, but know you will make few friends forcing the edict down their throats.” he said gravely before he rose and left the room ignoring any departing words from Micholi.

As the contentious conversation finally drew to a close, a lone figure sat silently in her seat, having watched the proceedings impassively. Bound by duty and protocol, she remained as the quarreling demigods fell silent and left the room, listening to their parting shots with the same disregard that she had held the entire debate in. Girded from head to toe in finely wrought power armor, with a bone white death mask carefully sculpted onto her helm as a symbol of her office, Daena’s Equerry appeared to be a perfectly impassive figure, cast in the same mold as her gene-mother.

This was a carefully constructed lie, Yekterina Ascania having gained a newfound appreciation for her Primarch’s dramatic flourishes. She had been warned by no less than Daena herself that her assignment on Ullanor would test her beyond her limits, but she nonetheless found herself completely unprepared to witness the bickering of her “uncles”, the young woman - by Astartes standards at least, the Equerry barely into her second century - grateful beyond words that her expression had been hidden. Utterly concealed by a beautiful depiction of Daena’s face in the serene repose of death, it was unlikely anyone paid her any heed. Which was exactly as intended, the woman having been ordered to observe and report on the activities of the other Primarchs in their seclusion. Her first missive would be more eventful than she had anticipated.
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Gloriana Class Battleship Ultus-Solis
High Orbit Anchor Over 20-63. Locally known as Praxia


Sekhmetara allowed herself to rest her eyes as she waited, allowing the blessed darkness to reign over her senses for the short while. For countless hours she had poured over reports, the flickering of cogitatal data shimmering in her mind even after her separation from it. The War for Praxia had continued to steadily fall in the favour of the combined Legions, even with their surprisingly advanced technology, the rebels were outgunned, and could not rely on the presence of the Emperor’s gene scions. The steady churning war was beginning to become a rout, the last bastions of resistance would soon find their hastily projected void shielding failing. She did not see the need to throw the lives of the daughters of either legion away through the shock assault when direct bombardment had become an option, now they simply waited for the final decisive blow to be made open to them.

Her mood had not improved, however. The origin of the rebellion’s technological surge had not been identified. Those captured from the rebellion and intercepted transmission spoke of a benefactor from beyond the stars, one who had swayed them with the chance to throw off the yoke of their oppressive local government, which had become synonymous with the Imperium during the brief contact with the world. The Imperial Auxilia Commanders who had saw fit to not address this issue in the world’s initial compliance had already been identified by the primarch, although she had yet to decide how best to address this failure. They were on the cusp of victory, yet the conditions had not effectively changed from their arrival beyond the simple consideration of strategic objectives. Her victories were won in the heart and mind as much as in the seizure of assets, and this felt hollow.

She had forced a reprieve upon herself not out of a need for rest, but due to the arrival of yet another sister. The party which gathered for the arrival of Daena was not quite so grand as the ceremonial meeting of the Tears of Dawn and The Serpents of the Sun. Even those Primarchs she was not closest with, Sekhmetara had spent significant time studying for behavioural preferences. The Emperor’s true angel was not one for such pomp, and besides, they were now involved in an active warfront, even she would not recall her key staff for pomp and ceremony when they were executing her wars. Still, it was a worthy enough occasion that those aboard the Gloriana for their duties alongside their Primarch had assembled in full, the observation tier just as crowded as it was for the arrival of the Serpents, those who had been allowed down to the surface to document the war being in small enough number it had no effect on the crowd density. Now, however, two primarchs stood where there had been one, their presence united almost enough that their smaller retinues could hardly be noticed as significant.

Nelchitl stood beside her sister with an uneasy conscience. Her Legion was planetside, continuing the campaign against the traitors of Praxia without her. The mysterious weapons and technology had yet to be identified, and a benefactor from the stars appeared to be the culprit but still who they were was unknown. With more questions than answers and a planet hanging in the balance Nelchitl yearned to be anywhere but here, and yet here she stood in the massive bay of the Ultus-Solis her duties as Primarch, and as sister, out weighing the cost of the momentary withdrawal from Praxia.

She turned to survey the bay, once more the same one she had landed in on her own arrival, yet being on the receiving side she was able to take in the atmosphere far beyond the scope that she had when she stepped off her shuttle. The sounds of battle were replaced with the ever incessant hum of her dearest sisters favorite Remembrancers packing the catwalks and observation windows, clicks of pict-machines and the whirring of holo-devices easily discernible over the noise of the crowd as the moments were captured to be forever ingrained in the memory of the Crusade. Not a day earlier she had been advancing the fight with her daughters, now she found herself the focus of hololiths and pict feeds like some famous socialite while her daughters fought and bled beneath them. She found the thought disconcerting.

The questions in her mind threatening to completely overshadow the occasion, Nelchitl did her best to shake the thoughts from her mind and readied herself for another sister's arrival. The Emerald Priestess had counted herself blessed by the Emperor’s goodwill in being close enough to assist Sekhmetara, just seeing one of her prized siblings reward enough for her. But now she would be united with a second. She took solace in the fact that the Emperor Himself must certainly be orchestrating such a reunion, His Will moving beyond the stars allowing for such a rare joining to manifest was the only explanation for such good fortunes.

Bolstered by the idea that He had allowed this reunion of three sisters, the gnawing thoughts at the back of Nelchitl’s mind seemed to subside and she allowed herself to relax where she stood and enjoy what was to come. With a radiant smile and a conscience lifted by His intervention, Nelchitl turned and offered the myriad pict-machines an easy wave before turning back to watch the dark beyond the integrity shields.

Away in the dark, the expected Primarch sat within her shuttle with the same impassive serenity as ever, the vessel hanging in the void between her host’s Gloriana and her own. Though surrounded by her entourage, that collection of Astartes and civilians was the furthest thing from her mind at the moment, Daena’s thoughts instead focused on the sisters she was moments from meeting. The mere fact that such a meeting was occurring rankled every pragmatic bone in her body, a portion of her mind calculating how quickly she could get her daughters planetside now that the Redemption was in orbit. A ghost of a smile crossed her face at the thought that both of her siblings might agree with that assessment - albeit for vastly different reasons. Her smile vanished as she teased on that thought, unfurling it as every passing moment brought her closer to the waiting hangar bay.

Nelchitl was an easy read, the woman as brash and impulsive as the day she was found. No doubt she wished to return to the battlefield and put the enemy to flight, to earn the victory rather than pose for photographs. Sekhmetara on the other hand… everything Daena had learned of her made it clear that in almost every other situation she was a lover of pomp and parties, but this wasn’t any other situation. No, something told the Deathseer that even she would not be content to feast with her pride so sorely wounded.
Whether she thought correctly would soon be found out, the Primarch’s head snapping up as soon as she felt her vessel make contact with the deck. Her gaze took in her entire retinue as her thoughts receded and the now became paramount. The Praetors and technical analysts sat silently as they waited for the order to disembark, having donned power armor and dress uniform for the occasion. Meanwhile the horde of Remembrancers took every opportunity to record it, Daena’s face seamlessly shifting from dull mask to gentle smile as they were finally able to catch a sight of her. Hidden within that crowd of humanity sat a man in the humble robes of the Order Elucidatum, whom the Primarch scrupulously paid little heed to and asked no questions of. And then, there were them. The same two who had seemed to always shadow her, the cherubic twins constantly following at her heels, remaining ageless despite the centuries.

“Come now, Daena. It won’t take as long as you fear,” the pair say in their unearthly synced cadence, fulsome grins splitting their faces as they continue, “Trust us.”

Refusing to give any response, Daena simply stood, her Praetors immediately falling in rank behind her at the wordless signal. Though pomp was not her preference, she understood that such displays of pageantry still served a valuable purpose for the Imperium’s citizenry - and for that, she was all too willing to put on a proper show. First out the hatch was her Praetor Primus, Asha banging the ornate silver spear upon the ground with her every step. Following were a pair of lesser ranked Praetors in whom Daena’s lineage ran strongest, their flowing white hair contrasting with the void black of their armor. And then came the Angel herself, her wings unfurling in a majestic display as she stepped off of the shuttle and onto the Ultus-Solis proper, a dusting of pure white feathers trailing in her wake. A final two Praetors round out the honor guard, hoisting banners decorated with the honors of the XIVth.

That she was then followed by an ungainly assortment of scientists, Remembrancers, and whatever other officials had managed to tag along was of no concern to her. She had created the impression she needed to, the images that would inspire dread and awe. That was all that mattered. But the show was not over, not so soon.

The sight of another sister-primarch in such a short space of time was still one to lift Sekhmetara’s spirit despite the situation on the planet below. While she responded with less overt familiarity to the arrival of Nelchitl some time before, warmth still radiated from her as she smiled, and her retinue saluted with the sign of the Aquila. She had always personally preferred the traditional Mithran salute, but she was proud of her Legion-Daughters for adapting as directed by the cultural norms of the Imperium.

The arrival of the Emperor’s angel rippled as a wave of anticipation through the civilian onlookers above. To already be in the presence of two daughters of the Emperor was one thing, but they were an overbearing presence one could hope to survive, the sudden arrival of one another matter entirely. To see three at once at a distance one might be able to throw a stone? Almost too much for even the most well prepared of onlookers, a phenomenon even the marines themselves were not entirely immune from. For Sekhmetara’s part, she felt impressed herself. Part of her had always thought the stories of a sister-Primarch forged in the image of humanity’s old clingings of faith to be an exaggeration, she felt flutterings of joy to know this was not the case. If she had been slightly more (or perhaps less) vain, she might have even felt envious. Envy, however, was not an emotion she felt particularly capable of.

“Greetings, Sister, a fortunate day for us all that are unified in location, as well as purpose.” Sekhmetara’s tone was cordial and without excessive formality, however her voice naturally carried across the room giving it the air of a diplomatic speed in quality of volume alone. “And we are so very pleased you could join us.”

Nelchitl felt her mood rising further as the Doomsayers honor guard made their way out of the shuttle. A display of calculated threat and awe as representations of raw power strode forth ahead of their Primarch, armor as black as the void beyond the integrity shields. She found herself drawn to the striking resemblance that the two shared with the being that would soon step out behind them. The two Praetors flowing white hair and porcelain features appeared to resemble Daena far more on this day than they had last Nelchitl had seen them years before. An interesting trait inherited from their gene-mother no doubt.

The click of pict feeds and the whir of new holo devices coming to life filled the ears of the Emerald Priestess as she watched her sister put on a show for all those assembled by spreading her wings to full as she made her otherwise subdued entrance. Nelchitl stood slightly taller as her own honor guard saluted with the sign of the aquila in lock-step with the Tears opposite of them. The view of her sisters' arrival enough to completely dispel the earlier misgivings of the campaign below, Nelchitl knew for sure that no foe; no matter how well armed and supplied; could possibly stand against the combined might of the three beings assembled in the bay of the Ultus-Solis.

With a smile and a surety of action in her step, Nelchitl broke from the side of Sekhmetara only moments after her sister had finished speaking. With arms held wide at her sides in a friendly gesture Nelchitl spoke as she approached the Angel of Death.

“Fortune bears no weight here, the Emperor surely brings us together!” she spoke easily, her voice carrying to all within the bay, an infectious joy within them turning the hushed whispers and stunned expressions of the Remembrancers and assorted crew above seeing Daena for the first time into unsure smiles and excited buzzing. “Were it only under more desirable circumstances.” she finished, her final words only carrying as far as Daena and her entourage, lost to the space of the bay with the same casual ease that had carried across its entirety.

The perfect porcelain smile on Daena’s face broke into a true grin as her ‘younger’ sister rushed forward, the emotionless judge permitting herself to truly indulge. Had it been anyone else, the Praetors would have cut down such a brazen interloper where they stood - but Nelchitl had always seemed to break such rules. Nearly all Doomsayers present had been there two decades past when they had first met, but even they were surprised by what happened next.

Bringing her sister into a tight embrace, the Angel’s wings descend over the pair, hiding them from the sight of the crowd and the whirr of pict captors. Looking Nelchitl in the eye, Daena seemed as if she was about to speak for a moment. And then it began again, the Primarch freezing in place as visions overtook mundane sight..

Oceans of blood boiled beneath an oppressive sky, the supply continuously renewed from the filthy gutters of a fortress of gore and bone. A citadel home to atrocities beyond counting, witnessed mid-fall. Gleaming figures in silver and gold assaulted its battlements and tore down its horrors in a maelstrom of death and destruction - and at the center of it all a gleaming sword punctured a woman’s chest. By some accident or with what little strength remained, her head moved to stare directly into the phantasmal viewer’s eyes, Nelchitl’s staring into Daena’s once more. The vision changed almost as soon as it was seen, the Primarch of the XVIIth staring vacantly into the sky as creatures with horrid limbs cavorted around her dying form. A smile erased in a heartbeat by an unseen assailant. A monster righteously destroyed. A hero dying for her people. A tyrant despised by her followers. But in them all it remained, the oppressive sight and stench of blood.

Wrenching her gaze away from Nelchitl, Daena’s wings flap frantically as the overwhelmed woman attempted to escape her accursed sight - and succeeded only in changing the subject of her visions. Locking eyes with Sekhmetara, the blood mercifully faded away, replaced by visions of opulence and gold. She lay recumbent in a palace decorated in her own style, dying a slow death from an impossible wound in her stomach that refused to heal. A woman offered salvation, warning that only death awaited inaction. This, too, soon faded, replaced by yet more entries in the parade of ill fate. A hunt gone awry, her body broken beneath a monster with the face of one of their brothers. A hunt well fought, the victorious heroes putting an end to a monster with the face of Sekhmetara. Beloved and despised. Worshiped and profaned. Conqueror and conquered.

It took only a moment for her mind to once more be hers, Daena’s face sliding back into the inoffensive smile of a statute as her wings came to rest upon her back. Such foolishness had nearly cost her dearly, the Primarch’s mental walls reinforced to ensure that such childish notions as joy would not interrupt what remained of their show. Perhaps in private, away from the demands of duty, but never here. Not while her performance was still required.

“My sister,” she spoke softly, voice pitched just so to ensure that the breathy whisper could still be detected by the devices of the Remembrancers. “It is good to see you once more. And my sister, a pleasure to meet at last,” she continued, voice growing in strength as she turned towards Sekhmetara again. “Father sends his regards, and his fondest wish that we deal with these misguided fools swiftly. Malcador sends his Tallymen to ensure it,” she said with a sweeping gesture towards the Elucidators still disembarking her shuttle. “But there will be time enough for us to speak of war. My sisters,” My murderers?, “would that we could always travel together,” she said in a carrying voice, hoping that none noticed her momentary pause, before beckoning towards the mistress of the Tears to join her and Nelchitl.

The onyx skinned form of the third primarch closed the distance between her and her united sisters in a few brief steps to embrace them. While she wore her battleplate in most of its entirety, her gauntlets were not in place and the bare touch of her hands held to her sisters’ faces, the gold of her sub-dermal metallic markings sparkling lightly in the artificial light.

“When our father first told me I had kin among the stars, this was the moment my soul longed for.” Sekhmetara spoke, her tone remaining private in tone, but public in volume, a moment of intimacy between demigods standing in the hold of the faithful. “War may bring us together, but it is the building of our father’s realm for which we are born.” The intense orbs of her eyes focused finally on Daena even as she spoke to them both. Her fellow Primarch had not faltered visibly to the sense of lesser humanity, but the cut and thrust of politics were her domain and she was not a lesser human. Her sister struggled with some private thought, worth mentioning at a different time.

“Sister.” Nelchitl beamed as a smiling Daena pulled her into an embrace. Her sister's wings wrapping around the form of the two Primarchs shrouding them in intimate privacy, she looked upon her sister ready for warm words of kinship from the Angel before her only to find her sister's gaze vacant and devoid of the life she had just witnessed. In silence she stood for the briefest of moments as the wings surrounding them fluttered as if overwhelmed by some private thought. Yet as quickly as the episode had begun it was over with Daena offering the words that Nelchitl had expected.

Knowing better than to mention in such a setting what she had just witnessed, Nelchitl maintained her delighted composure as Daena addressed her sisters. “Time enough for war indeed, there seems no lack of it beneath us as it stands.” she agreed with the Angel before she eyed over the entourage that had disembarked and took note sourly of the Elucidators in the crowd. The Emerald Priestess turned her view once more to her sisters and the approaching form of Sekhmetara, adding her to the embrace with a smooth shift from her place.

She brought a hand up to clasp that of Sekhmetara’s at her cheek as she spoke, offering an affectionate grin to her favorite sister. She nodded in agreement and added her own words to the end of her sisters, “To build His realm as He has envisioned it is the singular purpose of us all, and the binding ideals we strive for in His name secure our bonds as the bedrock of this the Great Crusade.” Content that she had indulged the need for propaganda and morale across the Crusade’s thousands of fleets and here amongst the myriad of mortals and Astartes assembled in hushed excitement Nelchitl was about to speak privately again when the sounds of soft singing began to drift from the honorguard of Tears.

It was then that the quiet voice drifted from Sekmetara’s entourage, from the honour guard of Tears of Dawn selected to accompany their Primarch. They were fresh, those with more experience or prominence still attending their duties on the planet. The most promising new recruits from the latest generations of Tears of Dawn. Exceptional individuals in their own right, but not yet used to the presence of even their own Primarch, let alone three. Distorted only slightly by the Astartes helm worn by the individual, the halting Mithran words reached Sekhmetara’s ears and a warmer smile brushed her features as she turned from her embrace with her sisters to approach her own honour guard. The voice continued, even more quietly and hatling as the primarch drew closer.

”Baba yetu, yetu uliye….Mbinguni yetu, yetu, amina.” The young Astartes continued to practically gasp out the words as Sekhmetara herself placed her hands on either side of the Astartes helm, lifting gently, her own programmed presence as genesire overriding the mag-locks within the armoured suit. The features which looked back at her were almost a more solidly built mirror of her own, although with an element of fresh youth the Primarch had shed long ago before she was even half the age of the being before her. Finally fully exposed, the voice came to a halting stop, a look of awe on the golden brown eyes gazing up at the Primarch’s own.

“...Sire….I’m sorry….forgive me.” She stammered, now returning to the Low Gothic the fleet communicated with, words which only extended Sekhmetara’s smile.

“You have done nothing wrong sister, but our helms are not made for expressing such joy.” Sekhmetara spoke as she offered the helm back to her gene-daughter, her eyes rising to the observation gantry as a much more sonorous voice took up the melody which had begun.

”Baba yetu, yetu uliye, Mbinguni yetu, yetu, amina, Baba yetu, yetu, uliye, Jina lako litukuzwe.” Before this new female voice had even finished her first few words, a cascade of voices joined them. The native Mithrans in attendance, from marine to rembrancer to landing crew, and those who had served long enough beside them all took up the song of celebration from their home, one that had long been adapted since the arrival of the Imperium to Mithra.

”Utupe leo chakula chetu, Tunachohitaji utusamehe, Makosa yetu, hey, Kama nasi tunavyowasamehe, Waliotukosea, usitutie.” The voices rose in celebration, cascading over the landing bay. The gantry shook with the melodic stamping of those who knew the rhythm. The people of Mithra regarding the three Primarchs with the tones once reserved for the holiest of beings in the old Mithran faith, made new for this new era of Enlightenment. All but one of Sekhmetara’s current honour guard removed their helms to join in, the first daughter now rejoining the song she had inadvertently begun. To that last helmeted daughter, the Primarch nodded. The helmed figure, garbed in the black and orange of the First Company, moved towards the shipward entrance to the hall even as the song continued.

Such was the force of joy carrying the song that the mechanical churn of the bulkhead opening caused no pause, revealing an assembly of individuals proceeding forwards. Many were in fine, if unfashionable by Imperial standards, garb although others were dressed akin to the common workers from a million generic hive cities across the galaxy. All had been taken from Praxia below in the fighting, some expected to be taken part in some form of diplomatic talks, most had little such hope having seen the furious fighting of the Astartes and wider Imperium in person. None expected to be brought into the crucible of awe that was the presence of three primarchs and the assembled crowd. As they did so, Sekhmetara swept forwards. With a blink, her eyes were alight with molten glory, the mane of her hair changing from dark brown to the superheated white of flame, surrounding her features in a halo of light and fire. For a moment all were stunned. Some were frozen in places, others fell to a knee or even prostrated themselves as she drew closer.

“People of Praxia. You have been led astray by those who seek to rip you from the love and protection of our Lord Father, of Our Imperium.” Her tone was warm, but no longer soft, not hiding the imperious nature of her tone. “Your warriors are might and brave, you have earned my respect and you will be treated as brothers and sisters united with us anew, those of you who accept the truth and justice of our eternal realm. One Galaxy, A United Humanity.” Finally she reached the line of the assembled Praxians, her hands reaching forwards upturned as she spoke. Several of them shrank away, unable to bear the force of her presence. Two of them stepped forwards, shaking with fear and awe, reaching comparatively small digits to brush her palms, like the faithful reaching for a Messiah of old. As two did, more joined them, kneeling before the burning demi-god who brought the vengeance of the galaxy with her. “In his name.” Sekhmetara sang, in her native tongue, to bring an end to the song which had once been a prayer.

Though Nelchitl had heard the words before, and had learned Mithran many years prior at the insistence of Sekhmetara, there was no doubt in her mind that her own Serpents were likely just as confused as the assembled non-Mithran mortals present. With a serenity falling over her features, she watched as the Primarch of XXth moved to her daughters and removed the helm of the one who had begun the quiet song. The reverence of Sekhmetara’s movements, and the peaceful words she spoke to her own gene-daughter only served to sway Nelchitl’s mood further into joyous peace. When the song was then picked up by all of the Mithran’s present Nelchitl found herself keeping pace in her mind as the song ebbed and flowed to its completion on the lips of Huntress herself.

“In His name.” the Emerald Priestess echoed the words of her sister beneath her breath, the words spoken with the devotion of a true believer.

She brought her gaze away from the astonishingly moving display of Sekhmetara, noting the adoration visible on the faces of all of her daughters as she moved to focus on the assorted prisoners that had been escorted into the landing bay.

Once more her sister called forth the power that sent shivers down Nelchitl’s spine every time she witnessed them. The Emerald Priestess felt the attention of every Serpent in the bay focused onto the Primarch of the XXth, their breath bated as she displayed her mystifying powers. The image of the Emperor once more before Nelchitl on the battlefield of Ixhun, hovering above her with His hands outstretched in offers of acceptance and annihilation all at once swam back to her mind in such vivid detail she couldn’t help as a tear streaked down her cheek. She felt her hearts beat faster as Sekhmetara moved amongst the prisoners offering the same assured outcomes to the traitors, and Nelchitl herself offered the sign of the aquila as the display in front of her offered nothing less than proof of the divine. For what else could create a being so perfect as the deity she was watching before her own eyes?

Daena’s heart sank as she realized that they knew, doubt gnawing at the back of her mind as she wondered who else noticed aside from her sisters. Indecision and inadequacy raced through the cracks in her mental defenses until they were banished with a burst of will powerful enough that the psykers in her retinue looked at their mistress with genuine concern, before they too mastered their emotions. It is a still and placid face that turned to greet the swell of song, whatever human part of her that may have been moved buried deep below the weight of duty and station.

Where the Tears rejoiced and the Serpents were happily confused, the Doomsayers feared. All in attendance had traveled with their lady for long enough to recognize what had occurred, the subtle indicators of Daena warring with herself - and losing. An angel without mercy or remorse strode forth as the show reached its climax, examining the prisoners with neither pity nor hate. Where Sekhmetara used grandiose displays, and Nelchitl had her fearsome reputation, the Angel of Death was far more direct.

She stopped before the row of Praxians, pulling herself to her full height, wings outstretched so that the only light that shone upon them was her sister’s own. A blank gaze swept across them as power gathered within her frame, the twin cherubim in her retinue looking at their mistress with clear distaste before muttering something unheard to her mortal followers. Her Praetors by contrast remain unmoved, Asha and the four trailing battle sisters wearing the same impassive face as their mistress - an effect made altogether more disturbing on the nearly identical faces of the pair who had walked directly before her.

When Daena spoke, it was a single, undeniable command. An order that could not be disobeyed, that even the strongest willed of the rebels could not endure. So forceful was her decree that even the weak willed among the Imperium’s own could not help but kneel or bow as they obeyed her iron will.

SUBMIT.

A ripple of submissive silence passed through the throng of both the gathered prisoners and the Imperial crowd watching from the higher observation tier. Many fell to their knees involuntarily, and many more followed by choice watching their fellows fall to the indomitable will of the primarchs. One who did not kneel was Isabis Khafre, her trembling form watching the presence of three demigods in faithful rapture. One hand splayed over her heart, the prongs of her fingers formed into four distinct points, her thumb clasped into her hand. Despite herself, her role was important, coordinating the recording of the event to be projected down to the populace on Praxia, both for the loyal and recovered cities, as well as ideally reaching even those who held out against the Imperium. Such a display from the sacred scions had momentarily pulled her away from her focus, however. How any could doubt the divinity of such beings, she did not know, but she would do her utmost to spread their word across the stars.
“That angle, yes, framed together.” She spoke in a hushed whisper to the closest of her crew, watching a large dataslate presenting a window from each camera in the hold, some co-opted from the cameras of the ship itself, others from fellow remembrancers. There were few, if any, in the Imperium who could challenge her skill of directive vision, and all of her ability went into selecting the perfect moments and angles to craft into the final vision. A monkey could make an impressive film from this footage, she felt. A master of her ability could craft a pict-series which would bring the galaxy to its enraptured knees, much as the hold now found itself. With a content smile she nodded, before pressing a runic device on her gauntlet. An unseen communication to her adopted sister to mark that they had all they needed.

Sekhmetara herself received the alert as the smallest runic blip from the interface of her armour, her hands finally lifting from those who still grasped for her presence. “You are dismissed.” She spoke plainly, but it was undoubtedly a command to all present, prisoner and Imperial alike. With a shimmer of her inflamed mane of hair, she turned, nuclear eyes falling on the agents of the Regent. She did not repeat herself, but her focus made clear she included even the highest agents of their father’s most trusted advisor within the scope of her command. If it rankled them, it was not so obvious as to present a public suggestion of rebellion to the will of the Primarch. As the landing bay emptied, Sekhmetara approached Daena again, moving to cup her cheeks before placing a kiss to her forehead.

“Calm, sister. All is well.”
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Lauder The Tired One

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Year: 001.M31

Before the Triumph of Ullanor

After the Adjourned Meeting of the Primarchs and Representatives


Prometheus marched down the corridor leading from the meeting thinking of any reasonable route to victory that would not earn him censure from the Emperor, there was nothing overt that would not send Micholi to their father. This trouble in the Mechanicum had some promise however.

He seated his helm and activated the vox to Strategos Gaalus “Gather all hands, make ready for the medal ceremony with the Sentinels.” He said in a clipped tone.

“Medal Ceremony?” asked the commander, “Was that not being planned for after the Triumph celebration?”

“I want it done now, collect anyone you must. I want the ship prepared in an hour.”

Gaalus hesitated a fraction of a second “Of course my lord” he said before the link went dead as the commander rushed to fulfil the order of his Primarch. Moments later the Primarch, already walking to the location he suspected Usriel to be, keyed his vox once again.

“Brother Usriel, There was a small matter that slipped my mind in the meeting I must discuss with you. It should not take up much of your time.”

There was a moment of silence before the boxed keyed back to Prometheus, the stern sound of Usriel’s voice, “Is it not a matter that can be discussed over vox?”

“It could be, I suppose, but we are so near and the vox so.. Impersonal” He said conversationally. Certainly this was not a concern Usriel would care about but it was always more difficult to ignore someone in person.

“That is not of my concern, Prometheus,” came the sound of Usriel’s voice, coldly speaking before allowing a long drawn out sigh to be heard through the vox as well. There was a moment of silence, “Very well, I will give you a moment of my time. Where is your location?”

As Usriel finished his statement Prometheus rounded the corner, and rather than making a quip that would surely do nothing but annoy his brother he simply launched into what was needed. “The medal ceremony between our Legions. It occurred to me that it should be done with haste so our sons can show their marks of honor during the Triumph parade. Preparations have already been made upon my ship, with some advance orders it shouldn’t take long to put those deserving in transit.” He finished in a friendly tone, as if this conversation was much more casual than the intent behind it.

“The ceremony?” Usriel asked in a shocked manner, genuinely confused by Prometheus’ statement of the medal ceremony. “Why was I not informed of a change in schedule sooner,” the nineteenth Primarch inquired, cocking his head to the side out of confusion of the situation as a whole.

“Were you not?” mimicking his brother’s confusion “I will need to have words with the General.” he said absentmindedly “I apologize Usriel, you know how mortals are sometimes. Regardless our attendance would be needed to conduct the ceremony appropriately” Prometheus finished using his brother's biases to his advantage.

“I believe you had heard that I promised to look into the matter of those who’d disrupt the Triumph personally, Prometheus,” Usriel said, sighing as his mental timesheet began to be disrupted. He seemed to be annoyed at the sudden change of schedule, wanting nothing more than to believe this to be nothing more than a cruel joke. “Had I known about this, I’d not have volunteered my services,” Usriel continued, irritated but clearly not angry.

“Yes, as I said, the matter slipped my mind. I trusted that word would have reached you. Regardless, there is a shuttle coming to collect me soon. Would you care to join me to orbit?” Without waiting for an answer he continued clapping a hand on his brother’s shoulder leading the way to the landing zone. “Though, I must say I am surprised you are taking such a personal hand in the matter. Would this not be something for the Fabricator or Arch-Magos to handle? Seems such a trivial matter for one such as us to handle.” He said genuinely curious “Then again, your history dealing with treachery would make the matter personal.” Mused the Primarch.

“I do not tolerate anything that would be against the Emperor,” Usriel answered simply, not meeting Prometheus’ gaze.

Behind the same corner that Usriel had rounded mere moments ago, the helmed figure of the Doomsayer’s Equerry stood silently, her mind racing at what she had overheard. Surely Prometheus, a Primarch, wouldn’t think to delay one of his brothers from investigating an affront against the Emperor? Nonetheless, she could not deny what her senses told her. Sealing her helmet, Yeketerina Ascania quickly uttered a series of orders to the Destroyers and Revenants cleansing the warboss’ foul fortress for the Triumph’s crowning moment. Surely the master of the Vth simply wished to share mutual glory, so glory in kind may yet dissuade him. She hoped.

The staring contest between the two demigods was broken as the shorter form of the Astartes intruded, the woman bowing her head low as came across the Primarchs. “My lord Usriel. My lord Prometheus. Pray forgive me, but there is news you may find interesting,” she said, turning her head up as she finished, the grim vision of Daena’s face frozen in the serenity of death staring back at him from her mask. “My mother had bid us to prepare a fitting trophy for your victory, and at last I believe we have succeeded.”

Prometheus eyed the Doomsayer for a beat before answering “A trophy? Well, we must see this trophy worthy of such a grand Imperial victory. I assume that is the purpose behind interrupting us.” he said in a stern though not hostile tone. Fortune favored Prometheus, it may take little time to see and appreciate whatever this trophy was but even an extra hour keeping Usriel occupied was an hour his intelligence was not brought to bear on the investigation. “Come and witness this grand trophy brother, I insist. We should share in its grandeur, this victory is yours as much as it is mine.” The primarch said as he turned to his brother.

“I beg to differ, Prometheus. Our victory was Ullanor Secundus, yours is this planet. I did nothing other than my duty to lure the Ork forces away, as was the Emperor’s orders,” Usriel said with a grain of humility, knowing that the warboss’ death was not anything that he had been involved in. Shifting his gaze to look to Ascania, the Primarch of the Sentinels spoke, “I will take this time to ready my resources for the investigation,” only pausing to look to Prometheus, “Let me know when the medal ceremony is to begin and I shall join you.”

With those words Usriel began to step away, though before he got far Prometheus caught his shoulder “Is that not a matter that can be done over vox?” The primarch said as he echoed Usriels words back to him. “Our actions over Secundus was equally important as the assault on the fortress or any other battle in the system. Without them the fortress would have been nigh impossible to take. You share in this victory as much as I.” He said, though he knew full well Usriel was right. “Would you shame me by forcing me to beg for your company?”

Usriel remained silent for a moment before, looking at Prometheus and speaking in a clearly irritated tone, “Very well, but do not disturb me from making my preparations as we walk.”

For the second time that day, Ascania was grateful for the all encompassing mask that hid her emotions from view. The fact that she had failed to free Usriel from these distractions was one thing, but the fact that Prometheus seemed so adamant upon delaying him only raised her suspicions. As far as the two Primarchs could tell however, there was only a slight nod of acknowledgement from the death mask. “Of course, my lords. I had wished to show you this in secret to enhance the reveal at the Triumph, but if you insist on lord Usriel accompanying us it is not my place to refuse him.”

Conceding that she had failed in her original goal, Ascania endeavored to at least make this as swift as possible. Keying in her vox intentionally so that the two Primarchs could hear, the Equerry quickly gave orders to the Revenants guarding the site. “Prepare for inspection, and dispatch a Land Speeder. ...two, in fact. Lord Usriel shall be joining us.”

The speeders were swift and the tour swifter, the grand display that Ascania had promised being almost hurried. While the Equerry’s failure and a desire to not further waste time certainly played a role, the guardians of the trophy were a brusque lot even by the standards of the Doomsayers. They quickly led the Primarchs into the high hall of Urlakk Urg’s shattered tower - and the broken and battered corpse of the Warboss himself, his immense bones scorched by the cleansing flames of Destroyers, and then just as quickly suggesting that they leave. The cruel glow of volkite weapons in their hands made obvious the work that the unplanned visit had interrupted, the grim women clearly wishing to finish what they viewed as a far more important task. It was all in all a brief diversion, the Primarchs deposited at the spaceport over an hour after Prometheus had first suggested the medal ceremony. It was time that both brothers could perhaps consider a victory, an hour’s delay - and an hour for Usriel to coordinate his forces.

Bidding farewell to the Primarchs, it was Usriel that Ascania’s mask focused on. “My apologies for delaying you, my lords. I understand that you have important business to attend to, I pray that nothing so petty will delay you further in your grand works.”

“A small delay, but the medal ceremony…” Usriel trailed off, looking to Prometheus, “Are you certain it is necessary that this ceremony be held now? I gave them my word that I would look into the matter, personally. I cannot break such a promise, lest I am nothing more than the petty mortals of any other Auxilia or station.”

Prometheus nodded, “I understand, I wouldn’t think of causing you to break such a promise but your own people are certainly skilled enough to perform the tedious start of such a matter. There would be hundreds or thousands to sift through before arriving at those who require your abilities. This is an opportunity to not only honor your sons but allow your soldiers to get the easy part of the investigation done. Once the ceremony is done you will have ample time to investigate.”

“That is not my point, Prometheus,” Usriel said stepping away from his peer, putting his hands behind his back as continued, “I said I would take on the investigation. That means it is my wholly responsibility, I will not delegate any part of that I can personally attend to. Furthermore, much as it would bring me joy to see some of my sons receive such honors, they only care for their duty to the Emperor and to me. The Sentinels do not care for honors as that is how I molded them to be, for I care little for such honors. It is but a formality that I even attend such an event rather than do my duty.”

“Do not care for honors?” Prometheus asked surprised “beneath the armor, cybernetics and implants your Sentinels are still human, greater to be certain, but still human. They may not be glory hounds and will do their duty regardless of any recognition. That said, you know as well as I that they still desire that recognition, perhaps even more so because it is such a rare thing. They wouldn’t speak of it to you or their commanders. Those who receive praise from their own Primarch and another would be examples of excellence that would strive to meet or exceed those expectations. Even cause others to strive to be greater and follow their example. Your presence is not a formality, it is a symbol to inspire your own sons and mine to be greater Astartes than they had been before the Ullanor Crusade.”

Usriel remained silent for a good while, the words of his brother clearly lingering before he echoed, “Still human.” A wave of anger came crashing around him, as evident by the many of the nearby machines acting as if they had just gone haywire. The Land Speeder that they had used shut off in its entirety as the Nineteenth Primarch’s emotions overcame him. He took a step towards Prometheus, hands clenched as he spat, “Do not compare my sons to those filth. They are not human, they are Astartes! I am not human, I am Astartes!” A high pitched whine came through the air as the lights of the area they were in brightened to a blinding degree, some of them outright breaking as the enraged Primarch continued, “Why do you continue to keep me here, Prometheus? What reasons was this ceremony pushed to now without my explicit consent or warning? Why?!”

Prometheus threw his helm to the ground sending a spider web of cracks from the impact point, He knew the human comment would get under Usriel’s skin but he had underestimated the fury it would bring. “Why? Because I want the plot to succeed, or else be undiscovered long enough to keep our brother’s xenos pets from the Triumph.” There was little point in lying now, Usriel was a Primarch after all. He would have understood Prometheus’ goals soon enough. “They are a blight and the Edict protecting them a travesty.” Though there was venom in Prometheus’ words he stood unconcerned at the chaos Usriel’s fury was causing around them.

“What does it matter?! Xenos or human, they are both beneath us!” Usriel exclaimed, the anger pooling off of him before continuing, “I care not for either of them! They will betray us all in the end! Both human and xenos are a stain upon what this Imperium could become! But I don’t allow that thought to cloud my judgement, I do not allow it to consume me and deceive my fellow Primarchs!”

Usriel let out a roar before turning and swinging a fist into the wall, the metal bending and now revealed wires letting sparks loose, allowing his frustration to vent. The Primarch calmed, the nearby Machine Spirits returning to their normal resting state before Usriel brought his fist out of the wall. He turned his head to Prometheus, and said in a cold tone that held back the anger, “You would be wise to not deceive me again, Prometheus..”

The Nineteenth turned away from the other before looking down to Ascania, “My apologies for allowing you to see me in such a light, niece. I do believe that you did well with Prometheus’ trophy.”

“It matters Usriel” Prometheus said in a somber tone. “Before I was found by our father. The Xenos was a blight that nearly brought the Empire of Amn to its knees. Few are aware but there is still a species in my former home even now killing those of my homeworld. We hunt them endlessly but they are devious and can steal the appearance of those they had eaten for a time. The Simulacra we call them, used their alien abilities to befriend my former empire and betray us during a long war with the Orks. The war they started has yet to end… I would not see the Imperium as a whole drawn into a similarly eternal conflict. The edict is a shield protecting our enemy, our sons bleed and die for the dream that is the Imperium of Man while its core rots from the xenos blight within.” Prometheus finished as his gaze bored into the back of Usriel’s helm.

The words fell upon deaf ears as Usriel responded, harshly and coldly, “And what of those humans who betrayed my sons at Atis? Do you know how many of my sons died? How much blood I had to see pouring from those survivors that we could not save? You will defend the xenos as I must defend those who would betray the both of us.” Usriel let out a sigh, allowing himself to become lost in his own memories before he said, “You do not know the hatred and anger I feel, how much I wish to make humanity feel what I felt on that day. Yet, I continue with my duty as it is the will of our Emperor.”

Prometheus nodded in understanding “The difference is, until we can grow the Astartes further or otherwise convert humanity to your ideal… we still need them, the xenos we do not.”

“And it is by the Emperor’s will that the Edict of Tolerance was-” Usriel began.

“It was Micholi’s will, Our father was pandering to a child who could not do what is necessary.” Spat Prometheus in reply.

Usriel was silent, not because he did not have anything to say, but because there was no point in arguing with Prometheus. The Primarch of the Sentinels did not need to speak anymore than he had to say to his brother. Though he stood still and silent, there were many things that Usriel wished to say, holding his tongue before casting a gaze to Ascania. After a long moment of silence, he finally spoke, “This conversation is over, Prometheus.”

Prometheus simply sighed disappointment clearly written on his features. He wanted Usriel to understand, but he was so blinded by some fool traitor to see clearly. The Vth Primarch walked away towards a Knights of Awe transport that had been intended to ferry both to the ceremony, his helm left forgotten in the star port.

Silence stretched out between Primarch and Equerry for a few long moments before Ascania finally spoke, the woman having waited until Prometheus was well and away. “It seems you have enemies in your hunt, my lord. The Doomsayers are yours, should you have need of us,” she said in a far more controlled voice than she had expected herself to manage, considering the circumstances. Her mother had told her that only speech and slaughter remained on Ullanor when she left, Ascania dared not imagine how Daena would react to this transpiring instead of the expected.

“I thank you, niece. Again, I am sorry that you had to see me in such a light,” Usriel stated, allowing himself to momentarily relax, before stepping away from the hall. “Come, we have much work to do,” the Primarch said.

Ascania gave a nod of assent - but behind her death mask a dazzling array of cogitators were at work. Blink clicking through a series of menus and notices, the appropriate orders were given with any passerby none the wiser. As the Equerry left with the Primarch, a figure in an all too common robes followed her instructions without question or complaint, spiriting away the helm of the lord of the Vth.

She froze midstep as she followed Usriel, inspiration striking her. “Pray, begin your work without me my lord. I will bring loyal and true servants of your father to help you root out this cancer.” And so they parted, the Primarch traveling deep beneath the surface as the Equerry raced towards the stars.


Hours Later

Within the Triumph Causeway Service Tunnels...



The labyrinthian network of chambers and passageways beneath the great granite causeway for the Triumph was a necessary evil analogue to an underhive: A sprawling, tangled cesspit of rust, iron, steam, and oil. The maze of wires, cabling, ducts and sealed bulwarks was crowded over with lay-Tech-Priests and several armies worth of servitors, and an abundance of servo-skulls and mechadendrite hives that would have made even the spire of a High Altar of Technology on some forge worlds seem understaffed.

Archmagos Rarnet led the Usriel and his honor guard through the bustling corridors, relaying to Usriel through his vox-hailer on the details he was already privy to.

'The Mechanicum's many servitors and machine spirits charged with the running and maintenance of various consecrated systems and machines, are all universally bestowed with doctrinally-compliant fervor that induces them to obey the faithful and to lash out against those who are not.' Rarnet's vox-frequency droned within their helmets.

'The trouble began when many of our lower-order priests reported that many of the machine spirits tasked with the execution of the Triumph would respond aggressively to the presence of xenosforms in the parade. Pict-casts and imagery would be shut down, censored, scrambled, or directly blocked. Combat servitors and automated security measures would activate and engage. Alerts would be set off, certain segments of the Triumph's service tunnels would enter lockdown. Nearly every Machine Spirit present in the workings here had to be resanctified by our Rune Priests and Techsorcists, as well as every new Machine Spirit that will be brought in. The task is difficult and at times impossible. Certain Machine Spirits are designed with the exigencies in their condition-contingent core processes. Removing the xenos-dependent failsafes causes a number of Machine Spirits and their devices to cease functioning altogether. Hence the disarray.' Rarnet gestured with a stray mechadendrite to the tangled jungle of cables and haphazardly scattered devices that littered the passageways. 'Many of these systems are jury-rigged, improvised, or wholly analogue. The Prefecture Magisterium has already condemned sixteen lay-priests and an Artisan for improper or perverse rites of sanctification and craftwork.'

Usriel looked past all the many working cogs, taking in the information given to him before looking to the Archmagos and speaking into his vox with an impassive tone, "If the Machine Spirits are able to be resanctified, reinstalled, then the issue lies with the tech-priests and the like working upon them. Any Machine Spirit will bend given enough effort." The Primarch allowed his mind to wonder, taking in the possibilities for the moment before asking, "Those condemned lay-priests, are the presumed to be a part of this conspiracy?"

'No. Though guilty of techno-heresy, they were the ones working hardest to ensure all the Triumph systems worked flawlessly and without causing any issues.' Rarnet voxed back. 'The problem is that since the original Machine Spirits and devices have been reconsecrated and resanctified or else replaced, the conspirators have changed tactics. To facilitate your investigation I will be introducing you to Magos Ulbridge, a senior Tech-Priest within my personal staff who has been charged with managing all of the personnel assignments here in the Service Sectors, as well as reviewing all networked system cogitator and archive data to ensure it is pure and free of corruption. I am as certain as I can be that both he and his staff are free of guilt, and that they are in the best position possible to assist your investigation.'

As Rarnet continued to lead Usriel and his Honor Guard through the halls, Tech-Priests managing the turbulent strata of mechanisms pulled away from their labors to prostrate themselves, to make gesticulations of prayer, and to recite a variety of canticles. Servitors and Servo-Skulls cleared away from the group, often lining up against nearby walls akin to procession guards as the Astartes passed. It was evident the Mechanicum's Priests venerated Usriel, which would likely open several doors for him - though, on the other side of the coin, the conspirators doubtlessly knew of his arrival mere instants after he had set foot in the tunnels.

Usriel looked upon them the numerous Tech-Priests that bowed before him, looking between each as his honor guard continued to march around him. It was not often that he would see this many prostrating to him, though knowing there were some that likely cared not and merely did so out of the sake of formality. The Primarch brought his head forwards once more, casting the veneration of him from his mind as he refocused upon his task. Remembering that there were those who would work against the Emperor were in these tunnels brought unnease to him, though it brought him back to knowing his duty to keep to his creator.

"Do you know Fabricator-Technis Arx of Vion 5?" Usriel asked into his vox as he followed Rarnet through the tunnels.

'Only by reputation. Distantly.' Rarnet replied.

"And what would that reputation be?" the venerated one inquired.

[i]'The Fabricator Intendant of Vion 5 was the...successor to the original who governed the planet during the Founding.'[i] Rarnet voxed, their synthetic voice as dispassionate as always - but with a pause betraying the Tech-Priest needing to either look up that particular information or even ask their nearby fellows. There was certainly enough vox-chatter coming to and from the Archmagos adjacent to their current conversation for it to be plausible. 'The planet of the Ninteenth Primarch's adolescent life. I do not recall seeing his listing in the registry of the last few remote summits for the Holy Synod of Mars, but I am confident he must be a member.'

"A shame," Usriel commented, before continuing, "Not many know of Arx in the capacity that I do. I would have thought many more would have heard of him." The Primarch let out a sigh of light disappointment as he fell silent once more, looking between his sons and calculating the possibilities that lay ahead of them after they spoke to Ulbridge. Granted, many of his thoughts were dependent upon the information that would be given to him, only then would he be able to formulate a plan of attack. Usriel's mind focused less upon the xenos, he did not care if they were truly a part of the of the Triumph or not, they would be excluded if he failed to find anything and more on what to do with those that would seek to go against a celebration for the Omnissiah, the Emperor. He knew that only those that did not follow his absolute power, would inevitably betray them in the end.

Eventually Rarnet halted before a large, reinforced bulkhead door emblazoned with the symbol of the Aquila, with a pict-reader and an activation rune mounted beneath. Activating the rune, Rarnet led the Primarch and his honor guards into what was evidently an airlock ('Extra security,' the Archmagos supplied) and an identical bulkhead door. Once the chamber had cycle and the massive aperture parted, Usriel found himself in a massive chamber, not altogether unfamiliar in design and layout to the bridge for a void-ship. Control-thrones, podiums, pict-casters and arrays of controls seated in trenches along the floor were staffed by nearly a dozen Tech-Priests, and the center of the room was dominated by a large, spherical cogitator unit suspended by cable-lines from the ceiling. A hunch-backed Tech-Priest distinguished by their single bionic eye, easily the size of two closed fists and encompassing most of his metallic face-plate, stared directly at the floor - their form motionless. mechadendrites linking them to the cogitator core indicated they were likely more literally rather than figuratively out of their mind at the moment.

'Magos Ulbridge.' Rarnet indicated on a broad-spectrum vox-transmission, audible to everyone with a receive in the vicinity. 'Come unto yourself and pay homage to the Nineteenth Son of the Omnissiah, the Primarch of the Steel Sentinels.'

The Tech-Priest immediately jerked to life, their massive bionic eye flaring with incandescent brilliance and peering up to gaze at Usriel's towering figure. Ulbridge's mechadendrites disengaged from the cogitator core, snaking back in towards his body as he fell to his knees with a loud clang and began making gesticulations of prayer with both hands while audibly invoking the Canticle of Solar Reverence in Cant-Mechanicum on the spot. As one, the odd-dozen Tech-Priests who had been ensconced in their work in the surrounding trenches rose, raising their hands and joining them in a resonant prayer to accompany the Magos.

Usriel allowed them to pray, silently watching over them as they did so. After a moment of listening, he spoke in a voice befitting his status, a loud and confident voice filled the room, "You may rise, Priests of the Machine Cult."

With an almost unanimous closing gesticulation, the priests in the trenches below turned and lowered themselves back into their work once more. Ulbridge rose to his feet.

'Magos Ulbridge, the Primarch, in hearing of the matter we discussed earlier concerning the Triumph's sanctity, has personally elected to investigate the matter.' Rarnet voxed privately between the three of them. 'You are to cooperate with him, and any individual he so indicates, for as long as the investigation lasts. I charge you with the task of ensuring that the Triumph proceeds smoothly and without any form of disruption as may stem from the investigation and its findings. This matter is sealed and all pertinent information classed as a Throne Secret until the end of the investigation. Nobody save the Primarch, members of his Legion, the Custodes, the Order Elucidatum, and the Omnissiah himself are to become aware of anything that transpires within the investigation outside what they witness with their own eyes. Is that understood?'

'Affirmative, Archmagos. I seek clarification regarding the member of the Administratum attached to my staff.' Ulbridge replied after a brief moment. He gestured with a metallic talon towards the corner of the room. As indicated, a dumpy member of the administratum was present - their robes covered in oily grime and dust from exposure to the depths of the service tunnels. The shabby and somewhat obese man was so dimunitive and unassuming relative to everything else in the chamber that even Usriel himself had completely overlooked the man when he first entered the room. He was morosely bent over, scraping the remnants of a ruined soppy sandwich that he had dropped on the floor - possibly when Usriel had arrived. He was muttering indiscernible curses under his breath, and his substantial jowls were a deep and enflamed red, either from disposition or embarrassment.

'Prefectus Hodge. He appeared sixteen hours ago. His credentials are verified but he been unduly obstructive to our efforts and requesting triplicate prints of certain archived records.' Ulbridge continued. 'His ability to comb through our archives and parse data is adequate however. It could create complications if I am required to obscure details pertaining to the investigation from him.'

Rarnet turned up, looking to Usriel in inquisitive silence.

"He will be of no issue. If he inquires of the records of this investigation, he shall have no authority over them and if he pushes the issue then I shall deal with him myself," Usriel stated coldly, looking at Hodge before continuing, "If you would find it wise, I shall make sure he does not inquire into this at this very moment, Magos."

'Your word alone shall be sufficient, immaculate Primarch.' Ulbridge nodded and made another offhand gesture. 'Is there anything else before we begin, Archmagos?'

'No. I shall be departing now to attend to matters aboard the Light of the Omnissiah. May the Motive Force channel vision unto your mind, and justice unto your hand. May the Omnissiah's grace forever inhabit you, Primarch.' Rarnet made a low bow before Usriel one last time, and then proceeded back towards the airlock.

'Holy Primarch. Here is the exact problem.' Ulbridge began, turning back towards the cogitator core. They raised a mechadendrite and pulled down a stand-mounted pict-screen for them both to view. It showed the momentary interment of a Machine Spirit meant to relay auspex data between a number of different systems, with its core systems having been partitioned into two halves, both displayed on the screen.

'This half of the Spirit's core functions represent reconsecrated lines. If we used just these functions, there would be no issue - the Spirit would not react to the presence of Xenos in the Triumph. However, an unknown Heretek has added additional algorithms and routines to the Spirit's system on top of the reconsecration.' He gestured to the second half. The lines of code there stood in startling contrast to the Mechanicum programming in the first image - where the reconsecrated portion appeared to be comprised of neat, carefully ordered and efficiently parsed code, the second portion was a snarled and tangled mess of inchoate script.

'As you can see, this coding is inefficiently structured - intentionally, to obscure the identity of the perpetrator and the purpose of the new code. Analysis of this portion has revealed that, during a predetermined time of the Triumph, it would have directed the Machine Spirit to slave itself to a second device that would then vox new remote instructions. That device has since also been identified. The issue is that this code does not otherwise interfere with or contravene the functionality of the reconsecrated segment. This Spirit, and the device that would have transmitted to it, as well as several dozen other devices we have discovered, each use utterly unique code structures that cannot be reliably identified by Crawler Spirits. The only way to tell they are there is to manually search through every line of code across every Machine Spirit and device being used in the Triumph.' Ulbridge turned away from the screen to look up at Usriel, his single bionic eye pulsing in an almost frantic pattern.

'The aggregate total lines to be reviewed numbers in the tens of trillions. My entire staff is already overclocking to monitor the network and find instances of sabotage, but we are working around the symptoms rather than the cause. Even if we purged the entire network and started over, the Hereteks could just apply similar modifications wherever they please.'

"I see..." Usriel voxed, crossing his arms and thinking to himself for a moment to find a possibility to find any way to find where the source had been implemented. "Do we know how the algorithm had gotten into the system? Any specific ports that needed to be accessed in order to do so?"

'Most of these algorithms and programs are still time-stamped. The vast majority of them were implemented during the process of reconsecration. Due to how involved modification of core systems is to enable Xenos to march in the Triumph, any device may have been worked on by any number of Tech-Priests, using any number of standard methods. If we try to identify suspects by grouping every Tech-Priest who worked on a particular device, more than 90% of the Mechanicum personnel here would be complicit. Those devices and systems not modified during the original period of reconsecration show evidence of having their memory tampered with to remove time stamps and archived log data.' Ulbridge gestured emphatically to the trenches where his own staff were still pouring over their lecterns. 'The perpetrators are likely implementing these changes during routine examination and maintenance, while they have physical access to the device in question.'

"As I suspected. Any primary suspects? Anyone whose faith to the Machine God has been recently put to question?" Usriel inquired.

'The Tech-Priests with the most questionable adherence to Mechanicum Doctrine are those working most fervently towards the creation of Xenos-tolerant systems.' Ulbridge replied. Although the vox transmission carried only a synthetized voice, the specified pacing of the syllables had seemed to tighten somewhat. 'It is, perversely, those who believe themselves the most devout that I think are the most likely suspects. Those who view the work we are doing here as contrary to Mechanicum Dogma.'

Which, if Rarnet was to be believed from his statement earlier, would include the Prefecture Magisterium - who had condemned those Tech-Priests that proved the most innovative in adapting the Triumph's systems to the presence of Xenos.

Usriel thought to himself for another brief moment, only speaking into his vox once he formulated something, "Then the issue lies with the leadership. Those who do not comply, and seek to allow the Triumph to happen without flaw, would be condemned." Looking back to the algorithm, the Primarch let out a sigh as the situation unfurled slowly enough.

'I count myself as one who desires the Triumph to transpire without issue, Primarch.' Ulbridge indicated, raising a mechanical talon in a plaintive gesture. 'The only Tech-Priests to be condemned thus far are those who have openly resorted to unclean methods and craftswork. Of which this subversive code would also qualify. The line in the sand seems to be that reconsecration is permissible but that improvised analogue bypasses are punishable. I was not charged with enforcing Adherence to the Faith, just with personnel and technical oversight.'

"Adherence to the Faith," Usriel echoed, before looking down at Ulbridge for a long silent moment. Thoughts ran through the Primarch's mind like a supercomputer calculating an unknown number of probabilities. "Magos Ulbridge, summon those in leadership roles you believe to be the most devout, and give me their names. I wish to have words with them, if what you believe is correct then we may have our first leads."

After his words with the Magos, the Primarch switched to a seperate vox channel and ordering, "Machine Ghost, you are clear to begin investigation. I require you to check some devices for anti-xenos algorithms, names for those who work those devices shall be coming momentarily." Ulbridge had already turned away from the Primarch and back towards the Cogitator Core, linking back to it with a mechadendrite. The data showing the reconsecrated Machine Spirit vanished from the pict-screen and was replaced by a personnel directory. Names began to highlight as the Magos began simultaneously voxing each individual in turn. Usriel, in turn, rattling off the names to the Night Watch team
.
"Respectful: Understood sire. Query: Are updates to make technology xenos-indifferent uniform or tailored to each different machine?" a robotic voice answered back on the vox channel.

"Operate under the assumption that they require different coding. Likely similar in some regards but not incredibly," answered Usriel.

"Excuse me." A completely Human, unsynthesized, verbally uttered voice shattered the previously entirely silent series of vox-perpetuated conversations. Now standing off to the side of Usriel and his Honor Guard, Prefectus Hodge - the Administratum official Ulbridge had pointed out initially - had almost invisibly crept up on them all. He was holding a data-slate in one hand, facing the Primarch and with his free hand gesturing towards it in an accusatory fashion. A glance at it showed that it was a mirror-depiction of the same personnel directory Ulbridge had just pulled up.

"Did you lot just call a general meeting of the senior staff? This is most irregular. I hope you have already drawn up the necessary documentation in triplicate." He seemed to be peering almost imperious down his nose at Usriel, despite the Primarch looming more than two meters above the portly clerk. Ulbridge was very conscientiously ignoring Hodge's approach, back still turned to the rest of them - likely determined to let Usriel deal with the matter.

One of those honor guard that had been with Usriel, then stepped forwards, moving between Hodge and the Primarch. The looming form of a marine bea"You will speak when spoken to, human."

At which, the clearly-suicidal Administratum Drone audibly harrumphed. "Do you have any idea how many manhours this little impromptu stunt of yours has set the Triumph back, young man?" He peered staunchly over the Astartes' soldier, directing the comment directly at the Primarch, seemingly unfazed by the threat of imminent death at the Honor Guards' hands. "This whole affair is already behind schedule and you certainly are not helping matters. Do you know who pays for this delay if somebody has to tell the Emperor of Mankind that he has to wait? This may just be a game to you Astartes, but may I remind you several million laborers and-"

"Maren, silence him," Usriel ordered, not bothering to look at Hodge as the end of a plasma rifle impacted the side of the man's head, knocking him to the ground. The Astartes that had spoken to him, placed a foot on the form of the man and stared down upon him. Maren stared for a silent moment.

"You will not address the son of the Emperor in such a manner, human. You insulted the Emperor himself with your words, you insulted the Omnissiah's own son in front of the Cult Mechanicus," Maren stated coldly, before looking up to a Tech-Priest and asking, "What punishment does that earn, priest?"

"The Administratum would have him replaced and assail us with relentless inquiries to file more of their odious records. He is not of the faith. Let him scurry away to lick at his pride, having our assigned Administratum representative out of our cowls for the time being would be favorable." Ulbridge answered aloud, his vox-coder whirring and ticking as he spoke.

Wordlessly, Maren stepped off of Hodge, reaching down and grabbing the man by the scruff of his fat neck. The Astartes wrenched the man to his feet, speaking in a tone similar to how Hodge had spoke to Usriel, "Scramble back to wherever you came before my Primarch decides to address you himself." Hodge's face was too bruised and swollen from being bashed by Maren's rifle for him to form a coherent reply, instead uttering a pained wail of assent.

Maren turned back and walked to his place in the formation of his brothers after dropping Hodge to his feet to limp away, bent over and clutching at his face in pain, his data-slate left abandoned on the floor. "I apologize for his interruption, my Primarch," the Standard Bearer said, his voice bearing some remorse for allowing Hodge to speak to Usriel in such a manner.

"Worry not, my son. The human did not know his place," Usriel answered before looking back to Ulbridge, "We may continue, Magos."

"Statement: Stupid Fat Man Prefectus Hodge has been added to list of suspects to be observed. Will inform if anything of interest arises." The robotic voice added.

Usriel let out a chuckle at the remark from the Tech-Marine. "Understood.”

There was a brief moment where the vox line with Machine Ghost went silent as it was muted from their end. After a brief discussion, the robotic voice returned as he asked "Suspicious Curiosity: Did Prefectus Hodge leave anything behind? Explanation: Easiest method of bypassing mechanical security is the human element. Getting a device past the security programs and spirits offers a strong back door."

Usriel looked to where Hodge had been, voxing back, “A data-slate. I will hand it to you when I am moving to another location.”

“Statement: Understood Sire.” was all that was said before the speaker went quiet again. There was nothing more that needed to be said, unless the Primarch brought something up.

'The personnel you requested have arrived outside of the chamber via teleportarium beacons and are standing by, Primarch. Where do you desire to have them questioned?' Ulbridge voxed to Usriel.

"Where is your nearest shrine?" Usriel asked, looking to Ulbridge.


Moments Later…


The Shrine Usriel had ordered emptied and set aside from the purposes of the investigation was a modest one, as far as Mechanicum Shrines went. Presumably being situated in the midst of the sprawling subterranean service tunnels had something to do with that. The twisted halls and corridors, which had been cramped and tight for the express purpose of conserving space, had obviously paid dearly in order to provide the Shrine and those other areas like it with extra room. Though the chamber was wide with ample floor-space, its ceiling came to an unceremonious halt scarcely a quarter of a meter above Usriel’s head. The entirety of the far wall was dedicated to a statuesque idol depicting the Emperor in his aspect as the living avatar of the Machine God, and directly behind it was a frame of the Cog Mechanicum, bordered by a plate relief embossed with imagery of Mars and the Emperor upon Olympus Mons. Before the statue was a raised dais with a lectern, and before it a spacious plaza. The chamber was lined with ornate gold and Martian-red colored columns, each one with an inset terminal and pict-caster displaying holo-imagery of common Mechanicum creeds - the Universal Truths, the Mysteries of the Quest for Knowledge, and innumerable different canticles. The terminals themselves were doubtlessly linked to repositories of available Mechanicum articles, treatises, and monograms. Interspersing the floor were multiple podiums with hollow-spaced interiors, rimmed by curled iron bars. What purpose they served was unclear, although it was likely the Shrine was unfinished due to the ongoing work involving the Triumph.

The Tech-Priests Ulbridge had summoned stood in a rough line before the lectern. Auspex data helpfully fed directly to Usriel’s helmet identified each of them for him in turn.

The first of the Tech-Priests standing to the far left, Artisan Malchediel, was the only one of the assembled Tech-Priests who had entirely eschewed any kind of ceremonial robe. Their six double-jointed legs supported a hollow-framed chest, with what looked like an integral lathe running directly through its center. They had no arms, but instead bore an oversized collar with eight mechadendrites stemming from it. Each was tipped by some outlandish implement - an arc welder, a plasma caster, and a transonic saw amongst others. Their head was little more than a metal-plated skull, its jaw completely missing and buried within their oversized collar right at their upper lip.

Logis Karoa, poised second from the left, stood out amongst the other figures due to their peculiar coloration. Rather than the traditional Martian-Red, their robes were instead a deep, stygian black that seemed to devour the light from the nearest emitters. The metal of their bionic augmentations, rather than the standard chrome or Mechanicum-Ebon, was instead a deep celestial blue, and their brow was crowned by a circlet of burnished gold emblazoned with the symbol of the Logis Order. They moved without a gait, seeming to drift effortlessly over the floor.

Towering above their compatriots and standing in the midst of the pack, Malagra Szorbulo was a monstrous war-machine, matching the tallest member of Usriel's Honor Guard in height. Their reverse-jointed cybernetic legs, the integrated transonic razors on their lower set of arms and the insidiously long chordclaws of their upper arms gave way their status as a member of a Sicarian Clade. Combined with the ragged and battle-worn red cloak and cowl they wore over their battle armor and their monstrous size, they could only have been a Praetorian Ruststalker.

The Rune Priest Julaen situated to the right of Szorbulo was, in a word, buggy. Their mechanical frame was spindly and light, with each of the fingers on their cybernetic hands branching into three distinct, wavering mechadendrites apiece. Their head, which bore an ornamental barbed crest, was constantly shifting and focusing distantly at curious angles of the room with rapidly dilating trinocular bionic eyes. They were constantly shifting their feet, nearly hopping from one to the other every moment, and their hands were restless and wavered at their sides.

The final Tech-Priest to the far right, Techsorcist Heamiona, out of all the assembled Tech-Priests, bore the most remaining flesh. Their body was almost a perfectly bisected specimen - one half wholly cybernetic, and the other unmolested flesh. Their right arm was a crowded, oversized gauntlet tipped with interface prongs and covered with at least a dozen different control interfaces, gauges, keypads, and modular inputs. Loosely clutched and hanging demurely from their left hand was an elegant scepter of gold, ending in a Cog Mechanicum head capped with cardinal-aligned spikes.

Standing behind Usriel were an altogether different trio, each woman garbed in the armor of the Doomsayers. The first was Ascania herself, the Equerry having at long last returned from her promised errand with the loyal and true servants of the Emperor beside her. Standing to her left was a woman who wore Daena’s face in truth where Ascania had to make due with a mask, the Astartes in question having developed the pure white hair and eyes of those in whom their gene-mother’s lineage ran strongest. Her occupation, and the reason for her presence, was no secret, the shoulder of her armor stamped with the sigil of the Librarians. It was the third who was the most puzzling, the woman in full armor clearly showing her as a Doomsayer, but with her shoulder marked with the crowned double eagle of the Adeptus Terra.

“My lord Usriel, apologies for the delay,” Ascania said, bowing her head to the Primarch. “I have returned as I promised. Sister Theodora, Sister Brynhildr,” she said, gesturing first to the Librarian, and then to the other one.

“I thank you, for your involvement, nieces,” Usriel said, bowing his head to the three before turning his attention to the five, odd characters that were arrayed in the chamber. He silently looked over them, moving to be centered within the room allowed the red glare from his helmeted face to run over them. His honor guard moved to the entrances of the room, not blocking the doorways, but standing to the sides of them. The Primarch turned away to look at the Emperor’s form as the living Machine God, seemingly inspecting it in the silent moment.

“I have been told that you five are amongst the most faithful at this location,” Usriel stated, not looking away from the idol. He allowed those words to hang for a moment, before turning his head as an effort to give the Priests a side-look, coldly asking, “Am I correct?”

“Faith allineation allocation partitioned to highest strata condition filter whitelisting seniormost staff, project leads, leaders.” The Black-robed Logis answered. Her vox-coder synthesized voice was the low sound of grains of snow buffeting metal in a storm. Soft, grainy, and with a chilling and resonant hiss to it that seemed to saturate the air.

“Then why have I received reports of machine spirits having an anti-xenos algorithm being inserted within them?” Usriel asked in a rather sarcastic tone, looking away and back to the idol of the Emperor.

“Report predicate conditions exist.” The jittering Rune Priest’s voice was calm and even - but loud. Without any evident tension or strain upon their intonation, their words filled the whole of the shrine with a violent intensity. Usriel’s sarcasm was evidently lost on this crowd. Beyond Julaen’s restless fidgeting, the only significant motion evinced from any of the Tech-Priests thus far had been for Szorbulo to fold his upper arms across his chest.

“That is not the case for all of them,” Usriel stated, turning to face the jittering one, an evident face of suspicion behind his helmet. The metallic sounds of his power armor against the floor filled the room as he stepped towards Szorbulo, giving him but a momentary look before stepping to the next and so on. The Primarch continued asking, “Now, is the Edict of Tolerance not the will of the Omnissiah?”

“The Edict of Tolerance is holy writ and embodies the word and will of the Omnissiah. The Omnissiah Knows All, Comprehends All.” Szorbulo’s voxcoder buzzed. Their synthesized voice was a deep, undulating barrage that rung about in the ears.

“If I may my lord?” Theodora asked, tilting her head towards Usriel. Stepping forward, the Angel’s daughter was only missing her wings to appear as a duplicate of the Primarch, an effect that had great effect on mortals - and that she knew would do absolutely nothing to the followers of the Machine God. She walked with slow, deliberate steps, stopping in front of Malchediel with Daena’s joyless smile. “Artisan. What have you crafted, for our lord’s triumph?” she asked, her gaze turning away from what was left of his face to admire the tools upon his mechadendrites.

Her question produced an immediate effect. The bizarre, fourteen-limbed Priest also seemed to shudder and flich, taking a stuttering set of steps back with their six bionic legs.

“Entrapment!” His voxcoder uttered, a flat and dull thronging sound akin to metal running through a volkite-field. “y=a/0! No valid return input, parameters void!”

The Librarian gives a soft sigh, and then turns her head to Brynhildr. After a moment’s pause, a soft voice repeats the question. “Artisan unit designation Malchediel: query. List all works prepared for or adjoining celebratory festival designation Ullanor Triumph or Triumph of Ullanor or Fall of Urlakk Urg. Authorization granted by Primarch XIX.”

Malchediel’s entire form shuddered again and their voice increased in volume as they replied. “Coercive parameters REFUSED; continued ongoing functionality compromised upon integral return! I cannot be decommissioned now, slaved subgradient laborers require directed insight!”

Theodora and Brynhidlr shared a look with one another before they continued, the Librarian continuing to appear to do nothing more than examine Malchediel’s dendrites. “Decision tree trace requested. Identify proximate cause of presumed decommission.”

“Impossible. Integral return of presented inquiry equates to subrouted integral return of the original inquiry. Source of-”

“If I may.” Heamiona said - their voice wholly natural, untainted by any kind of voxcoded sound. Only the left half of their face - their unblemished and unaugmented lips, set beside their unmoving half - had a somewhat stilted and stiff accentuation to it. Which, as she only had half of a working mouth between her halves, made sense.

“You hardly need my permission,” Theodora said softly, the flat smile on her face growing ever so slightly into a genuine one.

“You are putting poor Malchediel here in a box. He cannot answer you either way without being killed.” Although her exact intonation was hard to grasp, she almost sounded amused - and the half of her lips that could move, were curled ever so faintly upwards. “And he also cannot tell you why without being killed. NOT to suggest,” She turned abruptly to the towering figure of Szorbulo, “...that Artisan Malchediel is guilty of any form of Techno-Heresy, implied or otherwise, Malagra.”

“No direct or indirect admission of guilt registered. [i]Yet.[i]” Szorbulo’s reverberating voice replied.

“End of query. Return to standby,” Brynhildr said after exchanging a look with Theodora, the Librarian leaving Malchediel behind. The Artisan’s entire spindly frame almost seemed to slump with unspoken relief. “Techsorcists are known for la-”

“Thank you, Sister. I have already gathered,” Theodora said, cutting the other Doomsayer off as she came to a stop in front of Heamiona. “I suppose we could just put an end to this now, but I imagined you would have more fun watching us scurry. Truly, are we that boring? Nevertheless, I am certain you have already deduced precisely the reason why we are here, and who is at fault. So then. Who is so incessant in making a farce of a farce?”

“Why, the Primarch of the Second Legion.” Heamiona said, raising her one good eyebrow. “Not because they want Xenos marching in the Triumph, but because of their utterly abysmal utilization of basic pattern recognition. The perpetuation of this farce, of course, is wholly yours.” The Techsorcist then made a peculiar gesticulation with the bulky, misshapen digits of their right hand.

“Enlighten me then, as one would a juventia. What patterns have my misbegotten cousins missed?”

“Primarily, the one where they take their own, sacred authority for granted. Perhaps I should demonstrate?” Heamiona waved Theodora aside. She then took two serene steps forward, and then bowed long and low before Usriel, kneeling upon her knees before him, holding her scepter aloft in her left hand while gesticulating in prayer with the other.

“Holy son of the Omnissiah, I pray you will forgive my impudence. May I have your leave to speak freely and earnestly with you?” Her eyes were downcast in reverence, not daring to meet the Primarch’s gaze.

“I give you permission,” Usriel said impassively, watching Heamiona as he had watched the interaction of the artisan. The Primarch then stated, “I hope this has to do with my investigation.”

“It does, sacred child of the omniscient.” Heamiona intoned as she rose. She then turned away from him and back to Szorbulo. “Malagra, who were the first amongst the Tech-Priests that the Prefecture Magisterium has condemned upon this planet, and what was their crime?”

“Traitors who dared to conspire to incite war against the Imperium of Man and the Mechanicum.” Szorbulo’s hard, ringing voice blared tonelessly.

“How is it they meant to ‘incite war?’” Heamiona inquired.

“By initiating injurious and lethal attacks upon an auxilla of one of the Omnissiah’s Space Marine Legions.” Szorbulo replied in turn, unmoving and unresponsive to any kind of affectation regarding the line of question.

“Which legion was this, and who were the members of this auxilla?” Heamiona asked with an air of finality.

“The second legion. The members of Night Watch IA Auxilla comprises amongst their number particular species of xenos inducted into the Imperium of Man by way of the Edict of Tolerance.”

“Of course - for it is the decree of the Omnissiah that to attack any member of one of his Space Marine Legions is to declare war upon the whole of Imperium, the Mechanicum, and all twenty Legions.” Heamiona elaborated. “Though it begs the question, Malagra - if the Prefecture Magisterium saw that conspiring to attack these xenos was a step too far, why do you now refuse to act in light of these new conspiracies to instead humiliate them?”

“Presented evidence shows the conspirators do not intend to intentionally injure or slay members of a Legion. It is a humiliation. Perpetrated by Human actors against xenos victims, edicted or no, members of a Legion or no, it does not constitute a crime. There exists no legal mechanism to recover for such a slight, beyond a demand for satisfaction, the direct intervention of a Primarch of his Omnissiah’s Astartes, or perhaps to file a civil injunction with the Arbites. Regardless, it is not a matter the Prefecture Magisterium sees need to deter. The alien mechanism is a perversion of the true path. Their knowledge is anathema to the will and works of the Machine God. Thus says the Omnissiah.” He then moved for the first time, bringing his two upper arms apart and clasping his hands together in the signage of the Cog Mechanicum.

“And there it is, Venerated One.” Heamiona indicated dryly as she turned away from Szorbulo to gaze back up at Usriel. “You do not prosecute a true crime. It is you, as a Primarch, independently declaring you intend to leverage your sacred and unquestionable authority to a new purpose. It scarcely matters how or what the reason. As you wish it, so it shall be, for you are one of the Sons of Divinity itself. As you wish it, it shall be done, and none shall stand between you and what you desire.” She paused emphatically.

“...And that is all. Save for your grace alone, this ‘investigation’ is baseless of any genuine claim. For though the universe itself shall bend to accommodate your holy exigencies, Exalted Primarch,” Heamiona bowed low once again, returning to a kneeling posture. “...the truth that we know is that even you do not speak for the Omnissiah.”

Usriel looked down upon the Priest, a few silent and tense moments passing as he stood there without motion or speech. It was only when his voice filled the chamber, it’s volume threatening to damage the ears of all those in the room, that the silence ended. “The humiliation of the xenos at this most holy event of the Omnissiah is a slight against him, the Mechanicum, and the Imperium,” his voice boomed, looking between each of them as he continued, “The Omnissiah has taken in these xenos, the technology they use is no perversion of the faith for they use the holy instruments created and used by every regiment in the Imperium! The Omnissiah has made it clear that those under the Edict of Tolerance are members of the Imperium! The Imperium that you now wish to act against!”

As Usriel’s roaring voice shook the Shrine, Heamiona’s organic leg trembled, causing her knelt form to lose its balance and topple. Behind her, the black-robed Logis seemed to waver from side to side in the air as his voice buffeted her. Malchediel and Julaen both lowered themselves, crouching low to the floor and backing away in almost terrified reverence. Only Szorbulo stood tall, uncaring and unmoving even as the fulcrete above his head rained down dust.

His form loomed over Heamiona, his voice ceased its assault upon them, if only momentarily, as Usriel’s cold voice came back, “You defend the conspiracy, stating these accusations as baseless when the conspiracy, that I now believe you to support, is against the will of the Omnissiah. I shall ask you once before I have the Librarian search your mind, are you involved in this conspiracy?”

Heamiona, now prone and cowering on the floor, her half of flesh wavering and shuddering in what could only have been shock, wailed out in protestation. Though her words were incoherent, the gist of her meaning was clear.

Usriel looked back to the librarian, “Does she speak the truth?”

Daena’s simulacrum chose her words carefully, the Librarian throwing aside any pretense of politeness as she let the power of the Immaterium flow through her. “A moment, my lord. The minds of those past the Crux are intriguing.” Heamiona had fully curled in on herself upon the floor now, her golden scepter having been abandoned on the shrine floor to the side of Theodora’s feet.

The Astartes’ pearl white eyes flash with a surge of power for one brief moment, and then fade. “She is innocent my lord, she has not engaged in any plot, nor is she aware of those who are. However. She agrees with Malagra’s assessment as to the severity of the actions you wish to cease.” Snapping out of her trance, Theodora let out a disappointed sigh. “A pity that even she does not understand the source of your ire. I believe she may be returned to her duties, unless you desire to instruct her.”

“Out of my sight,” Usriel ordered before tacking on another instruction, “If you come across any of those anti-xenos algorithms, I expect them to be rectified.” Heamiona quickly rose and retreated from the room at pace, abandoning her scepter in the process.

The Primarch stepped to Szorbulo, gazing down upon the ruststalker and allowed a momentary state of silence once more before the Priest knelt at the feet of Usriel. “Tell me, do you know of any conspirators? Are any in this room right now, anyone who would act against what I stated to be the Will of the Omnissiah?” He questioned, his gaze unmoving.

“Any such individual I named I would be required to decommission. Not for any such role in a conspiracy, but for their implicit involvement in the heretical alteration of sanctified technology to create a tolerance for xenos. The Techsorcist was correct, exalted Primarch.” The Tech-Priest gazed up and gazed Usriel straight in the eye.

“You do not speak for the Omnissiah.”

As soon as Szorbulo uttered those words, there was a sharp crack and the air filled with the stench of ozone. The Sicarian’s entire body began to violently spark and spasm, the snap-crackle of fusing circuitry and burning circuitry filling the room. The Malagra’s entire body crumpled and slumped soundlessly to the floor, their limbs writhing uncontrollably as dozens of various different lights placed across their bionic body began to flare on and off spasmodically.

“That does not answer what I asked,” Usriel said, relenting in his assault upon the Malagra for a moment, allowing his systems to return to normal before he repeated himself, “Are you making machine spirits hostile to xenos?”

Szorbulo finally recovered, propping themselves back up with one of their Transonic razors and gazing back up to Usriel.

“No, exalted Primarch. To each caste of Tech-Priest their own duties prevail. Mine is not the consecration of Mechanicum technology.” The Malagra’s voxcoder was now stuttering and warbling as it struggled to continue relaying the Tech-Priest’s voice after having been subjected to Usriel’s turbulent psychic power.

“Do you know of anybody affiliated with the conspiracy implied or directly,” Usriel questioned in a more hurried and annoyed tone.

Implicitly if there is any Tech-Priest on this wretched planet who is involved, my order would be required to detain and interrogate them prior to forever censuring their heretical ways.” Szorbulo’s strained voxcoder choked out, the Malagra slowly managing to lever himself back up to a kneeling posture before Usriel. “Holy Primarch, I implore you. The reconsecration of the technology to be used for the Triumph, the only way it is even conceivable is due to the direct request by the Second Son of the Omnissiah. Great pains have been taken to circumvent Mechanicum doctrine and to facilitate his request. Despite this, the act still constitutes Techno-Heresy. Do not ask me whom amongst the devout must die for their compliance.”

“Niece, I believe this one knows. Relinquish the information from his mind,” Usriel said, merely staring down upon Szorbulo, unmoving with hands clasped behind his back.

On a private vox channel to Usriel, a brief message was relayed by a completely robot voice. The same one from earlier in fact. “Apologetic: Forgive my update sire. Informative interest: We have made a discovery from the data slate of Prefectus Hodge. There were two machine spirits located within that were designed to monitor it and send remote vox signals out regularly. The spirits are too primative and dumb to uncover what they were sending or where… but while one of them is clearly of Mechanicum design and make, the other is not. This second machine spirit is of unknown origin and a completely different design, even if it does the same task.”

“Understood,” Usriel voxed back, allowing an annoyed sigh to be heard through it before he continued, “Keep me updated.”

“Statement: Understood Sire. Will report when new information is available.”

As Usriel conversed on his vox, Theodora and Brynhildr shared a silent look between them, the Librarian merely arching a brow. Seemingly understanding her meaning, her Sister began to speak. “A logic paradox. To disobey a Primarch is a crime worthy of death. To defy their God’s holy writ is also a crime worthy of death. Szorbulo’s logic processors have identified that obedience to Micholi is an affront to the Omnissiah, while obedience to the Omnissiah is defiance against a Primarch, and appears to have ceased cogitation on the matter in order to avoid bloodshed. A practical approach, in its own dogmatic way.”

“My Sister is merely a laywoman, so you must forgive her for any error in her analysis, but this seems accurate enough, yes?” Theodora said, stepping in front of Szorbulo to stand besides Usriel. “Accessing this data by any means would effectively require action from you, correct?”

“...Correct.” Szorbulo’s voxcoder whined. The massive Sicarian, who rivaled the tallest member of Usriel’s honor guard, now seemed small and diminutive, crippled and lain low, kneeling upon the ground before Usriel and Theodora as he was. His bionic eyes flickered, and for a scant moment, Theodora imagined she almost saw the lingering silhouette of a Human face, between the traces and lines of the metal plates, tubes, and bionic modules comprising Szorbulo’s face.

The moment passed.

“You endeavor to serve both the Omnissiah, and the Primarchs, correct?” Theodora asked, verbally prodding the fallen Sicarian as close she dared without activating his kill protocols.

“With all my fervor, with my life. To obey the Omnissiah is to follow the will of the Machine God. The Primarchs, as his children, possess a shard of his infinite and divine essence. I endeavor to serve the Primarchs, except where their will would clash with that of the Omnissiah, he who stands above all others.” Szorbulo replied. The fingers of his chordclaws twitched faintly as he spoke.

“What is the appropriate protocol for correcting a Primarch should their will clash with that of the Omnissiah?”

“To deny them is the only option. The circumstances would determine the appropriate course of action. There is no formalized protocol of action should such a denial also be impossible.”

“Therefore, logic dictates that the Second Primarch’s will be denied?”

“...Yes. But it was not. These Hereteks all consort and scheme to appease him! They debase the hallowed sanctity of the machine! I have been moved to stay my hand! The work, for all of this infernal Triumph, its records are sealed, expunged, redacted at every turn! The Fabricator General has interceded to request mercy for the failings of the Hereteks who so work here!” Szorbulo’s voxcoder had begun to stabilize in its rythm once more. His bionic joints began to tense, and his frame began to rise. The Honour Guard at the doors raised their rifles, plasma pointed at the Sicarian.

Daena’s face took on a genuinely piteous look as her gene-daughter looked upon the enraged Sicarian, the Librarian gingerly extending a hand towards him. “Patience, Malaga, patience. Such a heavy weight you have borne, I can think of no greater defender of the faith,” Theodora said in a soothing voice, as if ignorant of - or ignoring - the implements of death and destruction that had replaced a once human form. “It is righteous, then, to undo the works of the heretek?”

”...YES…” The word emerged from Szorbulo like a missile erupting from a silo. He began to rise, his Transonic Razors and Chordclaws beginning to emit an eerie, keening vibratory hum.

“To each caste of Tech-Priest their own duties prevail. Yours is not the consecration of Mechanicum technology,” Theodora quoted, face still and calm. “Another, more fitting caste, has seen to such. Have they called upon you, Malagra, or do you doubt their piety?”

“Doubt...DOUBT?!? There is not an infinitesimal scrap of my body that does not doubt them! They perpetrate elaborate falsehoods to evade punishment for their failings and prayed we would be merciful in our comprehension of their dilemma! But there can be no mercy! Only the Will of the Omnissiah! The Hereteks shall be smote to dust!” Szorbulo turned in place and pointed his razors and chordclaws towards the other assembled Tech-Priests.

”...STARTING WITH THESE! HERETEKS! HERETEKS!”

“Your zeal does you credit, Sicarian, but it has clouded your processors. You will at best strike one down, are any of these wretches the true source of your ire?” Theodora spoke in a voice of command, willing Szorbulo to halt. Her psychic imperative proved effective - mostly. Szorbulo remained firmly in place, though his transonic razors were still slowly pulling in the direction of the other Tech-Priests - who, as one, had all abruptly abandoned the line they had formed before the statue of the Omnissiah and had begun to flee for the entrance to the Shrine. Though, the Honour Guards moved to block their path, continuing to aim down the Sicarian.

“The true source of my ire…” Szorbulo’s voxcoder seethed, their previously flat intonation having taken on a smouldering quality to it.

And then, the worst possibility came to pass.

Szorbulo turned his head, now rearing at his full height, to glare balefully down at Theodora.

”YOU did this! YOU forced this null condition state!”

There was a blur of motion and the humming of battle steel, far, far faster than Theodora’s eyes could follow - and then, the massive Tech-Priest toppled down on top of her, his entire body spasmodically writhing as Usriel promptly blasted him with another pulse of psychic power.

“Oh, poor Malagra,” Theodora said in a soft voice, raising one hand up to cup what passed for his cheek as she stared at the immense Sicarian that had fallen on top of her. “Despise me if you will for what I have done, and I will grant you your satisfaction,” she whispered, her other hand grasping the armature from which sprouted one of his transonic razors, slowly bringing it towards her own neck. “But first, my fee. Extol the virtues of the righteous. Name those who have done as the Omnissiah decreed. Surely, my murderer, you know those who have acted before you?”

Szorbulo, who had lost all control of his voxcoder, said nothing - but at Theodora’s prompting, traitorous thoughts flooded through his mind.

Individuals. Their visages, their names, and what they had done. Tech-Priests - dozens of them - streaming through his mind in a Triumph of their own.

“They are glorious, my Malagra,” she whispered to him, a smile on her face as she drew the still razor down the height of her throat with micrometer precision, far enough to draw blood. “As are you.” And then she pulled the lethal implement away, the self inflicted wound already clotting from transhuman art. “And you deserve more than this. Detain him, I will see if he is fit to be my murderer when this business is concluded.”

Usriel nodded to Maren, who moved forwards, weapon pointed upon Malagra the entire time before he dragged the still spasming form off Theodora. The Standard Bearer proceeded to tear the head from the Sicarian, only then did the body go limp. “Doomsayer, keep it alive,” he ordered, to Byrnhildr as he held the head high.

Brynhildr immediately knelt before Usriel. “My Sister has issued a challenge to him. It would be my honor to ensure he is able to meet it.” She took Szorbulo into her arms almost reverently, quickly seeing to the necessary power and resource feeds - things that even the most dogmatic of Mechanicum could not grow angry by a laytech providing.

“We must speak, Lord Usriel, but I dare not risk neither technology nor tongue. Will you permit me entry?” Theodora asked, standing no worse for wear besides a dent in her armor and a scar on her neck.

“You may,” Usriel said, gifting permission upon the Librarian visibly lowering his head to meet Theodora’s gaze.

The same flood of images that the Librarian had stolen from Szorbulo’s mind were granted to the Primarch in turn, painting a conspiracy of the meek. Almost all those that the Sicarian had deemed righteous were among the lowest echelons of the Mechanicum, their names and faces unknown to one so lofty as a lord of a legion. With one, notable, exception. A junior transmechanic, though possessing an unfamiliar name, held a very familiar face, the priest currently serving under Magos Ulbridge in the control room for the Triumph. The connection breaks as soon as the visions are sent, Theodora’s face having settled into her gene-mother’s soft smile.

“I must say my lord, this experience has given me a newfound appreciation for your own beliefs. In the end, it was his humanity that proved his downfall.”

“And that is where his weakness lies,” Usriel commented, looking at the other three tech-priests stepping into the center of the room. He motioned to the body of the Sicarian, speaking loudly and clearly, “As you can see, I will find out about what I need to know. I offer you, the remaining few, to speak your truths one at a time. Answer this question, who amongst you is affiliated with the conspiracy against this Triumph and do you know of any who are? Once this has been answered, and your truth verified, you may be free to continue your business. Starting with you.” Usriel gestured towards the many-legged one.

As one, all of the remaining Tech-Priests turned their gazes.

Not to look at Usriel, but instead to gaze at Szorbulo’s dismembered head, being tended to by Brynhildr. In that moment, glancing into their minds, Theodora saw that these three, if they knew anything at all, would never speak.

Malagra Szorbulo had been but one man. Their fear was rooted in something vaster and more monolithic. In time - perhaps even in only a few hours - he would be replaced and, perhaps, his successor would be even worse than Szorbulo had been. Somebody who would doubtlessly then act on anything the three had said or done in the interim period. In that glimmering dilemma, lay the exact same paradox that had befallen Szorbulo himself - and thus, it came to no surprise when, even in the face of Usriel, Primarch of the nineteenth legion, venerated and holy figure beheld in awe by them all, the Tech-Priests remained silent.

The soft smile on Theodora’s face split into an inhuman grin, the Deathseer cackling with laughter as realization flooded through her mind. For the first time since introducing her Sisters, Ascania spoke, stepping forward to whisper an unheard command into the Librarian’s ear before turning to Usriel. “My apologies, my lord. My mother’s closest daughters can forget their places,” she weakly explained as the cacophonous laughter slowly but surely died away.

“Is it not obvious?” Theodora said, looking at the assembled Astartes in the room as if they were the crazy ones for not laughing with her. “We’ve already lost. There is but one thing they would fear more than your wrath unleashed, my lord, and make no mistake - ‘tis fear that keeps them quiet. Our enemy may use the meek and mild as its pawns, but such would not inspire this delicious terror in minds so far past the Crux. Oh no, my lord, there is but one thing that strides these stars to make them recoil.” The Librarian stood before the three assembled tech-priests, bowing low at the waist with her head held up to look them in the eyes.

“The Prefecture Magisterium.”

“The fear of the Prefecture? The thought never occurred to me,” Usriel’s voice stated, trailing off as he looked to the Tech-Priests. A silent few moments passed before he gave the priests a singular question, “Is this room secure?”

“Secure in what sense, immaculate Primarch?” Julaen replied, dozens of their mechadendrites seeming to wring themselves into a clump emphatically.

“Are there devices listening to what occurs in this room?” Usriel clarified, his paranoid mind looking around the room in a generalized fashion.

“Locality surveillance prevalence high, standardized, expected, routine.” Malchediel answered. “Affirmative. Full auspex capabilities.”

There was a momentary pause before Usriel looked back at the Priests and said, “The devices have been shorted for the time being. The Prefecture Magisterium will not have any record of this conversation as of now, so long as you all cooperate, you have my oath that these words shall not lead to your interrogation. He let it hang for a brief moment, “Speak! I command you as a Holy Son of the Omnissiah to reveal your truths!”

“We know nothing about this conspiracy, or conspiracies! We have been too busy trying to save our own chassis!” Julaen immediately cried out. “I am in six minds about this whole rotten mess, and you can see why now!” He gestured vaguely at Szorbulo’s head.

“Rune Priest Julaen’s output is verified.” Malchediel added. “Requisite work coordinates: overlapping orbital bombardment coalignment zones.”

“Mechanicum task management enforcement units’ aggression exceeds nominal efficiency parameters at this time.” Koroa finished.

“They are truthful, my lord. We ought not interfere with them further, lest we draw upon them the very attentions they have been dutiful in escaping. It seems that lord Micholi’s request has put things into motion that even he did not foresee,” Theodora said, sparing a glance at Szorbulo’s head. “We have our quarry.”

Usriel nodded to Theodora, looking back to the Tech-Priests before ordering, “Begone, your faith and cooperation shall be noted.” The Tech-Priests hurried out from the Shrine, all too eager to be gone from the place. Usriel’s mind shifted over to the librarian, making note of the amount of effort that she had been putting in to make this investigation happen as well as it did. He stepped to Theodora and asked in a more concerned tone, “Has your use of your abilities tired you at all, niece?”

She slumped in her armor as soon as the Tech-Priests were gone, a wan smile upon her face as she gave the Primarch a small shrug. “No more than a fair price, considering what was gained. The minds of the Mechanicum are tiresome to read, it is true, but I shall recover in due time. My mother would wish for us to continue, would she not my lady?” she asked, turning her face to Ascania.

“She would, but perhaps without such blatant dances with death next time,” the Equerry replied, but even through the mask it was clear that she viewed the Librarian with no small measure of pride. “Or are you that eager to earn yourself bloodright?” she continued, her voice rising in a clear tease.

“Ahhhh, so cruel the mistresses of our legion with their barbed tongues,” Theodora said, hanging her head low before picking herself back up again. “Just because I think he may be worthy of murdering me does not mean I am chasing it, Sister. But enough, we have business to attend to yet.”

“As long as you believe, you are fine,” Usriel stated, looking over to Maren and commanding the Astartes, “We shall continue with the investigation.”

“Magos Ulbridge,” Usriel voxed to the Tech-Priest, a stern and commanding voice moving through the vox, “There is a junior transmechanic under your direct employ, enlighten me to his name.”

’There are three junior transmechanics counted amongst my personnel staff, holy Primarch.’ Ulbridge voxed back after a moment. ’Shall I relay all three of them?’

Turning back to face the members of the Doomsayers, Usriel could already tell the upcoming confrontations and interrogations were going to take a while.


Several Hours Later...


While Usriel and the Doomsayers set about confronting and interrogating the conspirators who Theodora had identified, Machine Ghost set to work examining Prefectus’ Hodge’s data-slate. The device’s data-stores overflowed with dry and meaningless information, mountains of administratum forms and filing registries that Hodge appeared to have moved onto the slate for quick reference. Which only made the presence of two disparate machine spirits lurking within its frame all the more suspicious.

The first of the spirits appeared to simply be of Mechanicum design, sending regular vox transmissions on data input in the slate. The second, however, was proving to be something of a mystery.

“Outloud Spoken Query: How would this data slate be able to record biometric data?” The tech marine leader of the Machine Ghost team pondered aloud as he examined the mystery before him. His actual name was Grindan, but in truth considering the work he did it wasn’t strange for no one to refer to him by name for long stretches of time. Right now through, his attention was solely on his target as he carefully tried to peel away the secrets and mystery of this unknown actor of a Spirit one by one.

His team had gotten used to the fact that their leader had a habit of pronouncing what the intent of his sentence was before speaking. Still, one of them, a normal seeming looking marine who just so happened to have a bit more cyberware then the average marine would be expected to have, decided to offer a hypothesis as he glanced up from the information he was gathering on the more standard Machanicum spirit they had discovered alongside their mystery one. “Maybe some kind of heat detecting measure that’s tailored towards the hands of its owner?”

Grindan paused as he considered the possibility for a moment, privately acknowledging that the idea had some merit but would need to be investigated after they had secured the Spirit and prevented its imminent self termination. “Mental Checklist: Inspect the physical data slate itself for heat detecting components. Refocus: Jaune, how is that bypass program coming along?”

A different marine sighed as he triple checked his work. “I will say again that without knowing how this spirit is collecting its data, I can’t be sure how well this will work but… since we don’t have time to abduct Prefectus Hodge and get a more accurate copy of his bio-data, this will have to do.” It was clear that Jaune didn’t like giving such an answer; ‘Good enough’ was never a confidence inspiring answer when it came to dealing with spirits and programs such as this, but sometimes it was the best that could be done.

With a nod, Tech Marine Grindan nodded his head as he answered “Acknowledgement: Acknowledged. Upload it and hope for the best while expecting the worst.”

Time passed. The newly planted machine spirit plied its work. As Jaune had predicted, it proved unable to fully placate the mysterious spirit - though thankfully, having foreseen this possibility, Jaune had instilled their own spirit with disruptive and recovery capabilities that enabled it to halt the mystery spirit from deleting itself, albeit only after it was halfway done doing so. Now firmly in control of the unknown spirit, it was transferred off of Hodge’s data-slate to a more secure device where it could be safely examined in-depth.

All things considered, this was a positive outcome. It wasn’t a perfect outcome to be sure, but under the circumstances a positive outcome was perfectly acceptable. As the now controlled spirit was moved off of Hodge’s data-slate for further inspection by Grindan and the more normal mechanicum spirit was likewise removed to a different, separate device from the first to be examined closer to make sure there wasn’t more to it then there appeared, Hodge’s data-slate could now be taken apart in order to try and uncover the mystery of how it had been collecting bio data for the stange spirit in the first place… and once the how was discovered, it would hopefully offer information as to the why.

Pulling apart a data slate physically was an easy enough thing to do; Doing so in a way where all the parts were properly organized and you could put it back together again afterwards required a bit of know how and time, but still more than doable. Unfortunately, the secret of how the machine spirit had collected bio-data in the first place was not answered in the hardware side of things; No abnormal or additional parts, no hidden or strange programs beyond what they had already uncovered… It was simply just a standard data slate that they would likely put back together and have quietly returned to its owner at some point, minus the strange spirits within of course.

The inspection of the spirit itself didn’t reveal that answer either, leading to the real possibility that it had been part of the spirit that had managed to delete itself and was thus now lost. However… The closer inspection did reveal… not a definite answer to its origins, but a frightful amount of similarity to a series of programs that they hadn’t even brought what limited records they had of it up when they were checking the records earlier.

“Shit you’re right… and if you look at this part over here you can see almost an exact match.” Jaune muttered as he gestured towards the piece of coding in question he had spotted. Somehow all members of the team that had been present in their temporary HQ rather than being actively out in the field had ended up joining this little examination after the discovery had been made.

“Confusion: This… This doesn’t make sense.” Grindan started… before quickly adding “Correction: Not the coding or programming itself. Compared to those limited examples of the security programs of the Imperial Palace of Terra it might be rudimentary and even crude but…” there was a moment of irritation as the tech priest struggled to find the correct words before settling on “Statement: It is still built on a solid foundation, even if the execution is lesser than the artwork that inspired it.”

“We… we need to report this to Primarch Usriel as soon as possible, right?” Jaune asked quickly… almost somewhat nervously.

“Agreement: Indeed. I’ll vox him now. Instruction: Continue examining this and see what else you might be able to gleam.”

“- We will report any further discoveries as they appear Sire.”

“Understood, Machine Ghost. Continue to examine that code and push forwards, I believe this conspiracy is nearing its end. Thank you for your efforts,” Usriel boxed back in a pleased voice.

“It sounds like things are going well brother.” Micholi’s voice stated aloud, betraying the fact that he was physically in the shrine that Usriel, his honor guard and the small collection of Doomsayers were currently using as a temporary HQ of sorts. Stepping out of the shadow that seemed to have helped him blend into the background, his attention was on Usriel as he stated “I wanted to check in with you and see how things were progressing before I answered my team and addressed the idea they suggested to me.”

“Things have been going well once we cracked the Sicarian, no small thanks to our librarian,” Usriel said, nodding towards Theodora, turning to face his peer. A tone of what could be taken as the joy of Usriel sounded, “I do believe this ordeal will be dealt with soon enough.”

“Now, what idea did your team have?” Usriel inquired.

Micholi paused for a moment as he asked “Is it safe to talk here?” He suspected the answer was yes, but felt the need to ask anyway just to be sure.

“It is,” Usriel affirmed with a light nod of his head.

“Very well. They’ve come to the conclusion that the Prefecture Magisterium knows more about the current situation then they are letting on… and they requested my assistance personally in helping to breach the security around their headquarters on the planet to try and uncover what they are hiding. However, since your investigation is bearing fruit I believe such an extreme measure will not be required of us.” Micholi wasn’t upset by the suggestion of his team, but risking a fight with the Prefecture Magisterium was clearly something he was slightly relieved that he wasn’t going to have to commit to.

“The Prefecture Magisterium? Micholi, the Tech-Priests themselves fear them, it is not a wise idea to intrude on them,” Usriel said, nearly in a whisper.

Micholi actually offered his brother a smile as he answered “Thus why I wanted to check in with you first. While I find myself agreeing with my sons that they likely do know more than they have revealed, I am glad that the action of finding out what exactly it is they know and are possibly hiding will not be required… at least not today.”

“It would be best we did not push our luck, odds are they will be watching all of us when this matter is completed,” Usriel commented, his tone still conveying a light bit of worry.

Offering a small nod in return, Micholi decided to change the subject slightly to something a little more joyful as he turned his attention towards the Doomsayer librarian that had been gestured to before. “What is your name? I would like to offer you the full praise that you deserve for a job done both well and quickly.”

“Theodora, my lord Micholi,” the Librarian said with a low bow, the other Doomsayers in attendance clearly pleased with the credit that she had brought to their name. “I shall carry your praise high in my thoughts, but our work is not yet concluded. These secrets have ill omens about them.”

Micholi smiled softly as he stepped forward and placed a hand on Theodora’s shoulder for just a moment before removing it and stepping away. “Indeed you are correct.” Before turning to his brother and asking “Just to make sure I haven’t missed anything, what do we know so far?”

Daena’s Equerry answers in his stead, Ascania’s voice somehow still quiet through the death mask’s voxcoder. “Less than one would like. There is a cabal of junior tech-priests rooting about the modifications for the Triumph, their work left unmolested by the Prefecture Magisterium. Those who would endeavor to correct such vandalism are paralyzed in fear by the same, terrified that if they act they shall be declared heretek. At best, we have a conspiracy of silence. But considering what your own Astartes have found my lord, this seems to go far deeper. I would recommend that the suspects Sister Theodora identified be put to the question.”

“I agree, I intended to question them, but there are many others to go through,” Usriel stated, looking to where his honor guards had been stationed, “I sent my sons to interrogate those who confessed. No doubt they will sort out the lessers in due time.”

For a moment Micholi looked… somewhat pensive. “I admit, when I made the decision I did I knew that there was going to be trouble. Both from the Mechanicum and from my siblings. I did not imagine that it would have reached this extent through.” He was quiet for a moment… before shaking his head to snap out of it. “At any rate, I will go make sure my squad doesn’t do anything… well, foolish. Their desire for a challenge is admirable, but needs to be reigned in at times. However, if you would need of my personal skills brother, I am at your beck and call.”

“I thank you, Micholi. This will soon be over by my estimates and the Triumph will no longer dishonor the Emperor’s grace,” Usriel stated, a bit of pride shining through his voice as he turned away from his brother. His mind was at ease with the progress of the investigation, knowing that there would no longer be anything for him to truly worry about and knowing that the Emperor may be happy that the Triumph will be done without any form of dishonor upon his imperium. The nineteenth Primarch looked to the Doomsayers he had with him, knowing that they were most useful and knowing he would have to commend them and mention their efforts to Daena when he got the chance. “I wish you the best, Micholi. Thank you for allowing me to call upon your team,” Usriel said.

“Of course brother. After all, it would be quite rude and inconsiderate of me to have played a part in creating this situation and then refusing to help resolve it. While we might disagree on certain things, we both serve the Imperium after all.” Micholi answered back earnestly. “I would have offered to lead the investigation myself, but I can acknowledge that you have a better understanding of those being investigated.”

“Again, thank you Micholi,” Usriel said aptly before speaking into his vox to the Magos, “Ulbridge, is the Junior Transmechanic ready?”

‘He has been made ready for you, Holy Primarch. He did not resist seizure and has been cooperative. He has been detained in the Shrine where you confronted the other Tech-Priests. As requested, I have interceded and delayed the repair of the auspex systems in that chamber. You and your Astartes will have complete privacy.’ The Magos voxed back in reply.

“Thank you, Magos,” Usriel said into his vox before looking to the Doomsayers while making his way back to the Shrine, “Come, nieces. Let us end this so that we may bask in the Emperor’s glorious Triumph.”




Back at the Shrine, the Tech-Priest - Transmechanic Korvykha - awaited Usriel and the Doomsayers was a far cry from the five figures who had previously occupied the room. As a minor Tech-Priest, he was still more man than machine. Even his face was largely unaugmented, beyond a single bionic eye and a rebreather mechanism mounted over his mouth. His robes were a simple sheer Martian red in coloration, with none of the tell-tale decorative gold or pale markings of elevated status.

Korvykha was pinioned on place, forced into a kneeling posture by three mishapen servitors using their servo-clamps to physically hold him in place, immobilized with his hands behind his back, his head raised at a forty-five degree angle. As Usriel and the Doomsayers entered the shrine, he almost reflexively attempted to squirm in place, in futility. His one organic eye was widely dilated - Theodora could already tell even from the far end of the room that his mind was consumed with a mixture of reverence as much as it was by fear. The one thing that did not cloud his mind at all, however, was guilt.

“He thinks himself righteous, my lord. It seems that he is indeed the creator of the works we have sought out,” Theodora said, her face frozen in a smile an inch short of kindness. “Such fear, strange. Do you not take pride in your devotion to your God?”

“I fear only the dissolution of the Omnissiah’s children. Though it be blasphemous to contemplate, the evidence of it befalls me now.” Korvykha shot back. His voice was raised and nearly frantic - evidently he was still so much more Human than machine that, unlike the other Tech-Priests confronted thus far, he could not reliably modulate or control his true feelings. Peering into his mind, Theodora could sense his bluster was a rationalization. His fear welled within him unprompted, and he mastered it through the contemplation of his faith.

For the moment.

“Are you implying me to be a heretek?” Usriel asked coldly, looking down upon Korvykha before he stepped forwards. The Primarch only felt anger towards this man who evidently did not know his place beneath the Nineteenth Son. The red gaze from his visor bore into the transmechanic with what could be described as one of judgement.

“It is not my place to judge you, Holy Son of the Omnissiah.” Korvykha answered. Usriel could see sweat starting to bead on the priest’s exposed forehead. “Even were your guilt unquestioned, you would be beheld in splendor and with love by all children of the Mechanicum. For even in rebellion you are glorious, and the Omnissiah is most beneficent. How could anybody bear to look down upon a divine being such as yourself? Only the one who stands above all has the merit, and the right to stand in judgement over you.” His words were neat and carefully sounded, but they did nothing to hide the strained nervousness of his tone.

“Imply me to be a rebel again and I shall tear your spine in twain, mortal,” Usriel said, anger not breaching his cold voice while his hand hovered just above the plasma pistol on his side. The Primarch allowed himself to calm for a moment before speaking in his same tone, “We are not here to talk about me, Transmechanic. Do you understand why you are detained?”

“Because you wish it to be so, Exalted One.” Korvykha replied almost breathlessly.

“Evidently, you do not realize,” Usriel commented, before pacing back and forth in front of him. “Equerry, read him what he is under suspicion of,” the Primarch ordered, gaze unmoving from Korvykha.

“By order and request of the Lord of the Second, xenos auxilia of his Legion were scheduled to march in the Triumph of Ullanor. To provide for this, various cogitators, machine-spirits, servitors, and so on and so forth were reconsecrated and reprogrammed so that they would not assault the sworn servants of a Primarch. This was done well and faithfully, and it seems that no auxilia is at risk of loss of life should they partake in this grand endeavor. However, it has come to light that many of the same devices and spirits were further altered, to demean, besmirch, sully, and censor xenos auxilia sanctioned under the auspices of the Edict of Tolerance by the authority of the Primarchs - granted unto them by the Emperor, your Omnissiah. You stand accused of being involved in such. How do you plead?” The Equerry spoke from memory, listing out the background and charge with all formality and process due to a court following the Lex Imperialis.

“It is no less than what they deserve. They are perverse and unclean. So says the Omnissiah. My actions shall be vindicated by my Order. Though condemned by the capricious will of an emission of the Omnissiah, my name and the names of those like me shall be sung in exultation through the great link of the Transmat, and forever enshrined in glory in the High Altar of Technology!” Korvykha babbled frenetically, his one organic eye going wide and unfocused.

“Who else was a part of this plot? Who is in charge of this action against the Omnissiah’s holy event,” Usriel questioned aggressively, stepping at the lowly priest with a metallic pound echoing along the Shrine as his foot came in contact with the floor.

“There is only one individual who dares to take action against the sanctity of this most sacred Triumph, venerated child of the Omnissiah. That is -”

“Answer my question! You are found guilty of conspiring against the Omnissiah, the Emperor! Anymore uncooperative speech will only further your punishment, am I clear,” Usriel’s voice boomed, the voxcoder from his helmet straining to convey his voice properly. The Primarch angrily wrenched the helmet off his head to show a face seething with anger, a head unmolested but the touch of technology, shaved clean. Eyes that looked that of the very plasma he used tore into the Tech-Priest, eyes that none other than his closest confidants had seen. “Give me a name, clear and simple!” Usriel spat.

“Oh Glorious Primarch…” Tears began to evidently well in Korvykha’s one eye. “How you honor me. To be graced with the privilege of beholding your divine visage so closely. Even in contemptuous rage, you show the wisdom of the Omnissiah to be truth. The perfection and beauty of the Human form is embodied -”

“Who ordered you to this conspiracy!” Usriel roared, the lighting of the room fluctuating out of the Primarch’s anger.

Korvykha stared blankly at Usriel, his one eye unfocused and dull. The Primarch then noticed that blood was running down one of the priest’s ears. Either through sheer volume or the psychic manifestation of his very rage - if not both - he had inadvertently sundered the Priest’s eardrums.

“If I may, my lord?” Theodora said, advancing towards Korvykha and dipping a power armored gauntlet to dab at the blood flowing from his ears. “I believe an alternative approach is required now.”

“Very well,” Usriel said, reserving his anger and turning away from Korvykha before returning the helmet to his head.

The Librarian gingerly lowered herself to sit upon the floor, her immense frame at eye level with the bound Transmechanic. Words were of no use here, it would take a deeper communication to prise what they needed. The sound of pneumatic clamps being undone breaks the silence as her gauntlets fall off of her hands, revealing pale-white skin. Her face became entirely still as she pressed her thumbs against the tech-priest’s temples, eyes closed as she took the direct approach.

Rejoice, Korvykha. Few can say they have bled for a Primarch.

“- We will report any further discoveries as they appear Sire.”

“Understood, Machine Ghost. Continue to examine that code and push forwards, I believe this conspiracy is nearing its end. Thank you for your efforts,” Usriel boxed back in a pleased voice.

“It sounds like things are going well brother.” Micholi’s voice stated aloud, betraying the fact that he was physically in the shrine that Usriel, his honor guard and the small collection of Doomsayers were currently using as a temporary HQ of sorts. Stepping out of the shadow that seemed to have helped him blend into the background, his attention was on Usriel as he stated “I wanted to check in with you and see how things were progressing before I answered my team and addressed the idea they suggested to me.”

“Things have been going well once we cracked the Sicarian, no small thanks to our librarian,” Usriel said, nodding towards Theodora, turning to face his peer. A tone of what could be taken as the joy of Usriel sounded, “I do believe this ordeal will be dealt with soon enough.”

“Now, what idea did your team have?” Usriel inquired.

Micholi paused for a moment as he asked “Is it safe to talk here?” He suspected the answer was yes, but felt the need to ask anyway just to be sure.

“It is,” Usriel affirmed with a light nod of his head.

“Very well. They’ve come to the conclusion that the Prefecture Magisterium knows more about the current situation then they are letting on… and they requested my assistance personally in helping to breach the security around their headquarters on the planet to try and uncover what they are hiding. However, since your investigation is bearing fruit I believe such an extreme measure will not be required of us.” Micholi wasn’t upset by the suggestion of his team, but risking a fight with the Prefecture Magisterium was clearly something he was slightly relieved that he wasn’t going to have to commit to.

“The Prefecture Magisterium? Micholi, the Tech-Priests themselves fear them, it is not a wise idea to intrude on them,” Usriel said, nearly in a whisper.

Micholi actually offered his brother a smile as he answered “Thus why I wanted to check in with you first. While I find myself agreeing with my sons that they likely do know more than they have revealed, I am glad that the action of finding out what exactly it is they know and are possibly hiding will not be required… at least not today.”

“It would be best we did not push our luck, odds are they will be watching all of us when this matter is completed,” Usriel commented, his tone still conveying a light bit of worry.

Offering a small nod in return, Micholi decided to change the subject slightly to something a little more joyful as he turned his attention towards the Doomsayer librarian that had been gestured to before. “What is your name? I would like to offer you the full praise that you deserve for a job done both well and quickly.”

“Theodora, my lord Micholi,” the Librarian said with a low bow, the other Doomsayers in attendance clearly pleased with the credit that she had brought to their name. “I shall carry your praise high in my thoughts, but our work is not yet concluded. These secrets have ill omens about them.”

Micholi smiled softly as he stepped forward and placed a hand on Theodora’s shoulder for just a moment before removing it and stepping away. “Indeed you are correct.” Before turning to his brother and asking “Just to make sure I haven’t missed anything, what do we know so far?”

Daena’s Equerry answers in his stead, Ascania’s voice somehow still quiet through the death mask’s voxcoder. “Less than one would like. There is a cabal of junior tech-priests rooting about the modifications for the Triumph, their work left unmolested by the Prefecture Magisterium. Those who would endeavor to correct such vandalism are paralyzed in fear by the same, terrified that if they act they shall be declared heretek. At best, we have a conspiracy of silence. But considering what your own Astartes have found my lord, this seems to go far deeper. I would recommend that the suspects Sister Theodora identified be put to the question.”

“I agree, I intended to question them, but there are many others to go through,” Usriel stated, looking to where his honor guards had been stationed, “I sent my sons to interrogate those who confessed. No doubt they will sort out the lessers in due time.”

For a moment Micholi looked… somewhat pensive. “I admit, when I made the decision I did I knew that there was going to be trouble. Both from the Mechanicum and from my siblings. I did not imagine that it would have reached this extent through.” He was quiet for a moment… before shaking his head to snap out of it. “At any rate, I will go make sure my squad doesn’t do anything… well, foolish. Their desire for a challenge is admirable, but needs to be reigned in at times. However, if you would need of my personal skills brother, I am at your beck and call.”

“I thank you, Micholi. This will soon be over by my estimates and the Triumph will no longer dishonor the Emperor’s grace,” Usriel stated, a bit of pride shining through his voice as he turned away from his brother. His mind was at ease with the progress of the investigation, knowing that there would no longer be anything for him to truly worry about and knowing that the Emperor may be happy that the Triumph will be done without any form of dishonor upon his imperium. The nineteenth Primarch looked to the Doomsayers he had with him, knowing that they were most useful and knowing he would have to commend them and mention their efforts to Daena when he got the chance. “I wish you the best, Micholi. Thank you for allowing me to call upon your team,” Usriel said.

“Of course brother. After all, it would be quite rude and inconsiderate of me to have played a part in creating this situation and then refusing to help resolve it. While we might disagree on certain things, we both serve the Imperium after all.” Micholi answered back earnestly. “I would have offered to lead the investigation myself, but I can acknowledge that you have a better understanding of those being investigated.”

“Again, thank you Micholi,” Usriel said aptly before speaking into his vox to the Magos, “Ulbridge, is the Junior Transmechanic ready?”

‘He has been made ready for you, Holy Primarch. He did not resist seizure and has been cooperative. He has been detained in the Shrine where you confronted the other Tech-Priests. As requested, I have interceded and delayed the repair of the auspex systems in that chamber. You and your Astartes will have complete privacy.’ The Magos voxed back in reply.

“Thank you, Magos,” Usriel said into his vox before looking to the Doomsayers while making his way back to the Shrine, “Come, nieces. Let us end this so that we may bask in the Emperor’s glorious Triumph.”




Back at the Shrine, the Tech-Priest - Transmechanic Korvykha - awaited Usriel and the Doomsayers was a far cry from the five figures who had previously occupied the room. As a minor Tech-Priest, he was still more man than machine. Even his face was largely unaugmented, beyond a single bionic eye and a rebreather mechanism mounted over his mouth. His robes were a simple sheer Martian red in coloration, with none of the tell-tale decorative gold or pale markings of elevated status.

Korvykha was pinioned on place, forced into a kneeling posture by three mishapen servitors using their servo-clamps to physically hold him in place, immobilized with his hands behind his back, his head raised at a forty-five degree angle. As Usriel and the Doomsayers entered the shrine, he almost reflexively attempted to squirm in place, in futility. His one organic eye was widely dilated - Theodora could already tell even from the far end of the room that his mind was consumed with a mixture of reverence as much as it was by fear. The one thing that did not cloud his mind at all, however, was guilt.

“He thinks himself righteous, my lord. It seems that he is indeed the creator of the works we have sought out,” Theodora said, her face frozen in a smile an inch short of kindness. “Such fear, strange. Do you not take pride in your devotion to your God?”

“I fear only the dissolution of the Omnissiah’s children. Though it be blasphemous to contemplate, the evidence of it befalls me now.” Korvykha shot back. His voice was raised and nearly frantic - evidently he was still so much more Human than machine that, unlike the other Tech-Priests confronted thus far, he could not reliably modulate or control his true feelings. Peering into his mind, Theodora could sense his bluster was a rationalization. His fear welled within him unprompted, and he mastered it through the contemplation of his faith.

For the moment.

“Are you implying me to be a heretek?” Usriel asked coldly, looking down upon Korvykha before he stepped forwards. The Primarch only felt anger towards this man who evidently did not know his place beneath the Nineteenth Son. The red gaze from his visor bore into the transmechanic with what could be described as one of judgement.

“It is not my place to judge you, Holy Son of the Omnissiah.” Korvykha answered. Usriel could see sweat starting to bead on the priest’s exposed forehead. “Even were your guilt unquestioned, you would be beheld in splendor and with love by all children of the Mechanicum. For even in rebellion you are glorious, and the Omnissiah is most beneficent. How could anybody bear to look down upon a divine being such as yourself? Only the one who stands above all has the merit, and the right to stand in judgement over you.” His words were neat and carefully sounded, but they did nothing to hide the strained nervousness of his tone.

“Imply me to be a rebel again and I shall tear your spine in twain, mortal,” Usriel said, anger not breaching his cold voice while his hand hovered just above the plasma pistol on his side. The Primarch allowed himself to calm for a moment before speaking in his same tone, “We are not here to talk about me, Transmechanic. Do you understand why you are detained?”

“Because you wish it to be so, Exalted One.” Korvykha replied almost breathlessly.

“Evidently, you do not realize,” Usriel commented, before pacing back and forth in front of him. “Equerry, read him what he is under suspicion of,” the Primarch ordered, gaze unmoving from Korvykha.

“By order and request of the Lord of the Second, xenos auxilia of his Legion were scheduled to march in the Triumph of Ullanor. To provide for this, various cogitators, machine-spirits, servitors, and so on and so forth were reconsecrated and reprogrammed so that they would not assault the sworn servants of a Primarch. This was done well and faithfully, and it seems that no auxilia is at risk of loss of life should they partake in this grand endeavor. However, it has come to light that many of the same devices and spirits were further altered, to demean, besmirch, sully, and censor xenos auxilia sanctioned under the auspices of the Edict of Tolerance by the authority of the Primarchs - granted unto them by the Emperor, your Omnissiah. You stand accused of being involved in such. How do you plead?” The Equerry spoke from memory, listing out the background and charge with all formality and process due to a court following the Lex Imperialis.

“It is no less than what they deserve. They are perverse and unclean. So says the Omnissiah. My actions shall be vindicated by my Order. Though condemned by the capricious will of an emission of the Omnissiah, my name and the names of those like me shall be sung in exultation through the great link of the Transmat, and forever enshrined in glory in the High Altar of Technology!” Korvykha babbled frenetically, his one organic eye going wide and unfocused.

“Who else was a part of this plot? Who is in charge of this action against the Omnissiah’s holy event,” Usriel questioned aggressively, stepping at the lowly priest with a metallic pound echoing along the Shrine as his foot came in contact with the floor.

“There is only one individual who dares to take action against the sanctity of this most sacred Triumph, venerated child of the Omnissiah. That is -”

“Answer my question! You are found guilty of conspiring against the Omnissiah, the Emperor! Anymore uncooperative speech will only further your punishment, am I clear,” Usriel’s voice boomed, the voxcoder from his helmet straining to convey his voice properly. The Primarch angrily wrenched the helmet off his head to show a face seething with anger, a head unmolested but the touch of technology, shaved clean. Eyes that looked that of the very plasma he used tore into the Tech-Priest, eyes that none other than his closest confidants had seen. “Give me a name, clear and simple!” Usriel spat.

“Oh Glorious Primarch…” Tears began to evidently well in Korvykha’s one eye. “How you honor me. To be graced with the privilege of beholding your divine visage so closely. Even in contemptuous rage, you show the wisdom of the Omnissiah to be truth. The perfection and beauty of the Human form is embodied -”

“Who ordered you to this conspiracy!” Usriel roared, the lighting of the room fluctuating out of the Primarch’s anger.

Korvykha stared blankly at Usriel, his one eye unfocused and dull. The Primarch then noticed that blood was running down one of the priest’s ears. Either through sheer volume or the psychic manifestation of his very rage - if not both - he had inadvertently sundered the Priest’s eardrums.

“If I may, my lord?” Theodora said, advancing towards Korvykha and dipping a power armored gauntlet to dab at the blood flowing from his ears. “I believe an alternative approach is required now.”

“Very well,” Usriel said, reserving his anger and turning away from Korvykha before returning the helmet to his head.

The Librarian gingerly lowered herself to sit upon the floor, her immense frame at eye level with the bound Transmechanic. Words were of no use here, it would take a deeper communication to prise what they needed. The sound of pneumatic clamps being undone breaks the silence as her gauntlets fall off of her hands, revealing pale-white skin. Her face became entirely still as she pressed her thumbs against the tech-priest’s temples, eyes closed as she took the direct approach.

Rejoice, Korvykha. Few can say they have bled for a Primarch.

To have evoked his anger is my only true crime. Korvykha’s inner voice, cooler and perfectly tranquil in stark contrast to his actual sound, answered her. I can scarcely deny it when the evidence permeates my ears.

You are young, I am certain that such crimes can be forgiven in time, she replied, her mental voice soothing and calm. But the honor of receiving an augmetic due to his deeds shall follow you forever.

You need not lie to me, Lady Astartes. I know I am to die. Korvykha answered. Though it is not for malice that I obstruct you. Ask your questions. I will answer what I can, truthfully. To profane the sanctum of my mind you have conjured with deceit would be an affront to the Machine God.

Death is the punishment for traitors.

Death need not be a punishment if it is the will of the Primarchs. It simply is as it shall be. My death shall be as natural as the fall of a rotten tree, or the crumbling of a glacier under a star. I am no traitor, in my own knowing. But I shall die regardless. That shall be the will of the Primarch, and their will shall be inviolate. The tranquility of Korvykha’s inner voice was disturbed, here - rippling with a wavering uncertainty. There was fear here, an apprehension of the death he otherwise seemed to so calmly accept.

We shall see. Who instructed you in what is righteous? she asked, turning away from his acceptance of his death. She kept close to her heart the suspicion that the Transmechanic may well welcome death if what she suspected of Usriel were true.

Nobody...or, rather, my anticipations did betray me. Korvykha answered. When the planning for the Triumph took place, and it became known that the Second Primarch would insist on parading his disgusting chattel during it, there was great confusion amongst us. The Tech-Priests who have been favored with the task of creating the wonders of the technology that would enable the Triumph. At first, we simply proceeded as normal. Let the xenos perish in the march for all the galaxy to see. Then, word came that this was not acceptable. It was quite curious though - there was no official proclamation or decree. Merely the word of certain influential figures, in private, that the Triumph technology would have to be altered to accommodate the xenos. More confusion followed. Nobody was certain how to act. Eventually, word spread that the Fabricator General himself had issued directives for the Triumph to go forward with reconsecrated systems - but still, no decrees, no formal mandates, even as rumors abounded of the Fabricator General himself issuing pardons for improper and perverse corruption of sacred technology for the purposes of facilitating the Triumph. Rumors that I now believe to be false. The Prefecture Magisterium certainly have not been respecting them. I came to believe, after a time, that the rumors were a smokescreen. Bandied about as cover for plausible deniability, while one of our many sacred orders would secretly arrange for a disruption of the Triumph. My actions - I suppose, I was seeking patronage. Acting to earn the notice and favor of those who were watching.

If what you say is true, then I would say your odds of surviving this day have increased dramatically. You have indeed committed no crime. Theodora spoke aloud moments later, her voice monotone and distant. “We have all been played for fools. There was no order. No directive. Only rumor and fear. He acted on supposition and assumption. Promises of clemency nothing more than lies. Do you not see, my lord? The true purpose of this chaos was not the petty vandalism we have aimed to prevent. It is a purge.”

“A purge?” Usriel echoed inquisitively, “You mean to say the Mechanicum is purging itself of who? Those who support the xenos?”

“I am making suppositions from suppositions, but it fits, does it not? If the Mechanicum desired for the Triumph to proceed smoothly, there would have been formal directives. Alterations in doctrine. Proscribed parameters for action. This did not occur. Assurance spread that the Fabricator-General would pardon those convicted of techno-heresy if it was done for the Triumph, but tell me, my lord. Do you know a single incident where such mercy came to pass? This Triumph, the inclusion of lord Micholi’s auxilia, provided an opportunity. Think. All those removed by the Prefecture Magisterium were accused of being too accommodating. The greatest champions of the great effort were silenced. Self-selection. There was no need to conduct an investigation. One need only see who was not hesitant. Consider the senior priests we interrogated earlier. They did not know what or what not to do. They were obsessed with nothing more than survival. I believe now that the vandalism targeted towards the xenos was unintended, or a merely secondary benefit of this situation. It seems that the true goal was to identify and remove certain priests. But I do not believe that there are supporters of xenos among the Mechanicum. At least, not in sufficient numbers for such a scheme to bear fruit. But there are surely great numbers who support the Primarchs.”

Realization dawned upon Usriel, taking a step back from Theodora as if what she had just said physically hurt him. Confusion wracked his mind, as he turned away and seemingly stumbled towards the closest wall and put an elbow up against it. The Mechanicum was purging itself of who wholly obeyed the Primarchs, those who obeyed divinity. It was a fact he could not comprehend as he had been raised with the Mechanicum worshipping him, obeying his every word.

“Magos Ulbridge, get me Archmagos Rarnet, immediately,” Usriel said lightly into vox before turning to Theodora, “I pray that you are wrong, niece.”

’Certainly, Holy Primarch. Did you want the Archmagos over vox, or in person?’ Ulbridge voxed in reply after a few moments of delay.

“In person, Magos,” Usriel answered.

’As you will, exalted child. He has been informed and is on his way. He shall transit onto the planet via teleportarium and will arrive shortly.’ Ulbridge’s vox-line then clicked off.

Several minutes later, Archmagos Rarnet drifted into the room, suspended aloft in the air by his abeyant device.

“Exalted one. Magos Ulbridge informed me that for the sake of discretion, I should forgo the free use of vox communication in this room.” Rarnet’s voxcoder purred as he spoke, with the occasional pause and airy intake of atmosphere awkwardly breaking up his speech. “How may I serve you, holy child?”

“I require information, Archmagos. Have there been any actual pardons of those who have committed Techno-Heresy in the name of the Triumph?” Usriel asked, turning to face the Archmagos, his voice clearly worried.

“Yes, holy Primarch.” Rarnet answered, his voxcoder airily huffing before he continued. “All writs of clemency issued by or sent through the Prefecture Magisterium are required to also be submitted before the most senior Tech-Priest in the governing locality, which has been my own personnage for the last five standard months. To my knowing, precisely eight individuals accused of Techno-Heresy have been pardoned in that time.”

“Detail the accusations that they were cleared of, Archmagos,” Ascania said, looking uncertainly between the Mechanicum priest and her own Librarian.

“Certainly. The first writ was issued the day I arrived, pardoning Logis Karoa of any current and all future acts of techno-heresy pertaining to xenotech or xeno-derived knowledge, for the duration of the Triumph or so long as she remained planetbound.” He paused for a moment as his voxcoder took in another airy pull. “This is not unusual to be done for Logi, particularly during events or in localities with high incidences of labor-derived accusations of techno-heresy. Due to the nature of the work Logi perform.”

Rarnet then briefly gazed between Usriel and the Doomsayers, awaiting any kind of reaction. When they had none, he carried on.

“The next six, as archived in my periphery cogitator core, were all lay-priests who were accused, seized, interrogated, and found innocent of intentional techno-heresy by the Prefecture Magisterium. They were released with warnings and sanctioned for their failings, and were transported offworld for punitive and remedial labor elsewhere. The final writ of clemency is issued for Magos Ulbridge, and was issued seven weeks ago, also for any current or future acts of techno-heresy as may arise during the Triumph or until he is off-planet, as with Logis Karoa. As he is my immediate delegate for the bulk of the work concerning the Triumph and its organization, this writ was found most welcome by me.”

“Those who were transported off world, do you know where they are at this present time?” Usriel asked.

“Not as such. Experience suggests they were sent to forge worlds in the Obscurus Segmentum to perform underforge maintenance.” Rarnet answered.

“Archmagos, how many individuals have been found guilty of techno-heresy within the past five months?” Ascania asked, dread forming in the pit of her stomach.

“According to my cogitator’s secondary core,” Rarnet began, “...there was an abrupt surge in condemnations around the time the first series of reconsecrations being performed. Grim times. Records indicate more than a hundred Tech-Priests of varying status were excommunicated, censured, obliterated, and decommissioned. This fell off to a comparatively lenient trickle afterwards. Around a dozen each subsequent month, and only sixteen since Magos Ulbridge was assigned. Although I am not officially aware of the reason as to why, I strongly suspect the Prefecture Magisterium has caved to the reality of the situation and is endeavoring to ignore most of the techno-heresy transpiring under their noses for the purposes of the Triumph. They are now mostly making token accusations and arrests to maintain their cultivated mystique, of course, and there will likely be several show-trials once the Triumph has concluded.”

“Arch-Magos… what is your view upon the Edict of Tolerance?” Usriel questioned.

“The most hallowed and revered Edict of Tolerance is the manifest word and will of the Omnissiah, his very wisdom embodied in the written word of the chosen peoples of the Machine God.” Rarnet answered without hesitation. He paused momentarily. “...As are all decrees, mandates, and written documents he is accredited with. I have not endeavored to formally rank these documents in relative importance, you understand. I leave such theological exercises to those more contentious Archmagi of the Holy Synod of Mars to risk.”

Theodora ignored the Primarch and the Equerry and the Archmagos, her attention focused solely on the junior tech-priest before her. Answer me well, Korvykha, and death will not find you today. At least, not by the Primarch’s hand. Do you believe that the Emperor is your God, your Omnissiah?

[i]...That you are even able to approach the very notion that I might not, is an affront greater than any other I believe you can offer - and a far graver condemnation than the trespass offered by the Primarch.[i] Korvykha’s single eye narrowed scornfully as he glared out of its corner in Theodora’s direction, unable to twist his head fully to manage it.

Correct answer. The Primarchs, as Scions of the Omnissiah, have a fraction of his divine will - but only a fraction. Do I have that right? she continued, paying no heed to the hatred she had engendered in the man.

I am no gloried theologian, but that is my understanding. Korvykha answered, their anger fading away momentarily. The Omnissiah embodies the Machine God itself in the frailty of flesh. The Omnissiah’s children are a reflection of this. Within them lurks the true and ineffable perfection of divinity - but it is shrouded by the imperfections and flaws of our terrible and perilous physical universe. These are not failings, but lessons. Lessons contrived by the Machine God, to further Humanity’s comprehension and encompassment of all veracious and infinite knowledge.

Which lesson do you believe this current trial was designed to teach?

An intriguing question. One I am not certain I am fit to answer. Though in my estimation - it would have to be the Final Warning of the Universal Truths. Korvykha answered.

I am unfamiliar with such. Is it permissible to transmit that knowledge to a laywoman?

To break with ritual is to break with faith. His thoughts were laden with a heaviness that buffeted through Theodora, almost as if he had physically struck her.

A heavy lesson, and a harsh teacher. You have been most helpful, Korvykha. I will beg mercy for your faith, Theodora said, before cutting their psychic connection. “A wise decision, Archmagos,” she said, turning to face Rarnet as she stood from the ground. “It is much better to leave theology to the theologians than to think one knows the mind of any God. I am done with him, my lord,” she said, turning to Usriel with a gesture towards the transmechanic. “He is guilty only of an excess of zeal, untempered by prudence. A folly of youth and pride. I would request that he be permitted the time to reflect on this, to perhaps one day acquire the wisdom that the venerable Archmagos possess.”

Usriel paused, looking to Theodora before letting loose a sigh of confusion, anger, and disappointment, “Niece, what do you believe the chances of us stopping this conspiracy?”

“I have every confidence that we will be able to root out those who would vandalize the Triumph. They are young, and their work is sloppy. As for the rest? It is far too early to say.”

“Archmagos, I want those who you had mentioned been sent to Obscurus brought before me,” Usriel ordered before looking back to Korvykha, “If you cannot, for any reasons under refusal, tell them it is my direct order. Barring any other, let me know.”

“While that is quite the endorsement for their future within the Cult Mechanicum, holy Primarch, even using the fastest Courier Ships it would be months, perhaps longer, before they could arrive here. Even a simple chain of astropathic messages would take longer to traverse to their worlds and back than we have before the Triumph is due. I can instruct that they be escorted to any other point of choice for you to later grace them with a visitation if that is your wish. I pray you can forgive the limitations of my worldly authority in this matter.” Rarnet bowed low, making an offhand gesticulation of prayer as he did so.

“They are not for the purposes of the Triumph, if need be, have them escorted to Vion 5,” Usriel said, his voice unwavering, “There are further machinations that may be happening, Archmagos, and I would require those who had been been sent away to confirm the suspicions that young Theodora had. Make it so, Archmagos.”

“As you will it, so it shall be, Holy Child of the Omnissiah.” Rarnet’s bionic eyes then swiveled minutely in their housing to look to Theodora. “What suspicions are those you speak of, Exalted One?”

“None of your concern, Archmagos,” Usriel stated, continuing, “I am sure it is nothing more than the Doomsayer’s fixation upon death, right, Theodora?”

“My lord uncle is far too indulgent of his niece’s whims,” Ascania said, shaking her head. “Pray, forgive her foolishness Archmagos, her blood has been up since she avoided her own foreseen death.”

“If my lord uncle were truly indulgent, he would’ve let it occur,” Theodora replied, the transhuman sounding almost disappointed.

“Truly a marvel to behold sometimes,” Usriel stated, his voice unmoving from the seriousness of his tone as he moved to be at the side of Rarnet. The Primarch looked back over at the Doomsayers , “That said, I do thank you for allowing me to let them indulge in their… fixations, but I am sure you do not care to hear anymore upon it.”

“I...see…” Rarnet’s voxcoder purred. “If that is all, I should depart back to orbit and begin forming the appropriate directives.”

“Yes, as you were, Archmagos,” Usriel said with a nod. With a final bow, Rarnet then turned and departed the room.

Theodora stared at Brynhildr for several long seconds until the other Doomsayer gave her a nod. “Unless he left an auspex behind, he can no longer hear us, Sister.”

“Uncle, never put me in a situation like that again,” Theodora said after a long sigh. “To pretend that I would be so… so… perverse in order to allay his suspicions. At very least I doubt he can guess what we truly suspect but still…”

“Then you surely have not seen how a few of my sons view the plasma rifles they use,” Usriel offhandedly commented, before turning back to them, “Anyone is a conspirator at this point in time. The only Mechanicum personnel that should be trusted at this point in time are to be those from Vion 5. Am I understood, nieces?”

“Of course, my lord,” Ascania said, the Equerry shifting in place. “It feels like there is a piece missing still, some crucial part… Even if Theodora’s suspicions prove true, I cannot wrap my head around the why of it.”

“The why can wait. For the moment, we had best apprehend the remaining junior priests before they can wreck further havoc upon the Triumph,” Theodora said, before cocking her head. “Or perhaps lord Micholi can determine that while we finish the immediate work.”

“Yes, for the time being, let us end this vandalism. I will tell Micholi about what has transpired after our work is complete,” Usriel noted before looking back at the still deaf Tech-Priest. “Take him to the nearest infirmary so that he may get his ears fixed,” the Primarch ordered the servitors. They immediately moved to comply, hoisting the immobilized Tech-Priest into the air and slowly ambling out of the room with a series of oddly asymmetrical, loping steps.

“Now, the Night Watch team has found a Machine Spirit in Prefectus Hodge’s data slate that held security programs comparable to those found in the Imperial Palace. Before we continue, with the next two, I am now contemplating sending them to do other work given we now know more on the situation,” Usriel explained, “Should they now be sent to investigate the Prefecture Magisterium now that we have more questions than we do answers?”

The Equerry’s head snapped up, both other Doomsayers immediately paying more far more attention to the Primarch’s words than they had previously. “Which Department of the Administratum does this Prefectus Hodge belong to?” Ascania asked, her voice strained.

“Unknown to me. I did not ask before I had one of my son’s break his jaw,” Usriel answered in a calm, emotionless tone.

“We must find out. Quickly. There is only one subdivision of the Administratum I can think of that would have good reason to use such machine spirits,” the Doomsayer replied, far less calm than the Primarch opposite her.

“Magos Ulbridge, enlighten me to Prefectus Hodge’s department within the Administratum,” Usriel voxed to the command center.

’I believe he is a member of the Estate Imperium, holy Primarch.’ Ulbridge voxed back after a brief delay. ’I am not certain of this as I have willfully been attempting to filter him from my cognition since his arrival. I will inquire with the Lexmechanics to make sure.’ Another brief pause followed. ’...Yes, my thinking seems to have been correct in this matter, Exalted One.’

“Estate Imperium,” Usriel reported to the Equerry, “Does this worry you?”

All three women let out a sigh of relief, and strangely their relief is directed at Usriel. “Then he is an unwitting agent, and by all accounts an effective one. Well. I hope so, at least. The alternatives are distressing,” Ascania replied, turning to Brynhildr. “Rendezvous with the Night Watch, confirm or deny my suspicions. You know what I seek,” she ordered, the Doomsayer giving a curt nod before departing. “The data sprites and machine spirits guarding the Imperial Palace are of a highly sensitive nature,” she explained, the death mask showing no hint of what emotion she felt. “If I am correct, then it was dutifully reporting all information Hodge retrieved to the Sigilite himself. Realize, lord Usriel, that possibility is the most optimistic I can think of.”

“And the least optimistic?” The Primarch inquired.

“The least optimistic would of course be that the Palace has been compromised.” She decided to not mention any of the possibilities in between those two extremes, several of which may place the Steel Sentinels in a less than flattering light.

“Then let us hope that all I had done was break the jaw of someone who Malcador was spying upon. However, my concern is more place upon the idea that the Cult Mechanicum would be purging its members for obeying the will of the Primarchs and where the rumors of pardons had started,” Usriel commented before speaking into his vox again, “Magos, please send in Lexmechanic now.”

’By your order, venerated child of the Omnissiah. Servitors are en-route.’

Several minutes passed. Eventually, the doors to the Shrine pulled open, and three more misshapen and lumpy servitors dragged an immobilized Tech-Priest into the room. This one was evidently more heavily augmented than Korvykha had been, as the entire upper half of her cranium had been replaced with a metallic skullcap, complete with bionic eyes and what looked like power capacitors that jutted out from the sides of her head. She was also notably missing both of her hands, with bare, modular mechanical stumps where they should have been. Doubtlessly her hands had been removed due to the presence of mechadendrites that would have been difficult to immobilize.

The servitors lumbered before Usriel, and lowered the Lexmechanic down into the same posture Korvykha had been forced into, with her arms forced behind her back and her head raised upwards at a forty-five degree angle as she knelt on her knees. As she was presented to him, Usriel’s helmet scrolled her identity as Lexmechanic Kalgehan.

“Lexmechanic Kalgehan, do you understand your purpose in the preparation of the Omnissiah’s Triumph?” Usriel inquired, his arms behind his back as he continued to gaze upon her.

“Yes, glorious Primarch.” Kalgehan answered, although she seemed to be grinding her teeth together as she answered. “The purpose of the Triumph is to celebrate and honor the compliance of the Ullanor system, as well as the Legions and members of the Astra Militarum and Navis Imperialis who fought the vile xenos that inhabited it, and the most resplendent victory of the Primarch of the 5th Legion in battle against the xenos warlord who ruled the system prior to Imperial occupation.”Navis Imperialis

“And the Xenos Regiments within the Astra Militarum that fought here, even in the waning battles, are to be honored as well, correct?” Usriel continued to question.

“I have heard nothing about xenos fighting in Ullanor at all, glorious Primarch. As far as I hear the Edicted ones did not even get here until just a while ago. But be that as it may, it is not my place to question the will of the Primarchs. If the children of the Omnissiah say some xenos from halfway across the galaxy who never even fought in Ullanor get to march, they get to march as far as I am concerned. You could say that rabid dogs would get to march and we would make sure it was possible.”

“And yet there are those working against the very proclamation that the xenos shall march as stated by Primarch Micholi,” Usriel stated, folding his arms as he continued, “Thus far I have heard that many are doing this out of fear, Lexmechanic. Can you attest to such facts?”

“It is a precarious state we have been left in, holy one. We know the work we have to do. So does the Prefecture Magisterium. The amount of work we dedicate solely to dancing around everything to keep everyone happy would make an Administratum drone blanch. It is almost as much a curse as anything else. Records are being deliberately destroyed or falsified, system network security is shot straight to the warp, and everyone is always keeping eye out for Skitarii or those inclined to report to them.” Kalgehan babbled on almost conversationally as she spoke to Usriel, but her body language was telling - although the servitors were keeping her pinioned firmly in place, she could not help but try to avert her gaze away from Usriel, and to shift and realign her legs and waist.

“Even though the Fabricator General has promised to pardon those who commit Tech-Heresy to make the Triumph come to fruition?” Usriel mused as he knelt down on knee to bring himself closer to Kalgehan’s height. The Primarch’s form loomed over her, “You have heard of this, correct?”

“Most of the Priests working here have heard that I imagine, sacred child.” Kalgehan returned noncommittally.

“Where did this rumor originate, Lexmechanic?” Usriel asked, “Surely, this promise from his most reverent of priests had come from somewhere.”

“I have not been paying it much mind, venerated one.” Kalgehan answered. “This is just inference, mind you, but it would seem to me that it would be insanity to try and do any of this work without some kind of decree of clemency to effectuate such pardons.” Kalgehan then finally turned her bionic gaze to meet Usriel’s for the first time. “...Which is to say, I think whether any such decree has actually been made has little to do with how few of them have been made. I am merely a Lexmechanic though, and such business is far beyond me.”

“What would be the purpose of disobeying the Will of the Primarchs in acting against the Triumph then? Other than humiliating the xenos,” Usriel continued, his reddened gaze meeting her own biotic one.

“I am not certain I follow your inquiry, sacred son.” Kalgehan replied cautiously. “I beg your patience for my ignorance, I am merely a Lexmechanic.”

“I am asking, why would one attempt to undermine the Will of Omnissiah and his Primarchs in this Triumph outside of merely humiliating the Xenos which could be done at any other time,” Usriel clarified.

Kalgehan attempted to shrug, the reflexive gesture halted by the servitors keeping her pinned. “As I said, holy Primarch. I am just a Lexmechanic. I have little insight into such high-flown and vaunted notions.”

“Then why were you amongst those brought up by Sicarian Szorbulo, if you are nothing more than a Lexmechanic,” Usriel asked with a cruel inflection coming to his voice.

“...Who?” Kalgehan asked, her metallic cheeks and brow betraying nothing. “My apologies, holy Primarch, but my network access has been revoked. I cannot even confer with the personnel registry.”

“Do not test me, Lexmechanic,” Usriel grunted angrily, a massive hand suddenly to grasp her head. He forced her gaze to focus solely upon his own as he spoke, “You would do well to remember the ones that held positions higher than your own, given we have already interrogated him. Your name was brought up, we know you are involved.”

“Holy Primarch, with protest, I have sixteen immediate superiors, and more than two-hundred different various Skitarii and Security Servitors pass through my sector every single day.” Kalgehan’s lower face was calm enough, but clutching her whole head as he was, Usriel could feel the flow of blood through her skin. Her heart was racing in terror from the proximity and contact. “I genuinely have no idea who you are referring to.”

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“Curious,” the Librarian said, cocking her head at the Lexmechanic. “She’s telling the truth. Which is, again, curious. One would think that any placed in a position so visible would be aware of who was watching. Unless, of course, one did not fear the watchers. You feel no fear, no anxiety, no dread when going about your duties for the Triumph?”

“I dread making actual mistakes and errors in my work a lot more. I’m a Lexmechanic, my work is the foundation everything else is built upon. If something goes wrong, it’s almost invariably because of something at the root before it is an actual mechanical defect. I worry about the quality of my work first, and generally that is more than enough to keep me safe.” Kalgehan almost seemed to calm down, the edge to her voice smoothing out as she carried on, even with Usriel’s fist still clenched around her head.

“And what, precisely, had to change in your own work to facilitate the xenos auxilia joining the Triumph?” Theodora asked, ignoring Usriel’s fist about as well as Kalgehan was.

“Well, actually, the holo-caster system we built was made specifically for the Triumph.” Kalgehan began to babble again, an actual hint of enthusiasm creeping into her inflection. Clearly, this was a topic she did not mind discussing in the least. “It is completely unique - there are probably systems like it elsewhere, we made it from scratch if you take my meaning. So we did not need to make any real changes. We just built it from the ground-up to be xenos tolerant. The bulk of our work is in making sure the other systems in the network play nice with it.”

“And do they? Play nice, that is.”

“Not if they haven’t been reconsecrated they don’t.” Kalgehan made a curious shape with her mouth, almost as if she had almost snorted derisively, only stopped by the absence of the necessary organ to do so. “Now for some systems, that’s not a problem. But the Holo? It’s one of the key pieces of technology being used in the entire Triumph. There are more than a million different servitors and legio cybernetica robots that have to link up with it, more than five thousand different vox relay hubs and nodes, and more than twenty independent monitoring systems. If any one of those things is not reconsecrated? The machine stops working.”

“I take it that the machine is working, then?” Theodora asked, as if she were having a casual conversation in which one of the participants might not have her head crushed at any time.

“As of two weeks ago, yes. We have had a few operational hiccups due to a handful of anomalous devices being slipped in every once in a while, but we can identify which ones they are pretty quickly. We just shut everything off serially until the machine starts working again. Helps narrow down the field of problem children real quick. Now we are just in the debugging phase. Lots of Rune Priests and Techsorcists going over it to prune out everything causing issues with the Machine Spirits. And that has been an ongoing issue. Do you know how many Rune Priests are even willing to give us the time of day considering the Holo is an abomination unto the Omnissiah? And do you know how many of them have been seized by the Prefecture Magisterium? It is slow going.” Kalgehan’s voice drifted. One of her eyes wavered to glance back up at Usriel from underneath his thumb. “Pray, holy child, could you relieve me of the grace of your touch?”

“The Sicarian wished you to stay alive for doing your job well,” Usriel commented, releasing his grip on her head and standing at full height.

Theodora was for once beginning to grow uncertain, her face wavering as she examined the Lexmechanic. “Why do you not fear seizure by the Prefecture?”

“Two reasons, I suppose,” Kalgehan began. Her tone of voice remained the same, the level of interesting unwavering, but immediately Theodora sensed the return of the Tech-Priest’s previous anxiety - her evasiveness. She had calmed down now, but some rotten secret was festering inside her skull even as she spoke.

“The first is, you have to understand, all that dancing around I mentioned earlier, so we can do all this techno-heresy without losing our heads over it? It is not just the lay priests and the enginseers and the artisans and everyone else in on it. The Prefecture is, in their own way, playing along too. There are more than a million Mechanicum personnel on-planet right now working to make the Triumph possible, and tens of thousands moving between the planet and orbit every day, and I can promise you a not insubstantial chunk of them have done something that would be considered Techno-Heresy any other day of the week under normal circumstances. And sure, the Prefecture Magisterium have this big air of mystique about them, they’re oil-thirsty and barely controlled scrap-mongering rust-eaters. But they aren’t stupid. They aren’t interested in killing off a million plus Mechanicum priests just because a Primarch decided to put his dirty friends on parade.” She paused emphatically before continuing.

“Which is where the second reason comes in. Right now, they’re biding their time, and only occasionally slinking out of the duct-work to snag some high-profile busybody so they can pretend they’re still faithful to the creed. And that’s just it. I know plenty of Rune Priests they have snatched. Plenty of Enginseers and Artisans, even a few Transmechanics. I can’t even remember the last time they bothered picking off a Lexmechanic though - here in the Triumph, that is.” She clarified the last statement as an afterthought. “I’m utterly beneath their notice. Doesn’t matter what I’m working on. Once the whole Triumph is over, they’ll get together with their buddies in the Department of Historical Revision in the Administratum, and with a few line edits and a few more demolition charges in the tunnels nobody will ever remember that the Triumph was only made possible with rampant techno-heresy.”

Calm returned to the Librarian’s features as she found a thread to pull upon, her confidence in her abilities restored. “You are playing along as well, then?”

“Well yes.” Kalgehan replied matter-of-factly. “Just because they are not picking off Lexmechanics does not mean it is impossible to do something they will take particular exception to. The weird circumstances are not an excuse to slack off. And like I mentioned - my work is the foundation. You can bet being inept on top of being a perverse Heretek would not help my chances of getting out of all of this alive.”

“Would lord Micholi have any reason to be displeased by your labors?”

Kalgehan made another reflexive attempt to shrug that was thwarted by the servitors. “Unsure. What would displease the exalted Primarch Micholi?”

“Acting against the Edict of Tolerance,” Usriel answered before looking to the servitors, “You may release your grips upon her.”
Kalgehan rose stiffly to her feet, audibly rolling her shoulders and arms as she did so - frowning perceptibly when she brought her arms back in front of her body and seemingly realizing her hands were still missing. She then answered, “Pretty sure I’m safe on that ground, holy son. The Edict is hallowed doctrine. The Prefecture Magisterium will decommission you for disobedience to the Omnissiah just as soon as they would for committing techno-heresy.”

“What about that which is within the letter of the Edict, but still distasteful to lord Micholi’s most beneficent decrees?”

“I am not an expert on the most venerated second child of the Omnissiah’s beneficent decrees.” Kalgehan answered with a scowl. “I’m not even particularly exceptional when it comes to standard theological necessities within the creed. I’ve been passed over for elevation on those grounds plenty of times, Omnissiah knows. Could you be more specific?”

“Lord Micholi views all of his auxilia as equally worthy of recognition and praise. Would he be able to rest assured that your works would provide that?”

“What, you mean he might have an adverse reaction if his precious pets do not get enough pict-time?” Kalgehan inquired, almost flippantly.

“Yes,” Usriel affirmed, arms crossed, “He loves those xenos as much as I love my sons, he would likely die protecting them if he needed to.”

“Well then he has nothing to worry about. His mongrel bands got allotted the exact same proportion of pict-viewing time relative to everything else in the schedule, save of course the Omnissiah and the Fifth Legion. Same kinds of viewing angles, and no censoring from any of our Machine Spirits or the like.” Kalgehan replied, a faint hint of indignation underlying her voice.

“And roughly how much time would that be, in absolute terms?” Theodora asked, innocently.

“Well, for remote viewing, we are actually working with the Administratum on a number of different pict-casts -” Kalgehan immediately began to babble on again - which made enough sense. As a Lexmechanic, a good chunk of her responsibilities would include regular contact with the Administratum. “The exact viewing time will depend on which pict-script is being used, and we have a number of different scripts we will be putting on based on varying different needs. A few would n-”

“Enough speech of upon pict-casts, Lexmechanic. Tell me, truly, why do you act in a manner not befitting of a Tech-Priest,” Usriel said with a coldness unmatched from when he had spoken before, “You seem unfaithful. Even the other tech-priests, while regarding the xenos as abominations, still held in a manner of speech far more respectful in the presence of one of the Omnissiah’s own sons.”

The words hung like a body in gallows as Usriel stared down the Lexmechanic, “Do you believe the Emperor to be the Omnissiah and his sons to share in his divinity?”

Kalgehan’s disposition went from tepid to mortified in an instant, the remaining flesh on her face turning chalk-white and her entire frame stiffening as though a chill had wafted through the room. A single instant passed, and then the Lexmechanic instantly fell to the floor, prostrating herself before Usriel and wailing in nearly incoherent Cant Mechanicum, flailing wildly with her handless arms.

“And so your secret has come to pass. That is why you were amongst the list, you, Lexmechanic Kalgehan would deceive even a Primarch! Is this why the Sicarian would have you amongst it?” Usriel questioned, raising his voice at the wailing woman and casting an unheard judgement upon her.

“What list?!?” Kalgehan wailed. “I swear, holy Primarch, most peerless and empyrean of splendors, I am faithful! My Magos tells me I am too irreverent by nature! I try so very hard, oh glorious one, it does not come readily to me! May the Omnissiah have mercy on my wretched soul, barren of native faith! Please-”

“She speaks the truth. But there is something missing. A fine way to treat the son of your God, to speak in circles and evasion, to guard your heart’s despair from his sight. Prove your faith then, if it is mercy you desire. Reveal that which you have labored to keep hidden.”

“What could I possibly be hiding from you?? I have told you nothing but the truth already! What more do you want?!? Examine my works, all is as I said it was!” Kalgehan cried.

“Speak now of what you hide or so help me your soul will be cast into the warp!” Usriel ordered, stepping forward to where the Primarch was practically on top of her. “If you are faithful, then deception of the Omnissiah’s son will not please the Machine God!” Usriel exclaimed.

With that, Kalgehan broke into a scream. A shrill, hopeless cry that strung itself through the air in the shrine like cracks winding their way through glass as she flung herself down again and beat on the fulcrete floor with the stumps of her wrists.

Eventually, she quieted, heaving for breath, shuddering violently on the floor before Usriel and the Doomsayers. The Primarch knelt down once more to become closer with Kalgehan, stating in a calm voice, “So long as you confess, you will be safe from ire, Kalgehan. Speak and prove your faith to the Machine God.”

[sub][i]”...two seconds of outshot frame scripting…”[i][/sub] Kalgehan whispered, her voice so soft it was scarcely possible to discern that she had said anything at all.

“Two seconds of outshot frame scripting?” Usriel asked in an echo, having to hide near genuine shock over that being the subject. He figured more was to it, but at base thought, the Primarch could only feel a twinge of shock over the simple nature of her issue.l

“Yes! Two seconds! A single frame of the holo-pict, with tens of thousands of different optics and pict-recorders and auspex devices all adjusted to all not see that single frame for two seconds! When there is not a single instance of a single frame anywhere else in any of the scripting that does not have at least a hundred different angles and views on it from just as many devices!” Kalgehan wailed. “Two whole seconds of a break in the universe! A single solitary point of obliviousness to evade recording!”

“....what is the subject of that missing frame?” Theodora asked, trying to keep her composure.

“One of the mongrel xenos band leaders during the Triumph, at minute forty-one exactly.” Kalgehan explained miserably. “But there’s more. I didn’t do it on a whim. I was told to do it.”

“By who.” Usriel inquired flatly.

“I don’t know!” Kalgehan choked. “They contacted me using a servo-skull as a proxy. But whoever it was, they knew exactly who I was, exactly what all my duties were, and my exact work schedule. They gave me specific routine instructions on what to do - I didn’t even know the contents of the frame that were ghosted until I manually reviewed the entire pict-script start to finish looking for it!”

Usriel looked back at the Doomsayers, clearly masking anger at the absurdity of the situation, asking in a reserved and flat tone, “Did they give any indication as to their rank or anything? Surely you did not follow the instruction of some random servo-skull that came up to you.”

“The incentive they gave me was immunity. They promised the Prefecture Magisterium would ignore me and the rest of the Lexmechanics working on the Holo.” Kalgehan blubbered, her warbling voice oddly inhuman in the absence of tears from her bionic eyes.

“Immunity from the Prefecture?” Usriel echoed, his hidden anger morphing into curiosity. A sudden dawning came upon Usriel once more as he rose once more to his full height, “There is only one with immediate access to your files and duties that can shield you from the Prefecture Magisterium, Lexmechanic.”

“What, you mean this - that Sicarian you mentioned? Szorbulo?” Kalgehan asked. “I suppose...Many senior Priests in the Prefecture Magisterium would have both the access and the ability to grant immunity.”

“That seems to be the case, Lexmechanic, which would be why he knew you did not know of him and yet he knew of you,” Usriel explained, looking back to the Lexmechanic before letting out a drawn out sigh. “You gave into your fear, Lexmechanic, a weakness of the flesh. Do you attest to this,” the Primarch asked in a disappointed voice.

“I do! Holy Primarch, I do! The flesh is fallible, but ritual honors the Machine Spirit! Omnissiah, save me from the weakness of the flesh!” Kalgehan threw herself prone on the floor again.

“You are forgiven, Lexmechanic Kalgehan. I can see you will take this experience and reflect upon it, and your station will increase with the knowledge that you have obtained from this,” Usriel said a tone that seemed to force the impatience of the Primarch to the side. The Primarch took a step back from Kalgehan, before awkwardly clearing his throat, “Once you have composed yourself, you may return to your duties. Unless you have any further statements, that is.”

Kalgehan had nothing more to say but to incoherently babble mangled canticles of the faith before abruptly turning and fleeing from the room.

“Two seconds of outshot frame scripting,” Usriel echoed, almost in awe, looking to the Doomsayers with what could only be a look of bewilderment hidden behind his helmet. The Primarch’s mind turned as to what the significance of the frame could even mean, other than just to be a slight annoyance to the viewer. “I am both shocked and confused to think that is what she was hiding, even if we managed to get some information out of it,” he commented before returning to silence.

“We are seeing with only one eye,” Theodora replied cryptically, the woman who had been composed in the face of death finally showing concern at her lack of understanding. “There is more to this that we’re missing, there must be. These vandals have wrought such miniscule harm that I had assumed they had been acting as their consciences dictated. It was logical, no? I’m not certain what to think now.”

“There are still more pieces to this puzzle, Sister. Our work is not yet done,” Ascania said softly, but it was clear that the masked figure was ill at ease with how events had transpired.

Minutes later, Usriel received a Vox out of the blue from Magos Ulbridge.

’Holy Primarch, since the detainment of the perpetrators identified by Librarian Theodora, your Honor Guard have successfully identified, detained, and extracted confessions from three times their number in various lay priests and minor Tech-Priests. Since your work began, the number of new instances of subversive programming detected in the Triumph network have drastically fallen off, and my staff is rapidly cleansing all presently affected systems. Assuming the present rate of progress is sustained, the Triumph systems will be cleaned and fully reconsecrated in only two or three days.’

“Excellent, Magos. Your work here will earn the direct praise of myself, and likely, Micholi. This investigation would have not been as successful as it was without you aid,” Usriel responded into the vox, allowing his praise of Ulbridge to hang for a moment, “You may send forth the Enginseer.”

‘By your order, Exalted Son of the Omnissiah.’

Minutes passed. Eventually, the door to the Shrine pulled open and the by now familiar sight of three lumpen, hunchbacked servitors dragging in a beleaguered Tech-Priest greeted the Primarch and the Doomsayers. Usriel’s helmet identified them as Enginseer Armard, and from what Magos Ulbridge had said, he worked at the vox network master switchboard for the service tunnels. He looked nearly indistinguishable from any other Enginseer. Although he was still technically more flesh than machine still, anything that stuck out of his robes had been heavily augmented, including his face, arms, and legs. The augmetics for his face-plate in particular were evidently meant to be temporary, a design meant to be replaced by something more elegant and sophisticated later on - resembling nothing less than an IA hazard mask with integrated bionic eyes. As with the others, the servitors forced him into a kneeling position, arms forced behind his back and head raised at a forty-five degree angle.

“Enginseer Armard, do you have any relation with Sicarian Szorbulo,” Usriel began, folding his arms in front of him as the questioning took hold of the room.

“Negative, Ho-ly Primarch.” Armard’s deep, sonorous voxcoder replied, strangely drawing out the inflection of the middle word.

“Have you encountered any servo-skulls offering you immunity from the Prefecture Magisterium?” Usriel continued.

“Negative, Ho-ly Primarch.” Armard repeated their prior statement perfectly, sounding absolutely no different than before, as if each syllable was pulled from a pre-synthesized phonetic cogitator.

“Are there signs within your station that would disrupt the Triumph by humiliating the xenos regiments within it?” Usriel asked, his own voice showing no difference in elevation as he looked upon the Enginseer. He continued, “You would certainly be within the position to do so and the last two that had been brought before me have already openly stated their faults.”

“Process-ing inquiry.” Armand stated flatly. For the next five seconds, the only sound that filled the shrine was that of the Enginseer’s voxcoder whirring audibly. “Ho-ly Primarch, return output to your inquiry indicates no anomalous entries in the master array. No disrupt-ion is project-ed.”

Usriel looked back to the Librarian, “Anything that he may be hiding, niece?”

“Fascinating,” Theodora breathed out, looking over the enginseer with undisguised curiosity. “His mind is truly an emulation of the machine. It reminds me of a servitor more than any other caste of tech-priest I’ve seen before. He shall process what you command, but is incapable of guilt or doubt. A question will get an answer - but one needs to discern the appropriate question to ask.”

“Interesting,” Usriel said, looking back to the Enginseer and asking, “I assume you have been subject to the Rite of Pure Thought?”

“Negative, Ho-ly Primarch. This unit has been subject-ed to a similar procedure; the Rite of Impure Excisement.” Armard replied dully.

“As I thought,” Usriel commented before looking to the servitors, ordering, “Release him.”

The moment the servitors released Armard, the Tech-Priest rose and, without saying anything else, turned on the spot and began walking to the door out of the shrine.

“Are you returning to your station,” Usriel asked, stepping around the man in quick strides to block his path.

“Affirm-ative, Ho-ly Primarch. This unit is three-thousand, six-hundred and twenty-eight standard processing cycles behind mandat-ed work quota.” As the Enginseer spoke, it performed a perfect ninety-degree turn, took three steps forward, turned back the way it had been facing, and continued walking towards the door out of the shrine and around Usriel.

“Come nieces, we shall follow him back to his work station,” Usriel commanded, as he walked behind the Enginseer.

“Of course, my lord,” Ascania said with a small bow, both Doomsayers following after Usriel in the wake of the enginseer.

Armard then proceeded to lead Usriel and the Doomsayers through the twisting maze of service tunnel corridors. Armard’s routing was close to perfect efficiency, the tight precision of his movements combined with the avenues he turned down making it clear the group was doubtlessly moving across the shortest possible distance to reach the array. At the same time, however, his movement was faintly sluggish, relaxed, and unhurried. A man in a hurry to go at his own pace, it seemed. As he led them along, they passed dozens of other Tech-Priests, Skitarii, and Servitors. As before when Usriel had originally entered the tunnels, they all uniformly moved to the sides of the passageway, either bowing or kneeling in reverence as he passed, offering clasped hands and gesticulations of prayer as he went, singing hymns and canticles of faith. Unexpectedly however, as Armard led Usriel on, Tech-Priests began to break from the lines in order to hand or drape inexplicable ornamentation to him. By the time the group arrived at the Vox Network Master Switchboard Array, Armard had accrued no less than six different necklaces made of gold and wrought iron, a circlet of gleaming and polished chrome, a new, second set of robes embroidered along the hems and seams with meritous decorations, and no less than three separate idols of varying metals that Armard had tucked, mechanically, beneath his left arm.

The VNMSA was a bulbous, spherical protrusion emerging from a square plate in the floor, surrounded by ascending racks of cogitator units in a fashion almost akin to an amphitheater. A single antennae jutted from the top of the dome, pointed upwards towards the high-raised ceiling, shaped to resemble a radial dish with a reciprocal , three-pronged circle antennae extending out from its center to almost meet the first one rising from the floor. Two shallow trenches adjoined the square plate the dome rose from, revealing a pitch-black underside interior area where the mechanism’s guts and mechanisms resided. Only two other Enginseers were present in the chamber when the group arrived. They emerged on their hands and knees like scurrying rats from the interior of the forward trench, offered perfunctory gesticulations of prayer to Usriel, and then immediately bent low to return to the interior. Armard, not even breaking stride, began to step down into the trench to follow them.

Ascania and Theodora came to a halt on the plate, the women clearly out of their element in the labyrinthine workings of the array. “I shall attempt to provide what support I may, but, I must admit I am uncertain what assistance I can be,” the Librarian said.

“Worry not, niece. I presume I should be able to manage it from here,” Usriel said in a semi-comforting tone before looking back to Armard. He stepped down into a trench that was ill-suited for his massive form, before he leaned next to Armard.

“I want communications with Archmagos Rarnet pulled for me to listen to, understood?” Usriel ordered in a whisper.

“Affirmative, Ho-ly Primarch.” Armard droned. “Patch-ing all array-mediat-ed vox communicat-ion from and to Arch-magos Rarnet to your device.”

Tuning his helmet’s vox-receiver to the designature frequency, Usriel was immediately subjected to the blaring, chaotically intermingling tones of Archmagos Rarnet having two separate conversations on two different lines simultaneously. Despite this, Usriel was able to understand both sides in perfect clarity, his mind processing both as they happened. Even the different languages were translated without issue of him confusing which conversation was which. The Primarch focused his mind as to what was transpiring with the Archmagos, hoping to free him from suspicion.

’...clarify what you mean by “uncertain.”’ The Archmagos’ voxcoder sang.

’I was being polite, Archmagos. The operative word was I cannot be certain. Astropathic messages of such high priority are to be delivered to their intended recipients only.’ The second voice was unfamiliar, but from the context it was possible they were a member of the Navis Imperialis, likely somebody attached to an Astropath and tasked with relaying deciphered messages.

’Absurd. I am the highest ranking Tech-Priest in the entirety of the Ullanor system-’

’Begging your pardon, Archmagos, but that is not strictly true. If I recall correctly, the Primarch Augor Asten is an Archmagos Intendant, and his Equerry is an Archmandriture. Both outrank you, yes?’

’I am not going to debate the nuances of the Mechanicum’s hierarchy with you. They are both members of the Ordo Astranoma, effectively a separate branch of the Mechanicum entirely. I am the senior Tech-Priest of the Mechanicum itself present, representing the Holy Synod of Mars, and I know for a fact the message would not have been relayed to either of them. I am ordering you-’

’You can issue as many orders as you want. I cannot even tell you if there was such a message. The best I can do for you is redirect you to the inciphering staff so you can have a message sent back to whoever you were expecting your message from…’

The second conversation was no less tense and rife with frustration, from the sounds of it. Unlike the first conversation, it was spoken wholly in Lingua-Technis, the secretive and esoteric machine-language of the Cult Mechanicum. Utterly impossible to even attempt to speak or listen to with the unaltered Human tongue and ear, and even if one could comprehend it, the speed at which Tech-Priests spoke it was swift as lightning - quite literally. Only an augmented Human with substantial bionic modifications would have any hope of using Lingua-Technis, assuming they even knew it - and the Tech-Priests of the Mechanicum guarded the knowledge of their language jealously, affording them nearly unparalleled communications security.

To the heightened potency of a Primarch’s mind however, the language was readily understood even at its lightspeed breakneck pace - and though most of the Primarchs had no knowledge of the language, Usriel counted himself as one of the few who knew it intimately.

’...you expect me to believe you did it out of mercy? I can scarcely recall the last time anybody was pardoned by your order without extenuating evidence. The most resplendent nineteenth son of the Omnissiah, Usriel Andredth, already suspects conspiracy.’ Rarnet’s accusatory voice echoed.

’I do not expect you to believe anything. Just as I do not expect to explain myself. The Prefecture Magisterium’s records are in order, unlike yours and those of the Hereteks facilitating the Triumph.’ The replying voice had the sound of a blade being sharpened on a whetstone.

’You dare call them Hereteks? Am I to take that as evidence you intend to act?’ Rarnet demanded.

’Perhaps we do. We will permit them to facilitate the Triumph. It is the order of the Holy Primarchs that it be so. In spite of my predecessor’s willful ignorance however, it is more than clear that all working down in the tunnels are guilty of perpetrating Techno-Heresy. It is my inclination to have all of them executed the moment they leave orbit, once their work is done and their usefulness has expired.’

’Your logic engines are defective! Even if you do not believe the Fabricator General’s decree is coming, prudence would dictate you at least wait and confirm-’

’The Prefecture Magisterium waits for no man. If we reach a verdict, we are certain. If we declare a sentence, it is final. Our authority stems directly from the Treaty of Mars and the Exigencies of the Omnissiah. We will duly consider your alleged decree from the Fabricator General. If it is presented to us prior to the conclusion of the Triumph…’

There was silence in Usriel’s mind, a silence that only carried with it an overwhelming aura of anger and sadness at the words that he had just heard. Those suspicions that the Librarian had stated were true and that fact alone carried with it so much inner despair as Usriel tried to understand why the Mechanicum would kill millions of its own personnel. The feelings radiated off Usriel and filled the room to the brink as his mind raced over what to think and what to do with the newfound information. The only thing the Primarch could do was return to his full height, in his hand was the plasma pistol that he had instinctively drawn as his mind had raced. It wasn’t until he had realized that he had turned to face the Doomsayers in sheer and utter shock that he felt the grip of his hand around the weapon.

With his free hand, Usriel took the helmet off his head and looked to his nieces, his face portraying the mixture of emotion that had simmered within him.

“My lord,” Ascania said in a soft voice, advancing towards the Primarch with Theodora a step behind her. The Equerry still wore her mask depicting Daena’s face at rest, while the strange artifice of genetic legacy had granted the Librarian the Primarch’s active and alive. “What has happened?” she asked, looking between Usriel and Theodora.

“It has been proven, hasn’t it?” the Librarian asked, more as a courtesy than out of curiosity. “The Prefecture will purge those who wrought what the Primarchs have commanded.”

Silently, Usriel nodded to Theodora, unable to vocalize what had become the truth. It was clear by his face that he felt as if he had been betrayed, a betrayal possibly rivaling even that of Atis. The Primarch spoke into his vox, “Micholi, we need to talk.”

There was a moment of silence, before the soft voice of Micholi answered back over the Vox “Where and when?”

“The Shrine, as soon as possible,” Usriel responded in a voice hiding his turmoil, as he took off waking in at a hurried pace. Still keeping his helmet in his hand as he rushed past the tech-priests in the hallways.

“I’ll be there.” Was the only answer that Usriel would need at this point in time. In fact, when Usriel and the Doomsayers would arrive at the shrine in question, Micholi had kept his word, sitting down in front of the shrine while his back towards it, allowing him to face the door in a somewhat meditative manner. Looking at his brother, he asked a question that was right to the point. “How bad is it?”

Any of the security measures that had been disabled let out sparks as they permanently shorted, Usriel stepping towards his peer. It was only only until in the Nineteenth Primarch was directly in front of Micholi before he spoke in a quiet and subdued voice, “The Prefecture Magisterium seeks to execute all who worked upon the Triumph once this is over.”

There was a moment of silence from Micholi… before Usriel and the Doomsayers would witness something that very, very few people got to hear. “Fuck.” It was clear that even as Micholi swore, the gears were turning in his head at high speeds to try and work out how to fix this problem, but it seemed that cursing had helped him get into the right frame of mind.

“Alright. What allies do we currently have?”

“The Archmagos, I believe. He objected over the proposition,” Usriel stated before continuing, “I will not allow these people to die, it would be a great waste of the Imperium’s resources.”

“On that we can agree.” Micholi answered easily enough, before focusing as he asked “I need to know the full details of what is going on first before we plan any course of action.”

“I know we do not know who to trust. These Priests all fear the Prefecture Magisterium, some work with or for them,” Usriel explained, looking away from Micholi as he continued, “The only one who does not seem to be with them in the Archmagos, and perhaps Magos Ulbridge.”

Nodding his head slightly as he took this in, Micholi pondered aloud a little. “Malcador is likely already aware of the situation, but I doubt he would act… at least not to save those working on the Triumph anyway. Likely viewing the grander picture. Prometheus… I don’t know if he would care. Considering his views on xenos in general, it’s possible he would fully support this plan to purge these people. Augor… is something of a wild card honestly. Do you think it would be a help or a hindrance to make him aware of the situation and try and bring him into it?”

“I do not believe it is a matter of them caring about the xenos, after all many of the Mechanicum do not care for them and actively despise them. It may be them focusing on those who would listen to the Will of the Primarchs,” Usriel said, explaining the conclusions that he had come upon before looking at the door.

Thoughts raced in his mind, Usriel knew something had to be done to prevent this purge to happen for the sake of the Imperium as a whole. Knowing that if loyalty to the Primarchs would be undermined, then that would allow the Mechanicum to allow sympathizers of rebellion to be fostered. A mass rebellion of the Mechanicum would be a war that the Imperium would not be able to afford with whole forge worlds not being able to supply the war machine. These were the thoughts that raced through Usriel’s mind, ones of treachery and rebellion.

“I will speak to the Archmagos about having these priests sent to Vion 5, overseen by myself. However, there are millions and I would not be able to guarantee the safety of all of them,” Usriel said to Micholi.

The news of the intent of this purge being to deal with those who would listen to the Will of the Primarchs caused Micholi’s eyes to widen in shock for a moment. However, it was easy to see that he believed his brother at his word, without needing to ask for evidence or proof of his deductions. Hearing Uriel’s plan, Micholi nodded again as he pushed himself to his feet, thinking of the logistics as he added “I could likely claim some for my own domain, but I admit I am hampered by distance. I could only take so many people with me across the Imperium in one go and… well, I doubt I would be able to make it back for a second trip.”

There was a pause for a moment before he tilted his head slightly. “It is a shame that Eiohsa isn’t here in person. However, she is currently defending against an invasion of her personal realms… which are relatively close at hand and would likely need a great deal of trained personnel to help manage repairs…”

“Eiohsa is not in the best standing of the Mechanicum, anyways,” Usriel stated.

There was a nod of agreement. “True, but she still would likely welcome a more than fair share of the personnel we are trying to save. It wouldn’t even be her requesting it. It would be some of her siblings sending a wave of trained tech priests and professionals to help her planets recover from trying times. And if one of us goes along to quietly inform her of the greater situation I’m sure she would find other jobs that need doing indefinitely.”

“I’d rather send them to Sarghaul,” Usriel stated as he turned to walk towards the door, “I will make the preparations, I will let you know where to be so that this may go effectively.”

“Of course. Shall we inform some of our siblings in the system of the situation so that they might offer to claim some skilled labor of their own?” Micholi asked as he watched his brother start to leave.

“If that is your prerogative, I will be taking as many as I can,” Usriel said as he stepped out of the room, putting his helmet back onto his head. With a quick change of his vox, he spoke, “Magos Ulbridge, have the Archmagos prepare to meet me in his office.”

’Do you intend to meet him upon the Ark Mechanicum “Fearful Symmetry,” Holy Primarch?’ Ulbridge voxed back. ’If so, I can arrange for a planetside teleportarium to send you there immediately.’

“Then have me there immediately, Magos,” Usriel ordered.


Aboard the Ark Mechanicum Fearful Symmetry...


Stepping from the Teleportarium platform aboard the Ark Mechanicum, there was scarcely any evidence to even suggest Usriel had left the planet. The similarity in the aesthetics of the machinery roared in the style of the Mechanicum, and save for a more generous approportion of space in the corridors and all the cablings and artifice being more neatly arrange and less cluttered, it was not even evident that he was now aboard a Void Ship.

After being led through its halls, crewmembers stopping to bow reverently as he passed and to offer him praise and hymns as he went, he approached the Archmagos’ quarters. Rarnet’s facilities were so unspeakably hallowed that they had an entire Shrine Atrium antechamber serving as both a security stopgap and foyer dedicated to them. After being rapidly cycled and led through the chamber, he finally arrived.

Rarnet’s personal chambers were lavish beyond the bounds of envy by even the most venal of Planetary Governor’s. The main apartment was three stories high with a massive throned dais towards the back upon which Rarnet’s control throne rested. The starboard and port walls were dedicated to massive pict-screens that showed a crystalline, high-fidelity scene of the Ark Mechanicum’s exterior and the surrounding expanse of space, so perfect in clarity it looked as though one could step through the screens and be engulfed in the majesty of Ullanor Prime’s upper atmosphere. Columns of capacitors running from the length of the floor to the ceiling sat bestride massive cogitator cores and data-archives, and the chamber included no fewer than four gazebo shrines which housed exalted Archeotech in armored and gilded display cases. The entire ceiling was a vast mural, embossed and etched in brass and pewter, of a partial depiction of the Machine guide in triangular alignment with its aspects of the Omnissiah and the Motive Force. Hanging from the center of the Mural at the crux of the three entities was a skeletal golem, a perfect replica of the Human frame, wrought entirely in gold and with countless decorational gears, cogs, and machinery encased within its ribs. Supported in its hands were two lights, which illuminated most of the interior chamber.

Rising from his control throne, Archmagos Rarnet bowed deeply to Usriel as he entered, the gesture reminiscent of the deep motion he had made that nearly resulted in him slamming his head against the conference table during the meeting of the Primarchs on Ullanor Prime.

“It is in furtherance of our eventual completion that we are privileged to once more exult in your presence, peerless idol of grace and Nineteenth Son of the Omnissiah.”

“The efforts to disrupt the Triumph have been stamped out, Archmagos, but that is not why I have come,” Usriel said in a cold tone, looking upon Rarnet as he stopped not even a single stride away from the Archmagos. He allowed the words to hang before continuing, “I am here to discuss the personnel after the Triumph. I will be having many of them transported to Vion 5 and other worlds under my control, Micholi also wanted to have some brought to his home world.”

“That is a nearly unequaled commendation of their merit, Holy Primarch. Am I to take it that this impressment is to be the reward of the many Tech-Priests working upon Ullanor Prime for their dedication and exceptional work in facilitating the Omnissiah’s Triumph?” Rarnet’s voxcoder whirred emphatically, managing to somehow convey a pleased intonation despite its synthetic nature.

“Correct, Archmagos. Their loyalty to the Primarchs and the Omnissiah should be rewarded. I believe it would also be within their own best interest. Wouldn’t you agree?” Usriel asked, implying his knowledge of the situation to Rarnet.

“Forgive me, your Hallowed Eminence, I am uncertain I take your meaning.” His voxcoder clicked, and he adopted a habitual pose of contemplation, long since obviated by his passing the Crux Mechanicum. “Oh, of course. It would go without saying that to enter the personal service of one of the Exalted Primarchs would doubtlessly be preferable to nearly any other circumstance. Regardless, I will begin making the arrangements immediately. Quite a few of them may need to remain on-planet for some time before additional ships can be scheduled to transport them. Or perhaps we can simply arrange a staggered series of transports over time...Ah. I am dithering. Rest assured you can leave such matters in my hands, most vaunted exemplar of the Chosen Peoples.”

“Thank you, Archmagos. I am sure that the Prefecture Magisterium will be thrilled to know that they will not have to monitor them as closely while in our services,” Usriel said, putting his arms behind his back as his tone took on one of more subtle pride.

“Pardon my ignorance once more, Holy Primarch, as again I am not sure I follow.” The Archmagos performed his sharp box once more, taking two steps back as he did so to avoid slamming his head directly into Usriel’s groin. “The agents of the Prefecture Magisterium are doubtlessly counted amongst the personnel you wished to grace with your most generous benediction.”

“Ah, then to specify, those agents of the Prefecture Magisterium can continue their normal careers as directed by the Prefecture itself. After all, I am sure that those taken by the Primarchs do not need to be under the scrutiny of the Prefecture after this work is completed,” Usriel stated, the red glow of his helmet drilling into the Archmagos. “After all, the Prefecture agents would have to wait for transportation along with the rest and, as I have heard,” the Primarch paused as his voice took on a cruel inflection, “The Prefecture waits for no man.”

“The Prefecture, as well as the Mechanicum, take the threat of Techno-Heresy rather seriously, holy Primarch.” Rarnet replied. “I am afraid their presence is required at all harbors and regardless of the prestige of the station. If you are concerned for the duties of their agents here upon Ullanor Prime, I can of course arrange for new agents to be dispatched to join the transports prior to their arrival. This is not preferred in most circumstances, the Prefecture Magisterium takes great pains to build rapport and community databases of those they watch over, and starting from scratch is always something of an arduous labor. One they will doubtlessly be pleased to perform at your behest of course, Exalted One.”

“Very well, Archmagos,” Usriel caved, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to nullify the threat of the Prefecture, instead asking. “I trust that no one will go unaccounted for?”

“No true Tech-Priest of the Mechanicum would reject the call to work under the auspices of one of the glorious Omnissiah’s hallowed Children.” Rarnet assured.

“Thank you, Archmagos,” Usriel said, turning to leave the Rarnet to his work and the metallic sounds of his boots hitting the floor echoing in the chamber as he moved. Before he stopped at the entrance and requested, “I would like a direct, private communication with Primarch Augor.”

“Ah.” Rarnet inflected, whether it was another habitual utterance or born of genuine surprise difficult to discern. “My control throne offers the most secure vox system in this area of the ship. I shall vacate the premises and permit you your privacy, Holy Primarch.” He performed his odd bow again, brought his hands together splayed in the semblance of the Cog Mechanicum, and then departed the chamber the way Usriel had come.

Usriel marched back to the control throne, gazing onto it for a moment before sitting on it. Unexpectedly, its dimensions accomodated him adequately - perhaps intentionally on the part of the designers attempting to accomodate all eventualities, or perhaps due to the occasional Tech-Priest known to enlarge themselves to similarly gargantuan size, akin to the likes of Szorbulo. “Augor, do you read?” Usriel asked into the vox.

There was a substantial delay before the Primarch of the Twelfth Legion responded, nearly half a minute.

’I read you, brother. This is most unexpected. What can I do for you?’ Came the eventual reply. It was the first voice other than Micholi’s that Usriel had heard in a while that was not mediated by a voxcoder.

“I must speak to you about an issue with the Mechanicum that I have come across,” Usriel answered, his tone being one of concern. With a deep breath, explained the entire breadth of the situation to his brother. The findings of the Prefecture Magisterium’s desire to execute all those who worked upon the Triumph, his suspicions of it not being about the concern of xenos and being about destroying those more loyal to the Primarchs. Nothing was hidden from Augor as there was no need to hide it. The Primarch of the Stargazers listened without interruption or any evident reaction as Usriel spoke.

Brother,’ Augor said finally once Usriel had finished his explanation. ’I might have expected a crisis of this magnitude had any other of our siblings attempted to intervene in this matter. You, however, should have known better. I will have some choice words for you once this is all over, but for now I am ending this entire farce right this instant. Stand by, I will now be patching the others into this transmission.’

There was a delay, nearly a minute long, as Augor individually isolated and pulled Micholi, Archmagos Rarnet, Magos Ulbridge, and an unfamiliar figure who Usriel realized had been the new head of the Prefecture Magisterium upon Ullanor Prime, Malagra Seydavro.

’Thank you all for your prompt receipt of this call. I want all of you to drop what you are doing and to listen to everything I am about to say very carefully. To start with: Malagra Seydavro, I understand it is your intention to have every Tech-Priest working on the Triumph executed for Techno-Heresy, due to the necessity of needing to reconsecrate a majority of systems and devices to be xenos-tolerant. Is this correct?’

’Holy Primarch of the Twelfth Legion, your assessment is correct.’ The scything voice of the Malagra answered.’

’Noted. Archmagos Rarnet, Magos Ulbridge, tell me if you are expecting or have received a declarative writ of clemency from Mars, and why it has not yet arrived if that is the case, and how it is seemingly every Tech-Priest on Ullanor other than myself seems to have heard of it.’ Augor’s voice was swift, perfunctory, and exact - with the faintest evidence of exasperated impatience underlying his words.

’I had the honor and privilege of speaking with Kelbor-Hal personally prior to departing Mars, Holy Primarch of his Holy Omnissiah’s Twelfth Legion.’ Rarnet answered. ’He assured me such a writ of clemency would be arranged. In fact, it is past due the date he claimed it would arrive by several weeks.’

’As for news of this writ being spread, I am the one responsible, Exalted Primarch.’ Ulbridge answered in turn. ’As you know, I was delegated the task of managing most of the personnel assigned to complete the mechanisms necessary for the Triumph. Quite a few of them either refused to work or expressed great reticence to doing so. In order to get work production moving forward, I revealed to several groups of junior Tech-Priests that the writ of clemency was due and that they had nothing to fear.’

’And neither of you have received it?’ Augor followed-up. They both replied in the affirmative. ’And Malagra Seydavro, you likewise have heard of it. As far as you know, has any such writ of clemency been delivered to anybody either amongst your staff or of any other branch of the Mechanicum?’

’No, Holy Primarch.’ Came the answer.

’Then here is what is going to happen. You are all to assume going forward that the writ is still being delivered via astropathic relay. Until such time as it arrives, here is my decree: I both personally acknowledge and affirm the decision of the Prefecture Magisterium that every Tech-Priest assigned to work upon the Triumph of Ullanor is guilty of Techno-Heresy…’

The words sounded like the thundering of a mountain. Millions of lives consigned to oblivion in an instant.

’...and I also hereby, by the authority vested in me as the Twelfth Primarch of his Omnissiah’s Holy Legions of Astartes, pardon them of any current or future Techno-Heresy pertaining to the facilitation of the Triumph, either until its conclusion or until they leave the planet. Should Kelbor-Hal’s writ of clemency arrive, you are all to treat my declaration here as subordinate to his own, and should there be any differences in their bodies, his writ is to prevail. Am I understood?’

...And just as soon as the portents of doom had been drawn together, they were banished.

’As you will it, so it shall be, Holy Primarch.’ Seydavro’s voxcoder was the first to answer. ’What shall we do with the current round of Hereteks and suspects we have detained?’

’Release those whose offenses pertain purely to meddling with xenotech or the creation of xenos-tolerant mechanisms. All others are to be kept and processed normally. Archmagos Rarnet, Magos Ulbridge,’ Augor’s voice turned sharply to the two Tech-Priests. ’My brothers have been working to root out the conspiracies you brought to their attention earlier. In your opinions, have all threats to the smooth execution to the Triumph been determinatively eliminated?’

’No, Holy Primarch.’ Magos Ulbridge answered. ’Though the most peerless and capable Primarchs of the Second and Nineteenth Legions have done unequaled and exemplary work in unveiling the perpetrators, there remains some risk of additional conspiracy. Though this is merely my opinion.’

For the first time since this joint call began, Micholi softly spoke up. “While I respect Magos Ulbridge’s words of support, I must insist that the praise for the investigation should largely go to Usriel and elements of the Doomsayers. While my services were made available to him if requested, they were not needed.”

’Archmagos, in light of this, has your official recommendation to the Primarchs from the Mechanicum as the participation of xenos elements in the Triumph changed?’

’...No, Holy Primarch.’ Rarnet responded after a brief pause.

’Then clearly, my brother’s noble intentions aside, the Mechanicum and the Imperium at large remain unready for such prominent exposure to xenos integrated with Imperium forces during a Holy day such as this one. Micholi,’ Augor’s voice took on a sudden and stern intonation. ’This entire affair was precipitated by your decision and by your lack of foresight into the ensuing consequences. All of the executions and decommissionings perpetrated by the Prefecture Magisterium are on your hands, and subsequently, the planned near-total purge of all Mechanicum personnel is likewise a matter I am holding you personally responsible for. The Xenos elements of your Legion and its associated auxila are to be pulled from the Triumph. They are not worth even the risk of anything untoward transpiring during it. You will acknowledge this, here, now, with us as your witnesses.’

”Or they could listen to the Will of the Primarch and offer an exception this once. I care not for the Xenos, however, as stated many times during both-” Usriel began.

’USRIEL ANDREDTH.’ Augor’s voice boomed like a meteor descending from the sky across the vox-link. ’Your own investigations have already revealed the conspirators would not care for any decree made by a Primarch or otherwise, unless it were to come from our father himself. Additionally, this catastrophe only came about when you had Malagra Szorbulo decapitated, thus undoing his mitigatory efforts to save lives! You have done ENOUGH. DO NOT TEST ME ON THIS MATTER.

”This is about the Will of the Primarchs, Augor. Our word is holy to the Mechanicum, and the Omnissiah allowing the Edict of Tolerance means exceptions must be made,” Usriel argued.

’As glaringly demonstrated by you and Micholi, the Will of the Primarchs occasionally has disastrous unforeseen consequences when used flippantly and in disregard of objective reality, Usriel. Something you yourself have failed to grasp until this very moment. If we ignore our wordly limitations and foibles even we are liable to still be burned. The Will of our Father is utterly irrelevant here, as he has levied no expectations as to the presence or absence of Xenos. I will hear no more of this nonsense from you unless you receive the express directive of the Omnissiah himself.’ Augor retorted. He then abruptly turned his address away from Usriel and back to Micholi.

’Brother. Our Imperium is not yet ready for this. There is too much remaining that lies ahead of us to suffer your frivolity on this matter. The honor and dignity of your xenos will not be earned, marching in a parade for the masses in a Triumph for a campaign neither they nor you had anything to do with. Their time will come, and when it does, they shall have a Triumph of their own. But this is not that day.’

The line fell deathly silent as Augor finished speaking, he and the other four participants of the vox-call awaiting Micholi’s answer.

Micholi had been quiet as Augor and Usriel had argued, considering his response carefully in what time he had before at last all eyes were turned upon him. While it was true that Prometheus had used arguments akin to the ones that Augor was using, Micholi couldn’t help but feel like Augor was making those arguments from a different origin point of logic rather than just blind hate that made it harder to reject out of hand.

However, there was still a question that needed to be addressed before he just allowed himself to submit to the will of one of his siblings. “Augor, I agree that you’ve made some strong points… but there is something that came up during the investigation that I cannot help but find myself rather curious about. Namely, why did a member of the Mechanicum feel the need to slip a machine spirit into the data slate of one Prefectus Hodge designed to copy and transmit data on it to an unknown location before the investigation was underway?”

Irrelevant. Augor’s voice cut across the vox. ’If you wish to continue your investigation after this discussion that is your prerogative, but I will not be letting you go until I have personally assured that there is NO possibility of remaining risk to the execution of the Triumph. Stop running from the consequences of your actions brother. Answer me now. If I hear anything other than that from you next, I will personally CENSURE you with these three Tech-Priests and our brother as witnesses. I have more than sufficient cause to do so.’

For a brief moment, a spark of anger appeared in Micholi’s eyes, forging the steel in his tone as he countered coldly “You do not have the authority to censure me, Augor. Nor are you the final authority in the Imperium. Only the Emperor has that right and it is best that you remember that.”

Taking a moment to take in a deep breath, he considered Augor for a moment before saying “Augor, I made a promise to our brother Prometheus that if the Triumph was in any danger of being interrupted, not only would I withdraw the Xeno auxila but for the sake of making it appear that the move was motivated by a desire to offer more honor and praise onto those who fought the savage greenskins of Ullanor requesting that all forces who were not present for that campaign would respectfully stand aside. After all, the Imperium cannot be seen to bend to the will of discontent. I intend to keep that promise.”

“However, while I admit that I was ignorant to the extent of the work, time and resources when I made my plans that would be required of the Mechanicum to manifest them, I am painfully aware of the costs now… and I believe it would be a grave insult to those who have spent all this time, energy and resources to do the work they have already done while under the threat of being judged to have stepped over a line and be harshly punished due to following my request if I suddenly turned around and said ‘I’ve changed my mind’ and made all the work and sacrifices they have made and suffered meaningless.”

There was a momentary pause before he quickly added “And there is also the damage such a thing could do to the authority of the Primarchs if we are seen to be fickle in our decision making. So right now it’s a matter of arranging this situation so that everyone can walk away without feeling like this was a mistake and the authority of the Primarchs isn’t brought into question. Do you actually have a plan for that or are you just going to bark that we do it and bullrush it like a combat servator?”

’You have a curious way of voicing assent, brother.’ Was Augor’s eventual reply. ’As long as we have your word, I will take it on good faith, and permit you as much time as necessary to ensure it is done gracefully. I also agree to unconditionally assist and support you in any manner necessary to facilitate the arrangements, should you deem them necessary. As for ensuring the Will of the Primarchs is not brought into question and saving face, we will simply announce that you completed your investigation and identified and thwarted the perpetrators, but had a call of conscience that the Imperium was not yet ready for what you had envisioned. You will be remembered as a hero who deterred a conspiratorial plot to upend the Omnissiah’s triumph.’

Micholi’s face looked sour at the suggestion that Augor was providing. However, as he ran the scenario though his head, he paused as an idea struck him. “Hmm… I would not be so crass as to sell out my Xenos soldiers by saying the Imperium wasn’t ready… but I could admit that the Mechanicum wasn’t. When I made those preparations, I hadn't considered the crisis of faith that would occur among the various ranks of the Mechanicum as they were put into a position to either follow their creed or follow one of the sons of the Emperor. The mental breakdown of Malagra Szorbulo as he was forced into a logical paradox was enlightening in this event… and as such I will reluctantly put my pride in my forces aside to allow the brave soldiers of Ullanor to fully enjoy the glory they have earned for themselves. This was simply a cultural misunderstanding between the Imperial Truth and the Machine Cult.”

’Then we have an accord.’ Augor replied. ’In light of this - Archmagos Rarnet, I will now respectfully belay my brother Usriel’s request that all the Tech-Priests working on the Triumph be relocated at its conclusion. I will not object if he makes the request again, but as his primary motivation was to save their lives, I do not believe the move remains necessary.’

’As you wish, Augor. I will not object to this as I affirm that what you have stated was my motivation,’ came the voice of the Nineteenth Primarch, now reserved and back to its cold normal language. Usriel contemplated for a moment speaking in a bit of a sneer, ’I will again state that I never cared for the xenos inclusion, I acted out of my own prerogative to follow Imperial Law as stated by the Edict of Tolerance. Regardless, with this matter settled, Micholi, I expect you to personally tell Prometheus that the xenos shall be withdrawn. Your desire has caused me enough headache for the time being.’

A sigh escaped Micholi as he muttered “Of course. I’ll spare you having to listen to his victory gloating. You’ve earned that much Brother.” Before his tone recovered the authority of a Primarch as he added “Malagra Seydavro, I am requesting a meeting with you in order to further discuss the machine spirit bugging of Prefectus Hodge. I respect that you have only recently come into your leadership position, so I will give you a cycle of Ullanor in order to get settled in.”

’That will not be necessary, Holy Primarch.’ Seydavro’s knifelike voice answered. ’I have had adequate time to establish myself since the departure of Malagra Szorbulo from our agency. I need but a few moments to discern what purpose the machine spirit placed in Prefectus Hodge’s data-slate was meant to achieve.’

There was a momentary pause of around ten seconds.

’Holy Primarch of the Second Legion, I must regretfully inform you there is no record of any such machine spirit having been placed upon the Prefectus’ data-slate. We made only cursory monitoring of his activities, since as an external party to the Cult Mechanicum our authority over him is limited. Whatever the source of that machine spirit, its placement was unsanctioned.’

Mindful of the fact that this call included his brothers and other busy persons, Micholi still made a hmm of interest. “I might have to meet with you after all Malagra. Because the machine spirit in question was of Mechanicum design. While my tech marines were able to divine what it was doing, it was too basic for them to work out what information it was after and where it was sending it. Maybe your people would have an easier time answering those questions.”

’Acknowledged, Holy Primarch. I will have my finest Tech-Priests clear their current task parameters to await your directives.’

“I will be there in a few hours then. I first have to address a matter with my brother Prometheus. I will send word when I am free to come.” With the matter settled for now, he sighed before addressing the rest of the call “If you will excuse me, I have matters to attend to.”




The Fortress of Steel, the flagship of the Steel Sentinels, lay in orbit over Ullanor Prime, the massive framework of the Gloriana-class battleship dwarfing many of the transport ships that ferried down additional supplies for the Triumph and Mechanicum personnel. It measured twenty-four kilometers from bow to stern, much of its bulk being consisting of a hull that was thicker on all portions of the ship. Seemingly at random, it would array a line of weaponry at a passing transport ship before sending out smaller transport shuttles to conduct searches of illicit goods or to merely harass the mortals for the marine’s own cruel amusement. The ships hull glinted against the sunlight of the Ullanor Star, revealing the color of the Sentinels themselves, painted a grayed green with an underlying cream color just as the many battle-brothers wore their tabards over their armor into battle.

One ship stood out amongst the traffic however - neither heading towards or away from the tremendous Gloriana in relation to the planet. A Mechanicum Light Cruiser was approaching the Fortress of Steel from its far end, from out of the reaches of deep space. Additionally, the presence of silvery-blue trim lining the vessel in addition to its ordinary coloration revealed it to be a light Cruiser of the Ordo Astranoma rather than belonging to the Cult Mechanicum proper. The vessel itself was still slowing down in its approach, and compared to the Gloriana it was hardly even a speck, smaller in scope than a single one of the Fortress of Steel’s tremendous macrocannons.

Given its occupant, it was evident the craft had been selected for its swiftness above all else.

And Usriel was certain - his brother, Augor Astren, was aboard that light cruiser. Word had already been sent to him from the Fortress of Steel’s bridge that he was requesting permission to board. Just as quickly as Usriel had received that request to board, it had been accepted with Augor being told to meet with his brother in his quarters of the great ship.

It was as Augor entered the massive room, having been led by a woman in the armor of the Imperial Auxilia with blonde hair cut short, that Augor would see a room that was - by most standards - a desolate and barren quarters. All it contained was a large workbench to support the size of Usriel, on it lay the components of a project that the Nineteenth Primarch was in the middle of. An armory lay next to it, the only two objects being the plasma pistol and power fist that Usriel used. Of course, there was the standard Imperial decor that lined the walls and ceilings, but nothing personalized or modified. However, upon further inspection, the symbol of the Omnissiah had been carved into the floor with Usriel’s own control throne at the center of it and Usriel sat upon it with his power armor still on him.

“I bid you welcome, Augor,” Usriel stated, rising from his throne and stepping towards the other Primarch before looking at the woman and ordering, “Leave us, Belloris.”

“As you wish my reason of life,” Belloris said, bowing deeply in a manner that would rival Archmagos Rarnet’s own before she turned and left the two holy men to their privacy.

Augor had eschewed his bulky servo-harness and armory of heavy weapons when he came aboard - and in fact, rather than the power armor the Primarchs were accustomed to wearing at nearly all hours of the day, the Primarch of the Twelfth Legion has instead arrived adorned only in simple sleeveless Mechanicum robes. His bare arms overran with cords of muscle and braided ceramite in equal measure, sets of capacitors the side of a normal Human’s torso embedded along the lengths of his limbs and winding lines of soldered electoos creating a harsh blue luminescence in the air about him, in addition to filling the air with a faint static hum. The ashen skin of his head, although bearing no outward signs of augmentation, nonetheless betrayed the signs of substantial internal bionic installation due to creases and grooves in the flesh of his crown, surgical scars that would never quite entirely heal.

And staring directly at Usriel were Augor’s empty orbital sockets, the Twelfth Primarch’s eyes having been burnt out long before he had even been rediscovered. Either he had discrete bionic auspex integrated in his body that allowed him to see, or he possessed some psychic gift that enabled him to perceive the world around him - but either way, he had left his scarred and empty gaze as it was, and their unnerving sight bore directly at Usriel, unflinching and unblinking.

“It disappoints me that this is not the first time we have needed to have this conversation, brother of mine.” Augor spoke, his voice unexpectedly higher and softer in pitch than his inflection across the vox channel had implied.

“The Mechanicum needs to understand that it needs to follow orders as given without needing to question their dogma,” Usriel said in a cruel inflection, folding his arms behind his back. The two Primarchs stared, Augor’s eyeless gaze meeting the red glare of Usriel’s helm. With another breath, “They cannot hide behind religion and the Treaty of Mars forever.”

“Perhaps not. But tell me, brother, would you have the Mechanicum obey you over father?” Augor asked lightly.

“They will obey the Primarchs and the Omnissiah without question,” Usriel answered, evading the question.

“That is just it, Usriel. You demanded they ignore and renounce the will of our father, in order to answer and follow your own will.” Augor replied evenly. “At which point it is no longer even a matter of the Treaty of Mars. For them to cow to you then would also be a violation of the Imperial Truth - both on their part, and on yours. I ask you again. Would you have the Mechanicum obey you over father, if your wills were not as one?”

“They will obey,” Usriel repeated without variation in tone.

“Who else would you have obey your will over our father? The Custodes, perhaps? Malcador? Perhaps even father himself?” Augor carried on conversationally. “For better or worse, the Mechanicum is the instrument of the Omnissiah, the Emperor of Mankind. When he strode forth upon Olympus Mons he made certain that they and theirs would obey him without question, without hesitation, no matter what and for all time. Today, you asked them to abandon that. They chose to obey, faithfully, as they had been instructed.”

Augor inclined his head ever so faintly.

“...They simply did not choose to obey you.”

“I am an instrument of the Omnissiah, to go against any of us Primarchs is to go against the Omnissiah. As it was intended, Augor,” Usriel replied, his voice unchanging, “If they will not obey, then they will be forced to.”

“Ah. I believe I understand. So when you delivered your imperatives, they were forced to choose between disobeying the Omnissiah, and disobeying the Omnissiah. I suppose your intention was to have them slaughter themselves on the spot. Perhaps I should take this to mean this elaborate arrangement to have the Triumph personnel executed was your desire?” Augor then nodded in faux-sagacity, the faintest of smiles crossing his lips. “Or perhaps this appeal to force you speak of is meant to be a challenge to our father - that the force you can levy against our subjects is greater than his. Quite the choice of aspirations here - genocide versus usurpation. There can be no mistake it was one of these things you desired, for that is the precise crossroads your own words and actions forced you upon.”

“Do not twist my words upon me, Augor. I am the Emperor’s enforcer, nothing more and nothing less,” Usriel commented, his voice growing darker, “Do not imply me to be a usurper.”

“Ah, so it was genocide then. Do you know what I think, though?” Augor leaned in, almost conspiratorially. “You did not go far enough. For you are right, to disobey either you or our father, nevermind that your wills may be opposed, is a trespass deserving only the harshest of punishments. We should go forward with this. We can start with the Mechanicum, of course. Then perhaps we could exterminate the Imperial Guard, obliterate the Navis Imperialis, crush the Administratum, cast down the Custodes, have Malcador beheaded - why, it would just be father and us, his Primarchs, alone in the galaxy. Of course, the other Primarchs might choose to obey father over you as well, so clearly the rest of us would have to go. And then, finally, at the end of all things, you would finally have a galaxy bereft of everyone who would refuse to obey you without question.” Augor paused emphatically.

“Except for father, of course. Though rest assured, though the stars themselves might eventually burn away from the void, he would never obey you.”

“ENOUGH!”

Usriel’s voice strained once more, his anger clearly growing as his form stomped towards Augor being not even a full step away from the other Primarch. The Nineteenth Primarch, allowed a moment to pass as he restrained his emotions once more. Speaking in a voice holding back his anger, “Enough, Augor. I only tolerate the mortals for they are needed, you know this. I will not have a repeat of what happened over Inrade.”

“That is the problem, Usriel. What you tolerate and occasionally ruin when your patience is exhausted does not belong to you. The mortals you deride are the subjects of our father, and regardless of however low your esteem for them is, they serve a purpose - the purpose of the Omnissiah - and that design is beyond every living being there is, yourself included. This is all precisely as father intends. When you unsettle their ranks for following the course of his design before yours, you obviate that purpose.” Augor leaned back, assuming his former posture.

“Either learn to live with them and their exceedingly rare defiance, or throw down the gauntlet, brother. This trend of yours cannot continue. It is self-destructive.”

“And when they spiral out of our control, Augor, what will we do then? What will happen when all the mortals feel they can disobey our will?” Usriel questioned, leaning after Augor, “You know nothing but what the Mechanicum has told you. You allowed them to bar you from ever setting foot on Holy Mars! The Fabricator General would walk all over you if he was allowed to, Augor.”

“Usriel, in all my life, nobody in all of the Mechanicum has ever dared deny me over anything - except twice.” Augor held up two fingers - his hands being entirely bionic, electrostatic gauntlets as favored by Electropriests. Usriel recalled that Augor had grown up in the role of a Corpuscarii - these were likely a remnant of that upbringing.

“Both times were because what I ordered was opposed to the will of our father. I learned from those two instances and since those times I have had the wisdom to only ever issue demands that are followed by the Mechanicum without question. You, on the other hand, obsess over the mere existence of such hypothetical denials and forcibly evoke them in a senseless confrontation with no peaceable outcome. Which is where I must come to my final point, brother.”

Augor lowered his hand, and took a half-step towards Usriel, their faces now less than a third of a meter apart.

“You grew up amongst the Mechanicum. You saw all of this. You were taught all of this. You should know better. This is your obsession ruling over your reason and your discipline, and unlike what happened at Inrade, father will doubtlessly hear of this. Too many eyes and ears beheld you in this moment of frailty, Usriel. Once more, and for what I genuinely hope will be the last time: Conquer this obsession, rather than let it rule you.”

Usriel’s helm continued to bore into Augor, wordlessly staring into Augor before he relented and backed away from the other Primarch, only a step back. “And when the Omnissiah does hear of this, he will trust my judgement. I will continue to do my duty, just as the Fabricator Technis of Vion 5 will do his duty. Arx obeys whereas others do not. Until you get his word that my duty is an obsession, then I will stay my course.”

Augor appeared to parse his next words cautiously, as if aware that he was suddenly treading on treacherous ground. “His loyalty to you above all is admirable, brother. One could not ask for a finer friend and ally. Though realize that his failing is a reflection of your own. In his own way, perhaps without realizing it and as noble as his intentions may be - he has rejected the will of the one who stands above all.”

“You accuse him of rejecting the Will of the Omnissiah?” Usriel growled, turning away from Augor and allowing silence to befall the room once more.

“I accuse him of nothing.” Augor said after a heavy pause. “It is merely as you have said. He obeys you whereas others do not. Who could possibly dare to refuse to obey you, Usriel? Or more pertinently...for what reason would they dare to refuse to obey you?” He fell silent once more.

“I do not know why any would disobey for my mind is not that of a traitor’s,” Usriel commented before the sound of the room’s door sliding open once more caused him to turn and see the small form of Belloris. He let out a grumble, “I thought I told you to leave us, Belloris.”

“I am sorry, my devotion. I could not help but intrude to inform you that all those apart in the recent mutiny attempt have been put to death. The total number of crew that need to be replaced is approximately over two-thousand-five-hundred-and-ten. I do ask that you reconsider the order of having the officers that had allowed for them to gain arms to be turned to servitors, worship. Perhaps, Lord Augor can arrange for their punishments of incompetence,” Belloris explained, looking to Augor only momentarily as if to ask for his input.

“It would be best if I did not involve myself in the punitive measures decreed within a legion other than my own.” Augor suggested airly, tilting his head faintly to the side to address Belloris in turn.

“As you wish, Lord Augor. I will-”

“Leave us,” Usriel repeated, Belloris silently bowing once more and leaving the room. The Nineteenth Primarch turned his head back to Augor, speaking in a more annoyed than angered tone, “You must forgive Belloris, she is a strange mortal, but a very competent commander.”

“I have said what I came to say, brother.” Augor said. “I shall now hold my peace, and let us pray events such as this one do not befall you again. Does there remain anything else for us to discuss?”

“No, but I will say, the day I change my ways is the day you set foot on Mars, Augor,” Usriel stated, backing away from Augor to sit upon his command throne again. “Perhaps the next time we converse, it will be far more pleasant than this one has been,” he sneered, leaning back as he continued to stare at Augor.

“Let us hope you do not find yourself repeating that before the Omnissiah one day. Brother.” Augor then turned and, without any pomp or fuss, left.




Unlike the first time that Micholi had voxed Prometheus in order to request his presence at a meeting of Primarchs and their representatives, the second message had been a one way communication. A message to be checked when he had a free moment, considering that the last Micholi had heard his sibling had been present for a medal giving ceremony that would offer honors and physical symbols to be worn for the Triumph itself that would be attended by his own Knights of Awe and Usriel’s Steel Sentinels.

He honestly didn’t care enough to check if there were other Imperial forces or legions who were going to be present to get their dues or just to witness others receive theirs. But he was respectful enough to acknowledge that such pompous things took time and he didn’t want to distract a sibling from playing an important ceremonial role via a vox conversation unless it couldn’t be helped.

The message was short and to the point… but clearly carefully worded at the same time. “While Usriel’s investigation has been successful, having been made aware of a cultural misunderstanding between the Imperial Truth and the Mechanicum that I was unaware of, I have decided to honor your request that this Triumph be dedicated to the heroes of Ullanor. I request a private meeting in order to discuss details that you need to be made aware of. Contact me when you are free to do so.”

The ceremony honoring the Knights of Awe and the Steel Sentinels was indeed a long affair; many Astartes earned marks of honor or heroism. During a lull in proceedings where the next round of Astartes were found Prometheus acknowledged the communication, it was simple and to the point. “If you require a private meeting come to the Gloria Victorum. The ceremony should be concluded by the time you arrive. Otherwise give a report and it will be reviewed in time.”

There was a quick message back. “Be there soon.”

True to his word, a thunderhawk would be noticed by the systems of the Gloria Victorum baring Second Legion credentials, requesting permission to board. While another Primarch might have gone and bothered the Mechanicum to let them use one of their teleportariums for the relatively short trip into orbit, Micholi… honestly didn’t trust the technology that much. If he needed to use one he would, but for this trip such a thing wasn’t deemed necessary.

When Micholi’s transport docked with the Gloria Victorum he was greeted with the appropriate pomp and ceremony due a Primarch, a dozen Astartes of Prometheus’ own honor guard stood at crisp attention. However, Prometheus was conspicuously absent. In his stead was Commander Haen mortal commander of the Knights Auxilia forces. He bowed deeply showing utmost respect to the Primarch “Lord Primarch Micholi, I am honored to greet you and be your escort to Lord Prometheus.” His words however lacked the awe and fear a Primarch generally instilled in mortal men.

For what it was worth, Micholi didn’t seem to care about the seemingly lack of respect of Prometheus’ not coming to greet him personally, nor the pomp and ceremony for which he was presented just for arriving on the Gloria Victorum. The fact that Commander Haen didn’t seem to be either afraid or awed by him was noticeable, but not important in the scheme of things. Micholi's expression was that of practiced diplomacy, kindly if hindered slightly by the ugly looking scar on his face.

“Commander Haen, I am sure that you will be a man to keep an eye on going forward. But duty before all else, we should get going and not keep my brother waiting.” Micholi offered with a degree of polite authority.

Commander Haen mirrored the Primarch’s own expression masterfully, a born diplomat or beaurocrat rather than a general. “You flatter me my lord, and of course this way.” the commander gestured and fell into step with the Primarch, though having to take two steps for each of Micholi’s. The commander talked as they made their way through the ship pointing out details he found interesting, a scar on the hull plating or grisly trophies from wars long since fought. Before long they arrived at Prometheus’ personal quarters.

The commander said “I’ll announce you Lord Primarch” before he opened the door. “My lord, your brother Primarch has arrived.”

Prometheus looked up from a vast holo-table displaying navigation routes to several systems that have yet had expeditionary fleets explore them. Along with a score of data slates surrounding the table listing the vast military under the Primarch’s command. “Ah, yes. Thank you Commander. Please close the door on your way out.” Once done Prometheus went to an ornamental lounge area and poured himself wine from his homeworld. “So, what details are so pressing that they require your presence to explain?” He said as he arranged his drink.

There was something to be said about the fact that Prometheus wasn’t crowing like a rooster in victory as Micholi simply walked over to join his sibling. He didn’t take a seat, but he did offer a data slate to him as he explained “There are two matters that need to be addressed. I confess I would rather see what your own conclusions to Usriel’s discoveries are so as not to influence them unduly.”

The data slate would contain the information that Usriel and the Doomsayers had gathered, both for the investigation itself and the further discoveries that shaped the Primarch of the Steel Sentinels concerns about elements of the Mechanicum taking advantage of the situation at the Triumph to attempt a purge of all Mechanicum personal who would follow the order of a Primarch over their own doctrine. Micholi for his part would remain quiet as he allowed his brother to look over the information himself, but he would answer questions if they were raised.

Prometheus sat in one of the large padded chairs and studied the information. As he read he frowned, “I argued with Usriel over this?” he muttered to himself. After a time he shrugged and set the data slate aside. “It seems to me… that this is largely confusion within the Mechanicum, while there are some curious matters of circumstance and action it appears as little more than the edict confronting Mechanicum doctrine and a degree of mismanagement.” Mused Prometheus clearly down playing certain facts. “Why? What is your grave concern Micholi?”

“Usriel’s concerns… and some that I find myself sharing with him… was that this confusion and mismanagement was intentional. That there are elements within the upper ranks of the Mechanicum that wanted the situation to spiral and result in a purge of personnel.” Micholi answered back.

Prometheus stared down into his wine for a moment before he spoke “I can not see why, seems rather illogical of the Mechanicum if you ask me… There was a saying, though I do not know its origin, One should not attribute to malice what can be attributed to incompetence. I believe that is how it goes. It is always possible that this” He pauses a heartbeat and glances down at the data slate “Malagra Seydavro is a fool who believed some purge was necessary to comport with Mechanicum doctrine.”

There was a small sigh. “Possible. But I still carry my suspicions. At any rate, I thought you should at least be aware that Usriel and myself have concerns about possible members of the Mechanicum who would rather the Mechanicum didn’t revere and follow the word of the Primarchs over that of their own creed. But at any rate, there is a second matter that does need to be addressed.”

Pulling out a second data slate, Micholi approached again to hand it to his sibling. This time, he didn’t step back as he added “This one shouldn’t take long. It just needs to be addressed.”

Prometheus studied his brother a moment before looking down at the data slate, he drank from his goblet as he read maintaining a disinterested air. The data slate in question only had a single line written on it. ‘Usriel told me what you did.’

Judging exactly how long it would take Prometheus to read said line, Micholi’s sucker punch was swift, strong and to the jaw… but it wouldn’t be followed up by more attacks. If anything, he would actually pull back and build distance again. “How dare you.” Micholi growled deeply. “How dare you put your own ego and desires ahead of the Imperium itself.”

Prometheus surprised from the attack took a fraction of a moment longer to react, as his head rocked back from the blow he surged up from his seat prepared for a brawl though the next blow never fell. He studied Micholi again, his face an expressionless mask though loathing fury could be felt beneath it. “My ego?” he spat “My every action and waking moment is spent for the Imperium, there is nothing above service to the Imperium of Man.” He emphasized taking the opportunity to rub salt in the fact that though his admittedly weak plan failed, victory in this problem had come to him regardless.

As angry as Micholi clearly was with his brother, there was something that Prometheus likely would be able to recognize; Micholi clearly wasn’t interested in beating the shit out of him. In fact, now that he had gotten that sucker punch out of his system, he seemed to be calming down a bit. “Prometheus, me hitting you wasn’t even about the xenos situation. What’s pissed me off here is the fact that there was a situation in which people threatened to undermine the Triumph, the Imperium and the authority of a Primarch and instead of taking it seriously, you actively tried to undermine Usriel’s attempts to investigate it purely to spite me and try and force me into a position that I would have to keep my word to you. Thanks for the good faith in our agreement by the way.” Micholi spat with some sarcasm, before taking a deep breath.

“I’m already planning on how to address the change in Triumph which doesn’t invalidate all the work and sacrifices the Mechanicum has made trying to get everything working for xenos to take part without making it look like Primarchs are prone to fickle changes of mind or that we’re bowing to the demands of a small group of dissenters. Usriel’s investigation being successful helps out a lot in that last regard. I don’t like this situation but I’m dealing with it because it’s for the best. How can you stand there and tell me you did the same instead of some petty act of spite?”

“Quite simply, my actions undermined the legitimacy of the edict. Mechanicum doctrine is generally rather hostile to xenos species and the Edict itself strains the alliance we have with the Mechanicum. Their removal from the Triumph, dressed up however you wish, proves that the Edict is a destabilizing factor weakening the Imperium itself.” Despite Prometheus having said this calmly his stance while not hostile was prepared for Micholi to attack him again. “Your edict will cause unimaginable strife, perhaps not this year, or this millenia. In time it will be a cancer growing in the heart of the Imperium.”

Micholi… actually laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant thing. It was a slow, pained and tormented thing that managed to escape from him in this brief moment of surprise. “What hasn’t already caused unimaginable strife? I had to produce the Edict so that it could exist in a system that depended on the cooperation of a religious organization that hated xenos as a fundamental tenet. The Emperor helped me write it so that it could be brought into the Imperium and survive because we both believed that it would be a good idea if the Imperium could actually think about things more logically and clearly when it came to encountering a new xenos species. Blind, mindless hate of everything that isn’t human makes humanity just another breed of ork, only without the green skin.”

“Just because the planet you were raised on is plagued by parasitic creatures you were ill prepared to wipe out and cleanse from the universe doesn’t mean that all non-human life has to be treated the exact same! If they’re such a concern for you, I would be happy to send some men to assist you in ridding the universe of their ilk! They’ve had plenty of experience dealing with those damn gene cults that are still embedded around the place.”

Prometheus advanced a step, his blood boiling. “I do not need your help!” he roared, the beginning of Micholi’s speech left forgotten. “Amn is winning its war! There are entire regiments of the Imperial army with my Neophytes rooting them out, it is just a matter of time.” he seethed for a brief moment before composing himself again. “It is not a blind hatred, merely a justified one your bleeding heart lacks the strength to grasp.”

Micholi… sighed. The frustration and anger fading away completely as his shoulders and face seemed to droop for a moment. “Prometheus, which do you think is harder… to butcher everything in your way without considering such things as if the species you are slaughtering are an actual threat to humanity, or to view them as a species worthy of life and coexistence… but you need to destroy them and everything they hoped and dreamed of being because a zealot in a red robe deems their air conditioning units to be heretek and thus the whole planet must be purged?”

A deep sorrow was in Micholi’s eyes as he just… seemed to deflate just a little. “I do agree that there are xenos species that cannot exist in a peaceful galaxy. The Orks, the Rangdan… the Eldar. But I stand by my conviction that there are those who are close enough to desires and goals to humans that coexistence is possible. I know you disagree with me but… to betray that belief would be to doom humanity and the Imperium to stand alone in an empty, uncaring universe.”

Prometheus nodded as if Micholi had just confirmed something. “I do not take orders from the Mechanicum, their stance on xenos is merely an alignment of ideals.” he glanced towards the door to his chambers a moment. “I do not understand why you waste my time at every opportunity to accept your plague on the Imperium… Get off my ship, else I will have you removed.” Prometheus finished calmly, however there was an edge of threat in his tone.

The brief moment of weakness that Micholi displayed disappeared as he righted himself, returning to the standard diplomatic form he turned to walk towards the door and make his leave now that what had been said had been said. However, just before he got close enough for the door to open, he did pause to look back over his shoulder. “As hard as it might be to believe, I do still respect you. Maybe I am a little too idealistic and having somewhere there to balance that out is a good thing. I also apologize for mentioning Amn… that was a low blow and I shouldn’t have brought it up. I know we don’t have to like each other, but I trust that the agreement still stands?”

Prometheus returned to the holo-table as Micholi walked away and pretended to study it closely as Micholi spoke, though his attention was clearly not on the information before him. “I wish I could say the same” Prometheus said, venom creeping into his words but touched with sorrow. “But, yes. Primarchs are united in all things.”




After flying back down to the planet via Thunderhawk, Micholi navigated the sprawling labyrinth of tunnels, eventually finding his way to the subterranean headquarters of the Prefecture Magisterium.

The difference as the twisting corridors gave way to the deadly sleek and military-efficiency trimmed realm was stark. One moment the Primarch of the second legion was surrounded by a tangled maze of pipes and cables winding across every available surface like serpents, and the next he was confronted by a gleaming, polished brass-colored and utterly featureless bastion wall. Set in it was a seamless, solid bulwark door with a simple emblem of the Prefecture Magisterium set inside the Cog Mechanicum, with no evident access ports, activation runes, or interfaces of any kind near it. Two Skitarii standing at attention immediately outside the bulwark stared unerring at Micholi as he approached, and rather than prostrating themselves or bowing, they instead opted for simple and ergonomic single-handed gesticulations, politely acknowledging Micholi’s venerated status as one of the most vaunted and hallowed personnages in the entire universe.

Micholi wouldn’t lie to himself; He much preferred the Skitarii’s bare minimum show of acknowledgement and respect then the pomp that most planets seemed inclined to go with. There was something humble yet respectful about it. To that end, Micholi offered a small bow of his head in acknowledgement, but clearly respecting that by social standings, he outranked them a fair bit. “I trust that Malagra Seydavro is handling his new duties well?” A polite question while being one that would help pass the time slightly as the bulwark of a door would no doubt take some time to open. Security after all required some sacrifice from efficiency after all.

“Malagra Seydavro’s task management profile is not accessible by us at this time.” Was the rote and clipped mechanical answer Micholi received from the Skitarii on the right.

Micholi shrugged. “Fair enough.” He had… well, not forgotten, but briefly considered that he was misremembering just how untalkative Skitarii tended to be. As he waited for the door to open at its grinding pace, he instead decided to ask “Any security issues that I should know about?”

“Members of the Second Astartes Legion were traced and identified infiltrating and subverting Triumph-related network systems. Their ongoing security breach remains unresolved due to their broad immunity to intervention by the Prefecture Magisterium.” Was the equally rote and clipped response from the same Skitarii. Their vox-coder modulated voice had no inflection to speak of, but their choice of words alone carried with it a sense of withering commentary.

Micholi politely waved it off. “They were acting in concert with Usriel and his investigation. Do not concern yourselves with it. They’ll be back to dealing with the orks soon enough.”

The Skitarii continued to stare, unmoving at Micholi. Wondering idly why the door still had not yet opened, the Primarch focused with their preternatural hearing and realized: Absolutely none of the mechanisms in or around the door had activated. It was not opening because nobody had elected to open it from within.

“I believe the door needs to be opened for me to see Malagra Seydavro.” Micholi stated with a mild degree of amusement in his tone.

“Your belief is accurate.” The Skitarii replied with absolutely zero humor. The door did not move.

There was a small nod before he ordered “One of you should inform the Malagra that I’m here then.”

“Malagra Seydavro has confirmed the presence of the Holy Primarch of the Second Astartes Legion.” The Skitarii replied. The door remained shut.

Some Primarchs might have lost their temper as this blatant display on the Skitarii’s part… but instead Micholi just smiled. “I see. Open the door Skitarii.”

“Access granted.” The Skitarii uttered. The door then coolly slid upwards into the ceiling, permitting Micholi access to the corridor beyond. He moved on through, the interior of the Prefecture Magisterium headquarters consisting largely of several subsequent and redundant layers of airlocked bulwarks, all set in the same uniform, sleek-metaled mold, the exact same emblem stamped on every door and with scarcely any other distinguishing features to be seen. A Skitarii had been wordlessly awaiting to guide him to the Malagra’s quarters, offering him the same perfunctory gesticulation before leading him onwards. At no point did the cybernetic soldier lead Micholi through anything resembling an actual room, but instead took abrupt and inexplicable turns at intervals, continuously leading the Primarch of the Second Legion through nothing but one airlocked chamber after another in sequence. Finally, more than twelve chambers deep, the final airlock bulwark slid open and Micholi found himself in Malagra Seydavro’s chambers.

The room was large, but similarly barren in detailing to the remainder of the Prefecture’s headquarters. The back of the room was dominated by Seydavro’s control throne, with what was clearly a master vox-relay and assembly trench situated directly in front of it. Twin cogitator towers rose to either side of the control throne, and the ceiling prominently displayed the emblem of the Prefecture Magisterium once more, while a modest totemic idol of the Omnissiah was poised at the base of the throne. From its makeshift and small appearance, it was clearly Seydavro’s personal shrine, moved directly down from whatever ship he normally served on.

Seydavro himself was, like Szorbulo, a Sicarian, with reverse-jointed legs and four elongated arms. They had not yet built up to their new authority both in the figurative and literal sense, being normally proportioned and diminutive compared to the Primarch, whereas Szorbulo had rivaled the tallest members of Usriel’s honor guard in stature, the only outward sign of their authority being the decorational sigils and traced lines along Seydavro’s robes.

Unlike the Skitarii who had greeted him, Seydavro rose from his control throne and bowed deeply before Micholi, his voxcoder audibly chanting some alien and indecipherable canticle in Lingua-Technis before reverting back to High Gothic.

“Holy Primarch, we are honored by and within your presence.” Seydavro’s voxcoder had a grating, tensed quality to it - like a razor being dragged across strung wire.

Micholi offered a bow in return; Deeper than the one offered to the Skitarii but shallow enough to acknowledge, again the difference in their rank. After all, there was no harm in showing someone the respect their rank deserved. “It is a pleasure to visit Malagra. But I am aware that you are a busy man and we both have our duties to carry out so let us get to the point, shall we?”

Without any fanfare, Micholi presented Malagra Seydavro with the data slate that his team had isolated the Mechanicum based machine spirit that had been located during the investigation. “I must admit a small degree of curiosity to this mystery. Originally my team suspected it was present for purposes related to Primarch Usriel’s investigation, but further reflection suggests this might be independent of that completely.”

Seydavro accepted the Data-Slate and then placed it reverently onto an induction node seated on the edge of his control throne’s armrest. He then wound a mechadendrite that snaked out from around his neck into a nearby access port, and paused for several moments before replying.

“This configuration of Machine Spirit is known to us, Holy Primarch.” Seydavro announced. “It is an ejection remnant. Originally part of a larger, more sophisticated Machine Spirit, it is intended to transfer its Mother Spirit out of its immediate device, erasing and concealing all signs of its activity in the process, which is supplemented by any other applicable active features of the Mother Spirit. It is a powerful tool for secure remote transmission of Machine Spirits, particularly in covert scenarios, with one notable drawback: The presently unavoidable and necessary remnant of the ejecting Daughter Spirit remaining in the original device afterwards, which retains only limited subversive capabilities.”

There was a small noise of confirmation from Micholi. “I see. Then it seems that the Mother Spirit had already run its course and disappeared before my team had even gotten their hands on the slate then. By any chance would you have a bit more luck with figuring out, if not what the Mother Spirit was there to do, at least where it ended up being sent afterwards?”

“No, Holy Primarch. Concealing and destroying that exact data is the primary intended purpose of the Daughter Spirit.” Seydavro answered. “It is not even evident when the Daughter Spirit was activated. Although…” Seydavro tapped the surface of the data-slate where it rested on the armrest. “This other Machine Spirit, it is intriguing. Something similar and yet different, and evidently not of Mechanicum make. It is possible it retained information on the purpose of the Mother Spirit - questioning Prefectus Hodge would likely be the most prudent course of action. Which is unfortunate, as his jaw has reportedly been surgically wired shut, and he has already transferred off-planet and onto a Void Ship that departed the Ullanor system several hours ago, listing medical necessity as justification for his leave of absence.”

There was a small sigh that escaped Micholi as he nodded his head. “That is… not surprising. I suspect you are already aware of the circumstances of why Prefectus Hodge’s jaw needed to be wired shut?”

“Correct, Holy Primarch.” Seydavro answered.

“A very strange circumstance nonetheless. While I can respect his zealous drive to his duty, one cannot help but find it odd how driven he was to try and slow Usriel down with red tape. Alas, this is as far as we can go with this mystery at this time.” Accepting that there wasn’t much more that could be done, Micholi offered a respectful bow to the Malagra before saying “Thank you for your time. I’m sorry that the exact mystery I wanted answered seems to be without a solution at this stage, but it is better to have it confirmed then ponder the unknown. I wish you well on keeping things on track for the Triumph going forward.”




The Doomsayer fleet that remained in the system had scattered across its worlds to purge the last remnants of the greenskins, but a central core remained tucked behind the dark shadow of Ullanor Prime's night side. There hung rows upon rows of battle barges and lesser vessels, chief among them the Misericors Sponsus Mors, personal vessel of the Equerry to the Primarch and de facto flagship with the Legion's Gloriana absent. Here, in its quiet anchorage, the mistresses of the XIVth held court among themselves, Equerry and Ladies Commander reviewing the actions of the past day.

"Someone must answer for this farce,” grumbled the taciturn voice of the Fifty-Seventh, to quieter assents by the Ladies of the Thirteenth, Eighty-Ninth, and One Hundred and Eleventh. “To think of the collateral alone, nearly the entire Mechanicum below liquidated. And for what? Glimpses of a plot our vaunted brothers seem to not bother solving?”

“I admit there I erred, and welcome our Mother’s judgement for my transgressions,” Theodora replied, the Librarian wearing only plain black robes. If anyone was on trial, it was her - and paradoxically, her judge. The woman looked up at the soaring seats that surrounded her, the Strategium of the Mors having been fit for a full convocation of the Two Hundred. It sat far less today, the Ladies Commander in their splendor clustered close around the Equerry, Ascania having replaced her armor for robes while still retaining the Death Mask of their Primarch. “It was not my intent to press the Malagra to his breaking point-”

“-merely to make him malleable enough to disclose the identity of plausible suspects, yes,” the quiet voice of the Fortieth finished, the woman letting out a deep sigh. “At very least you succeeded in that, but what are we to do with a Sicarian’s head? It’s not as if we can just reattach it and leave him on his way.”

“What does a Ruststalker matter?” all but spat the Twenty-Fourth. “We have an injured Elucidator, with clear evidence of the Mechanicum spying upon him, and not a word from the Sigilite! Oh, and, lest we forget, unkept promises and rumors swirling around the Fabricator-General himself.”

“And what of Prometheus’ helm?” practically shouted the One Hundred and Ninety Third. “Are the daughters of Terra now nothing more than magpies? Surely you had a plan in mind before committing such an affront, Equerry.” It was not a question, but nor was it blatant enough to be an insult to her office.

“Silence,” Ascania spoke, the word reverberating through the still air of the chamber until it was obeyed. “Our judgement will, by necessity, be unsatisfactory and incomplete upon this day. The pieces are far too fluid, the board constantly changing. Yet what we have learned is thus, and pray, Sisters, listen well to it. Our brothers, as well as their vaunted fathers, have shown themselves to be as brash and impulsive as any other among Mankind. We must not permit ourselves to fall to the same maelstrom of emotion, lest we make similar mistakes. This, I know, our Mother would say.”

Soft noises of assent followed as the Equerry gingerly removed her mask, revealing her face to the makeshift tribunal. Painfully young by the standards of Astartes, easily a century less experienced than the Ladies Commander surrounding her, Yekterina Ascania was well aware that it was solely Daena’s confidence in her that had kept the mistresses of the Chapters listening so far. And that meant little and less with the Primarch now far away.

“I shall now pass my judgement. Each doom shall be voted separately, in accordance with the forms,” she intoned. “Librarian. You have acted rashly and without forethought for the consequences of your actions. You are sentenced to a month of deathseering, and your requested challenge is denied. However. Considering the circumstances at hand, your bloodright is unaffected. Due to the fact that I permitted this to occur, I sentence myself to ten minutes in the pain glove. Let any who would deny this doom speak now.” One by one the Astartes casted their votes, the Librarian’s verdict upheld - with a single thought upon the minds of those who would dissent: one could always add to a punishment later.

“As for the helm of the Primarch Prometheus, our use of it has ended. It shall be returned to him prior to the Triumph, wrought with garlands and presented to him by the Legion’s daughters. Additionally, I sentence myself to an additional two minutes in the pain glove.” Again, the judgement was upheld, a shallow excuse for the theft better than none.

“As for the Elucidator, we shall trust in the Sigilite. The individual in question has successfully extracted from Ullanor, and a replacement shall be dispatched. Or perhaps one shall not. Their Order is not our concern, save for when we are bid to assist them. If Malcador believed we were needed, he would’ve called for us. On the same topic, I formally commend Sister Brynhildr for discovering the so-called Prefectus Hodge’s true identity, and recommend her for bloodright. Were Lord Usriel here, perhaps I would pass a judgement upon him,” Ascania said wryly, a joke that won few smiles, “but that is at least one disaster we played no part in.” What little debate that had occurred on prior judgements was now entirely absent, even the most cantankerous Commander in agreement.

“As for the many and manifold questions swirling about the Mechanicum, judgement is deferred to our Mother,” she began, immediately igniting a firestorm of shouts that she promptly ignored, “but we shall retain all such evidence that she may require.” A tension filled silence replaced the furor as they waited, Ascania knowing full well that how she handled this situation would be her own judgement. “Malagra Szorbulo and Techsorcist Heamiona shall be formally requested to join the Doomsayers as permanent auxiliaries, in the name of Daena io Azrael. Should the former prove receptive of this, he shall be reunited with his body and placed with those among us who adhere the most staunchly to their God. He shall under no circumstances be provoked,” she said, eyes falling flatly upon Theodora. “Additionally, we shall request in Mother’s name a contingent of competent theologians, as it is clear that our distance from such notions as the divine have clouded our judgement. This must not be permitted to occur again. Finally, the Artisan Malchediel will be invited to join us with whatever retinues he may require for his works. It shall be stressed that this is not a requisition.”

The Doomsayers slowly voiced their assent, but none turned to leave. With a grim resolve, the Equerry began her self imposed punishment before the eyes of her peers. The scribes and serfs of the Legion busied themselves preparing the reports for their Primarch, the seal of judgement affixed once more.




Even Tech-Priests who had crossed the Crux Mechanicum still occasionally had to bow to the foibles of the mind itself. No matter how much of the flesh was replaced, deep within a root of the original organic neural matter remained. For those Priests whose minds had little in the way of invasive bionic augmentation still had to sleep.

Thus, it was at the closing of the day and the Primarchs' investigation, and Magos Ulbridge had delegated his active duties to his assistant and retired to his quarters. Given the prestige and importance of his position and association, he was one of the few Tech-Priests within the sprawling service tunnels afforded the privilege of a private if modest chamber to himself. The room contained little more than a resting alcove with a personal shrine to the Omnissiah nested within, a cogitator bank, and a work-table with an integral vault. Navigating into the dimly-lit room and securing the door close, Ulbridge swayed placidly in the dark for several moments in thought. He then moved towards the cogitator bank, unfurling two mechadendrites as he went. One reached out, activating the ingress sequence on the activation runes of the table's vault while the other snaked into an access port on the cogitator's underside. A few moments and additional sequenced activation runes later, the lid of the vault cracked open. Ulbridge's mechadendrite surged inside and retrieved an unassuming data-rune. This was promptly plugged into another access port underneath the cogitator bank, granting access to the data stored within.

>One File Directory Found
>"Writ of Clemency", archived 49 days ago_


Ulbridge arranged a number of Machine Spirits and programs to handle the process. The Writ of Clemency would appear be fed to a courier Machine Spirit that would leave the Cogitator Bank and embed in a network relay, segmenting itself and partitioning its metadata logs into a smaller Spirit that would then be cannibalized. The Courier Spirit would then leap directly from the relay up to the Fearful Symmetry in high orbit and be routed to Archmagos Rarnet's office - leaving no data-trail to trace back. For all intents and purposes, the Writ of Clemency would appear to have been transmitted to the Ark Mechanicum by a ghost.

>"Writ of Clemency" Directory Transferred to Courier Spirit OZ87.12-D
>Executing_


Ulbridge disengaged from the Cogitator Bank, removing the data-rune as he did so and promptly crushing it into fine powder between the coils of his first mechadendrite as the second shut the desk-mounted vault. He then turned towards the rest alcove, and started to shift a number of his core systems into a low-power state.

He was immediately and immensely surprised to see Prefectus Hodge standing behind him with a plasma pistol pointed squarely at Ulbridge's face.

"Impossible." Ulbridge's voxcoder clicked plaintively. The portly Administratum drone had made no sound to betray his entry, the door was still closed and sealed, and even as he stood before the Tech-Priest he inexplicably failed to register to the integrated bionic auspex suite the Magos constantly used to surveil his surroundings.

"Not so hard as that. You completely covered any evidence of your network activity and you were reasonably cautious about concealing your involvement with the hardware setup, but you overplayed your social outreach and did not do enough to conceal the existence of your toys from direct examination." Hodge's voice was cracked, low, and stiff - his jaw, which had still been wired shut the previous day, had healed far faster than was Humanly possible but was still evidently recovering. A raw and crimson set of bruises and superficial scarring traced across his jawline, themselves evidence of the miraculous pace of healing as even they were far smaller and more diminished than they had any right to be.

"...I have no idea what you are implyin-" Ulbridge began, only for Hodge to cut him off.

"It was that stunt you pulled with the Primarch in the control that gave you away in the end. Up until that moment you were still only one of my top suspects."

"Investigating? Yo-"

"No need to pretend, Magos. Yes. That would be Elucidator Hodge." The overweight man in the Administratum robes said in an exasperated and impatient tone. "Which you knew long before now. With everything winding down, I have a few remaining questions for you. It is in your best interest to cooperate."

Ulbridge's voxcoder clicked again, followed by a second of silence before he spoke. "Well, if you truly are an Elucidator, I would be pleased to divulge everything I know. However, I have received instruction from the Archmagos not to relay this informa-"

"I will not be showing you any identification, you are not being formally charged or detained, and if you do not cooperate what will happen is I will shoot you and transmute you body into a rapidly flash-vaporizing pile of boiling slag." Hodge interjected dryly. "If you are useful enough, you may live to receive a secret Elucidatum trial for conspiracy to commit high treason and to foment rebellion."

"Absurd!" Ulbridge's voxcoder keened. "That is the most outlandish nonsense I have heard in decades! You have no proof of anything I could have done to that effect!"

"Very well then - a recitation is in order. Perhaps if your master is still somehow listening, this will make them think twice about trying something like this again. But first - sit." Hodge stepped to the side, and gestured for Ulbridge to approach the rest alcove. The Tech-Priest grudgingly crouched and slid into a prone position inside the crevice, glaring balefully at Hodge as they did.

"To begin with, of course, is the matter of Kelbor-Hal's Writ of Clemency." Hoodge began, his voice assuming a recitory if strained tone. "The Order Elucidatum set to tracking it from the moment it was relayed from Mars. The Transmat Link is completely secure of course, but the number of Forge Worlds with astropathic relays proximal to Ullanor was limited, so we immediately knew something was wrong when the Prefecture Magisterium did not stop detaining Tech-Priests. An investigation aboard the Fearful Symmetry revealed the Writ had never arrived, and once we found the relay it was sent from we determined it had been sent directly to one of the planetside network relay nodes, where it was then transferred onto an anonymous data-rune. An anonymous data-rune which we had the configuration specs on due to a nearby omnispex device, which match those of the rune you just crushed a few moments ago."

"That means nothing! That was a standard data-rune, one of thousands used by my immediate staff!" Ulbridge protested.

"Next was the matter of the holo-caster system. You contacted Lexmechanic Kalgehan anonymously via servo skull and promised her and her staff immunity from the Prefecture Magisterium if she did as you instructed. This was not something I discovered myself, but was revealed by the Primarchs during her interrogation." Hodge carried on, completely ignoring Ulbridge's protest. "What I did discover during my own examination was the two second ghost frame you had Kalgehan program into the Triumph pict-schedule. It would not be evident on the first or even by the fifth viewing from the perspective of different remote viewing servitors, but after that it became evident all of the pict-casters being networked together were performing some rather inefficient and unlikely maneuvers at the same abrupt timeframe. Even though you only had a single visual frame omitted for two seconds, due to the sheer breadth of high-fidelity coverage of most of the pict-devices being used to record the Triumph it was inevitable nearly all of them would have to perform some curious and jarring aerial maneuvers to facilitate that omission in coverage. Even a child would have noticed, if they had the patience to watch through a dozen or so different pict-perspectives in a row."

"You have no proof it was me who contacted Lexmechanic Kalgehan!" Ulbridge's voxcoder whirred angrily.

"There is no direct evidence of that, true." Hodge remarked lightly. "However, the Primarchs revealed during their investigation that Kalgehan was contacted by somebody who gave her exacting instructions, and who demonstrated particular knowledge of who she was, who the other Tech-Priests working with the holo-caster were, and their exact work schedules. This immediately ruled out Kalgehan's immediate superior, as they would not have needed to resort to such measures to perpetrate tampering. Then of course, on top of the Holo-Caster's staff being confidential due to its nature as a high-priority aspect of the Triumph systems, they regularly destroyed their own work records and logs, including their publicly accessible registry, to deter arrest by the Prefecture Magisterium. Meaning the only people who could have known those details would have been you or a member of your immediate staff, using the root personnel registry."

"Transmechanic Korvykha, one of the conspirators identified by the Primarchs, was a member of my staff-" Ulbridge started.

"And he was one of my primary suspects for some time on that basis alone." Hodge admitted, interrupting Ulbridge yet again. "I ultimately dismissed him on the basis of the interrogation performed by Librarian Theodora, who revealed that he genuinely believed the rumors of the Writ of Clemency to be false. The rest of his interrogation revealed that his sentiments did not sensibly align with the notion of also being aware of the Writ's concealed existence, as he was motivated out of disapproval of unsanctioned techno-heresy."

"Your logic is faulty! The Librarian's report was not so unambiguous! For all we know he would have done the same even if the Writ had arrived as it should have!" Ulbridge retorted.

"My logic is perfectly rational. After all, by your own report, the vast majority of Mechanicum personnel were reticent to begin reconsecrating the Triumph technology at all until after you began spreading the rumors of the Writ of Clemency's impending arrival." Hodge carried on serenely. "So even those Tech-Priests not part of the conspiracy were unwilling to engage in what was evidently unsanctioned techno-heresy, and Transmechanic Korvykha plainly indicated his primary motivation was to garner the approval of some imagined higher authority."

"Baseless speculation! Supposition derived from scant inference and suggestion!" Ulbridged wailed.

"Then, of course, we come to the matter of the network relay node worked on by Enginseer Armard." Hodge carried on, once more ignoring Ulbridge's outrage. "The Primarchs did not deign to examine any of the devices in the vicinity, much to their detriment, and their line of interrogation with the Enginseer was not directed enough to reveal their presence or purpose. You contacted Armard via a remote servo-skull, exactly as you did with Kalgehan, and instructed him to erect a number of devices for your own purposes in secret. These systems were air-gapped from any kind of connection with the rest of the Triumph network and had no signal-compatible hardware, making them complete black boxes. They were designed to interface with the network relay via a pneumatic mechanism that would have physically joined them to the network relay, causing them to inject a batch of custom Machine Spirits and programming into the Triumph systems while the event was ongoing. Their trigger was nothing more than a timed switch, manually and externally adjustable but already pre-configured to fire exactly forty-one minutes past the nominal start time of the Triumph. Which, interestingly, coincided with the exact timing of the omitted pict-frame in the Holo-Caster system. Armard confirmed that there existed no documentation on these devices when I questioned him, much as there had been none with the Holo-Caster and for the same reasons."

Hodge's voice then turned hard. "Which was why I found it quite odd that your personal cogitator core in the control room had a secure archive with the schematics for the devices themselves stored within them, although the designs for their Machine Spirits and programming remained absent."

"Nothing but fraud!" Ulbridge's voxcoder hissed. "I am not the only one with access to the primary cogitator core! Korvykha-"

"Did NOT have access to it. I checked." Hodge carried on, his voice still stern. "Of course, I too, at the time, could not dismiss the possibility that you were being framed. But what happened next dispelled me of that possibility. You see, unbeknownst to me at the time, some complete bastard had inserted a sophisticated Machine Spirit into my data-slate. This same wretched heap of dreck used this Spirit to send me a priority alert, indicating that the Primarch of the Nineteenth Legion had called for an assembly of the Mechanicum Senior Heads of Staff assigned to the Triumph, and that he had ordered all of their assigned staffs’ work to be halted and all ongoing Triumph operations suspended indefinitely."

Hodge glared wrathfully down at Ulbridge, who did not reply. After a moment, Hodge carried on.

"Of course, that sort of interference, even by a Primarch, could not be tolerated. The Emperor himself was receiving reports on the progression of the Triumph's readiness, and such an act was borderline insubordination to the Emperor himself, even coming from a Primarch. I decided then and there to confront the Primarch and reveal myself as an Elucidator, and to set them back on the right course rather than allowing such a severe disruption. Of course, I never got that far. Later, once I got out of the infirmary, my own Machine Spirit alerted me that the registry I had been shown was not only falsified, but had been erased only moments after the incident with the Nineteenth Primarch."

Hodge glowered murderously at Ulbridge, who remained unspeaking and motionless within the crevice. "Nothing to say now?" Hodge asked icily.

"...What do you intend to do?" Ulbridge asked back.

"As I said, I have questions." Ulbridge replied. "Answer them truthfully and I might permit you to live long enough to be tried in Sol. The first being, how was it that you even knew I was an Elucidator to begin with?"

"...Only from the presence of your own Machine Spirit." Ulbridge answered. "I myself did not know its nature upon spiking your Data-Slate. I made inquiries and received the answer that it was with almost complete certainty a personal Machine Spirit of an Elucidator. I cannot guess as to who the information came from, as it was relayed to me via a secure, remote channel."

"A likely answer." Hodge spat. "And not sufficiently useful for me to humor you. Next - I never did discover what you actually intended to do in that two-second span of time inside of that single frame. My own investigation was abdicated in favor of following along with the Primarchs, and I never had the opportunity to follow that lead."

"...There is an Emanatus Force Field emitter rigged beneath the Triumph causeway within the area of that missing frame." Ulbridge's voxcoder grated out. "Modified to emit a voltaic ablative-kinetic pulse. When the xenos auxila marched by-"

"They would have been flung into the air by a nearly invisible dome emerging from the ground. Or if the procession were delayed or pushed back for any reason, it would have done the same beneath the auxila's main assembly. Pict-recorded evidence would have shown the dome if reviewed carefully enough, but with that single frame of imagery mysteriously missing..." Hodge paused for a moment to mull over the implications. "...the Triumph would have been disrupted by the xenos floundering about haphazardly, with only their word that it had been because some mysterious phantom force had blown them off their feet, with nobody else to witness or corroborate it and no pict-data either beyond recording the xenos stumbling around confused or even as if reacting to an attack with no clear cause."

"The Emitter was rigged to disintegrate upon activation. Digging into the causeway would have just revealed a light fixture." Ulbridge added.

There was a long moment of silence.

"Why in the world would you go to such obscene and bizarre lengths to effect such a petty end? You concocted this entire grand conspiracy in order to momentarily humiliate xenos marching in the Triumph? Why? What possible end does such an inexplicable plot service?" Hodge demanded, genuine confusion spreading across his face. "Why go to such lengths, deceiving multiple Primarchs, getting hundreds of fellow Priests KILLED by deliberately withholding the Writ of Clemency, and conspiring to cripple an Elucidator? Are you insane? Has all common sense abandoned you?"

"...The Logis." Ulbridge's voxcoder almost seemed to sigh.

"...What?" Hodge fired off sharply.

"...Logis Karoa. She is one of us. She did not partake in this plot, but she provided us with our directives and instructions. Had it been up to me I either would not have risked doing anything at all or else endeavored to have the perverse abominations killed, but the prophecies of Logis are not to be ignored. I do not know what purpose humiliating the xenos in such a way would have facilitated. It is possible this entire plot was arranged specifically for me to fail, for you to discover me, and for the xenos to be removed from the Triumph altogether."

"Now who is being illogical?!?" Hodge choked back a faint stammer as he indignantly barked out the rhetorical question. "We know all about the Logis. Their 'prophecies' are compelling, but even they do not have such esoteric and schizophrenic paths."

"On this we are agreed, Elucidator. I was compelled to act regardless." Ulbridge answered. "I can only speculate as to the purpose of her instructions. All I know is that, whatever the scope and consequence of what has been done here, it was necessary."

"Necessary for what?" Hodge demanded.

"The abolition of the Edict of Tolerance? The protection of the Mechanicum? Perhaps even the censure of the Mechanicum, in some far-ranging bid to ensure its even further-reaching prospects?" Ulbridge's voxcoder had taken on a speculative if quietly reverent intonation. "I am not a Logis, Elucidator. Do not ask me to speculate as to their mysteries."

"Very well. My final question then. Logis Karoa - am I to believe this entire plot is ultimately to fall on her head?" Hodge asked.

"...No. As you have stated, this entire chain of circumstance is filled with absurdity. I think what is most probable was the Logis was directed to calculate an outcome that would service some unforeseen objective.”

"And who would have delivered her this objective? Archmagos Rarnet?"

"No. He is uninvolved in all of this. The order would have come from within the Holy Synod of Mars, a particular sect within it that is."

"Hm." Hodge mused. "Well. I cannot deny that you have been cooperative. As cooperative as I could have hoped." Ulbridge's bionic eyes alit almost hopefully.

"But I would still have preferred answers with actual, sensible direction to them. You have informed me of little I did not already know, and have quite successfully convinced me that further interrogation would yield little to no additional information, Magos Ulbridge. I therefore..."

Magos Ulbridge's entire mechanical body tensed and then lunged at Hodge where he stood, only for Hodge's plasma pistol to roar as it unleashed a tremendous burst of incandescent power, erupting from its barrel in a crowning blastwave that cast itself across the Tech-Priest, briefly outlining their entire body in stark and merciless illumination before the entirety of it seemingly crumbled and flittered away like motes of ash in the wind.

The plasma blast shot through the alcove in the wall, searing a small hole in the back wall. The molten stumps of Magos Ulbridge's bionic legs, all that remained of him, tumbled over onto the floor with a dull thud.

"...sentence you to summary execution for the gravest of crimes against the Imperium of Man and the Emperor of All Mankind." Hodge declared blithely as he checked the plasma cell reflexively.

When the Prefecture security detachment arrived three minutes later to investigate the detected energy discharge, they found nothing there. Not Hodge, nor Ulbridge's legs, nor any sign that anybody had even been in the room, save for the plasma scoring inside the rest alcove.
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Year: 001.M31

Before the Triumph of Ullanor

During the Meeting of the Primarchs and Representatives

Aboard the Ark Mechanicum Ineffable Artifice...



It was not commonly known by the people of the Imperium whether or not the Emperor's Astartes slept or not. The truth of the matter was that they did and that it remained necessary, albeit an Astartes could go for prolonged periods of time without sleep to no observable ill effect, and required little of it whenever they did. Different legions engaged in different practices and regimes, all accounting for this lingering Human need in their own way.

Amongst the Stargazers, the standard shift of duty for the rank Marine was one-hundred and forty-four hours long between active campaigns, with six hours of mandated sleep at the end of each shift. Upon awakening, every marine spent three hours in concerted prayer and meditation at the Mechanicum shrine of their preference. After this period of worship, the Marine would head to the nearest quartermaster and procure their entire proceeding shift's worth of rations, medicinals, and miscellaneous personal materials. The marine would then head to their personal shrine and tend to it for an hour. These could be located anywhere within a ship. Inside of a maintenance duct, a random corridor, by the savior pods, within an engine bay, or in any other conceivable spot where room had been allocated for one. The sight of a personal shrine belonging to a marine of the Stargazers was a common sight aboard the Ordo Astranoma's void craft, and were often utilized for prayer and devotionals by chapter serfs and Tech-Priests alike as they went about their own duties.

Having tended to their personal shrine, the marine would then head directly to the forge. There, they would either study the mysteries of the Omnissiah with the direction and guidance of senior marines, or else modify or build upon their armor, weaponry, or personal bionics. Four hours was dedicated for this purpose, and thereafter another four hours was designated exclusively for testing, calibrating, and fine-tuning those modifications - all for the express purpose of facilitating the high degree of sophisticated and highly personalized bionics, armor, weaponry, and devices present amongst the Stargazers marines. Any time during that period not devoted to technical development and modification was instead focused on combat training and readiness exercises, often to ensure the various devices and technical modifications to them remained viable in various battlefield conditions.

The three hours afterwards was a mandated 'break' period, with the unstated expectation that most marines would spend their time uplinked with cogitator banks, delving into and researching the secrets of the Omnissiah - though the actual activities pursued by the individual marine during this period were neither strictly defined nor stringently enforced beyond that suggested course of activity.

At the conclusion of that period, the marine would then spend another mandated hour tending to their personal shrine once more. Thereafter, they would begin a four-hour long regime of patrols across their assigned ship, during which time they would assist the chapter-serfs, servitors, and Tech-Priests of the Ordo Astranoma with basic, routine, and essential maintenance and repair routines across the breadth of their ship. The marine would then convene with between four and six others of their brothers, usually accommodating one or two superior officers, and they would engage in a two-hour long, cogitator assisted devotional. At the devotional's conclusion, the marine would dedicate another two hours to combat drills and exercises, typically with the same group of marines in order to foster personal relationships and to form strong personal bonds between the marines of the legion.

This cycle of activities would then repeat anew from the beginning with another three hours of prayer and meditation, with six cycles in total comprising the standard shift, broken up by the mandated six hours of sleep.

A more frequently speculated-upon topic amongst Imperial citizens was whether the Primarchs themselves, slept. If, indeed, there was any mortal foible or failing exhibited by their flesh and faculties. Augor Asten, Primarch of the twelfth legion of the Emperor's Space Marines, did not know if the other Primarchs slept. What he imagined was that for them, it was likely wholly unnecessary, and for him at least the practice was a difficult one. His mind, much like the minds of all the other Primarchs as he imagined they all must have been made, operated tens of thousands of times more swiftly than even the most heavily augmented Human brain. Even a Tech-Priest that had crossed the Crux Mechanicum and had replaced significant chunks of their cerebrum with bionics could not think so quickly and across such a breadth of topics as a Primarch. Even a vat-grown Sicarian Praetor, perhaps the equal of an Astartes in most ways and with their very brain-matter being designed from their conception to grow as patterned neuronal circuitry, was utterly eclipsed in its otherwise nearly peerless cognitive capabilities by the immaculate genius embodied in the potency of the minds of the Primarchs.

The very notion of sleep was therefore a curious one to even contemplate, let alone practice. How did one willfully stop, cease all conscious thought, when the body did not tire as a normal Human might? The brain of a Primarch did not even excrete the same hormones and proteins necessary to induce a natural sleep cycle, and the brain structures that modulated such a process were either absent or had been replaced. It was, simply, something they had not been made to do. If anything, it was a function that had been largely excised from their capabilities.

Augor Astren, however, differed from many of the other Primarchs. Being a member of the Mechanicum, he had necessarily indulged in a great breadth of heavily invasive bionic augmentation. His mind, designed by the Omnissiah himself, was far too empyrean and ineffable in its superiority to dare to blemish with anything save the most cursory and externalized of augmentations that would augment or amplify its potency without interfering with it. With other aspects of his body, Augor had more freely cut away his god-given flesh to replace with the cold and adamant perfection of adamantium alloy. For though even his flesh itself was harder and more resilient than battle-steel, even it had limits. The Emperor, knowing this well, had intended the bodies of the Primarchs to act in concert and be augmented with personalized armor rather than relying wholly on the sheer, divine resilience he had infused within their skin. So it was only logical to replace parts of even that hallowed flesh with the strongest of substances ever forged by man, to make the flesh itself an armor beyond reckoning.

Amongst the many benefits Augor Asten derived from the invasive modifications and bionics that wound throughout his body was the ability to focus and canalize the body itself to serve a single thought, a single route of contemplation. The mind of a Primarch could already focus down and unto a single line of thought with conscious effort, capable of obliterating tangled knots of the paradoxical and impossible that would occupy the greatest minds of Humanity for decades in a mere instant, so long as the Primarch in question had the requisite knowledge and temperament to examine the problem creatively. Yet even such focus had its limits. A Primarch had to consciously direct such focus, mentally constrain the flow of thought in their minds to think this way. Some would even shut down the functions of their own bodies to facilitate such focus, and that as well took conscious effort to keep the body in a perfect state of equilibrium while the mind honed and narrowed itself down to a perfect immaculate point, a single epiphanic star of rationality and perfect clarity, only lightly fettered by the penumbral veil of the subconscious mind and the need to continue living. Hypothetically, the Primarchs could cast aside even those limits, and willfully lobotomize themselves and abandon the static equilibrium of the body to attain an even more perfect and singularly brilliant instant of transcendental thought - but it would be just and only that. A moment, followed immediately thereafter by deterioration, entropy, perhaps even death depending on how far they attempted to take that single moment.

Augor Asten had sidestepped this necessity by externalizing the need to maintain the equilibrium of his body into surgically installed bionic devices, mediated by cogitator cores with their own neuronal circuitry to take up the reins, if only for a time, of the subconscious effort needed to do so and to act as a guide for the focused mind.

Such a method was not perfect and did not work for long. Even the most sophisticated cogitator cores and bionics could not hold aloft the might of a Primarch's physiology utterly abandoned by the mind on their own, such was the immaculate genius of the Omnissiah's design that no form of artifice yet devised was sufficient to sustain it. They could allow Augor Astren to step beyond the pall of death and deterioration to achieve, if only for a few fleeting seconds, a state of truly unbound mental clarity and comprehension condensed into a single channel of raw and unfettered veracity. Augor imagined it to be a fractional glimpse of what the Omnissiah himself was capable of.

Such a state was not lightly entered, however. To do so always entailed the risk of the bionics failing, or of some other unforeseen complication emerging. It was a practice he approached methodically and carefully, always setting aside several hours that afforded him the ability to slowly and thoroughly shut down and redirect every fiber of his being, one sinew at a time, to that state of elevated thought. It was almost like dying, so he imagined - and so Mercaerath had commented during the few times he had been permitted to watch over the Primarch as he underwent the process. Mercaerath even referred to it outright as a death trance. Its uses were also limited - there were few actual practical problems that necessitated such a drastic exercise to unravel, and few philosophical notions or ideals with speculative answers worth the effort. Likewise, while in the trance, it was only possible to think of a single thing at once. Rather than accessing the knowledge of the mind as necessary to consider the topic, it was more as if all facets and motes of the being were considered simultaneously in reflection of that solitary subject.

In more than a century of having practiced the technique, Augor Astren had discovered only a few objects of interest worth entering the trance to contemplate. Fewer still, that merited repeat visitation. Some of them had been unraveled and mastered immediately. Some, though, had proven to remain beyond even the outermost boundaries of comprehension by a Primarch in such a mental state. They required repeated trances, the Primarch accumulating additional insight into the object each time, the trance always rebuilding upon the knowledge gained from previous attempts to eventually pierce through all barriers to true comprehension. Only two objects of thought remained that Augor Astren deigned to still be worth the practice.

The Barrier, and The Cube.

Neither of which Augor had revisited in some time. In the wake of the conquest of the Ullanor System and in the days preceding the Triumph itself however, he found himself with little else to devote his time to. The Campaigns in the near future he already intended to wage were planned. The artifice of his armor, his weapons, and his bionics already incorporated his own latest improvements upon the latest of innovations to have been relayed through the Great Transmat Link of the High Altar of Technology. In his own judgement, he had already dealt with all the matters concerning the management of the legion that would benefit most from his personal involvement - leaving the rest to his most trusted senior aides and staff. To interfere further would cause their own gradual growth and improvement to stagnate, however slightly. Though there were a number of administrative and formal matters he could have hypothetically attended to upon Ullanor Prime - such as the meeting of the Primarchs that had been convened at the request of Micholi Vakrain - Augor Asten could not be bothered. The matters that would be discussed there had little if anything to do with the Ordo Astranoma and he imagined the other Primarchs and agents of the Omnissiah's Imperium could manage well enough on their own1.

1 An assessment that proved to be tremendously wrong.

So as the Primarchs met upon Ullanor Prime, Augor Asten remained aboard his personal flagship, the Ark Mechanicum Ineffable Artifice, at the periphery of the Ullanor System near the edges of the original wall of battle the Ordo Astranoma's macroclade fleets had formed upon arriving in the system. He had shut himself within his personal quarters with orders not to be disturbed under any circumstance, with Mercaerath standing by to handle any matters that would otherwise have demanded Augor's personal attention. Under the Primarch's personnel schedule, the four-hour span of time had been marked off simply with 'sleeping.'

It had seemed as good a label as anything else.

Nearly three hours had passed, and Augor was preparing to enter the deepest possible state of the trance. The Primarch sat stiffly upon his control-throne, adorned only in simple Martian robes, foregoing his power armor and servo-harness for the sake of the trance. His blind, empty eye-sockets gazed into oblivion as his breathing continued to gradually slow. The myriad cogitator banks Augor had linked himself with via a wreath of cabling hanging about his chest all began to shine with a dazzling constellation of lights, their frames already insulated so as to reduce their sound emission as much as possible. They, the rest of the room, and the entirety of the material plane began to fall away.

Now came the moment, in the space between the self and unfettered epiphany, to decide what he would be thinking about.

The Barrier stood as the single greatest mystery Augor had ever contemplated. He had discovered it within the depths of his thoughts more than a hundred and fifty years ago, when contemplating the defeat he and his legion had suffered during the Rangdan Campaign. He had spent decades compiling the raw data that had been recovered from the numerous pict-recordings and cogitator-archived machine spirit whispers. Decades spent questioning members of the IA who had participated and survived, examining shipping records and manifests, the logs and reported minutes of various staff meetings. All for the purpose of attempting to divine - something. Anything. Whether such an end could have been averted. Whether it meant anything. Whether anything would come of the losses and shame suffered that day.

Whether anything would come of more than a hundred thousand Astartes cast like dice into the uncaring jaws of a ravenous beast.

The trance had its limitations. He could not unravel a mystery that had no answer due to insufficient data, or in which he did not understand the subject being contemplated. After several fearsome and accomplished campaigns and the gathering of sufficient information, he was convinced he had everything he needed. Year after year this deeply-held conviction redoubled, but every time he attempted to contemplate the matter, he was stopped just short at the final threshold before the unclouded truth.

Barred from absolution, vindication, by the Barrier.

A Barrier thrown across not only his mind, but seemingly space itself as well - crossing, as far as he could tell, the full breadth of the galaxy. From the heart of Terra and far beyond the reach of the Astronomican, which had been when Augor had realized it was not a construct of his father's making. This was something else. Something primordial. Whenever he touched upon the force that obstructed him, it pulsed with evident pangs of resonance. Four distinct timbres of power and flowing current that threw themselves across his vision like bars across the stars. Even with repeated visitations and trances, comprehension of the Barrier's true nature eluded him. It seemed to defy the unsullied clarity of thought the trance bestowed - in fact, it always seemed to evoke a wellspring of emotional upheaval within Augor that he scarcely experienced otherwise. Rage. Hunger. Euphoria. Doubt. Some sensations he was already intimately familiar with - others which were completely foreign until that moment. Always, they seemed to call to something within Augor himself. Something unrealized or forgotten, thought the notion was absurd in light of the comprehension embodied in the trance. A Primarch could not forget anything.

Augor had last contemplated that turbulent and mysterious force more than a year ago, and he suspected he had not encompassed enough experience and knowledge to make any substantial progress on that front. Instead, he turned his mind to the Cube. As that decision was reached, the world dropped away, and Augor was left in the veracious void of his own mind, lain barren and refracted through a fractal, infinite palace of mirrors, all that he was turned inwards and upon the object of his contemplation.

The Black Cube was over somewhat under a third of a meter in length across each axis. Large and cumbersome to a baseline Human, but the perfect size for him or another Primarch to grip in a single hand. Its body was wrought from a glassy black stone that shimmered with a dusken, iridescent sheen in a lit environment. The corners of the cube were capped with prong-shaped triangular points of pure, pitch-stained adamantium. One face of the cube was engraved with the cut of an eight-pointed star, its four cardinal extremities extending across the edges of the cube and running along the four adjacent faces, all terminating and leaving the single blank face upon the rear. The cube was denser than it appeared, weighing four fifths of a ton.

It has been recovered during the Nurthene Campaign. It had been in the possession of Human Cultists who refused to submit to the Imperial Truth. They had been so desperate to resist the forced Compliance of their people that they had unveiled the weapon in a final bid of desperation. Intercepted communications and orders between their command elements revealed that it was a weapon of untold, portentous destructive might. One that operated upon curious principles. There were no mechanisms, no spirits, no circuitry or compartments within it - it was solid, seamless stone throughout.

The Nurthene had believed that had they activated it, the entire planet would have been destroyed, and that he, the Primarch and his Legion alike, would have perished in untold anguish. They had also believed that the only fashion in which the cube could be activated was through blood sacrifice. Their final gambit had been an attempt to bait the Stargazers into a full-out assault on the last bastion of the Nurthene rebels, and to use the ensuing slaughter to awaken the forces within the esoteric artifact. A gambit which, due to intercepted intelligence, the Stargazers had not entertained. A cordon had been established around the bastion to prevent the rebels from escaping, and the site had then been stasis-bombed from orbit. Though the fighting that had transpired up until that point had been cursory, the limited augur readings of the interior of the fortress had shown a mounting surge in ambient radiation, and when the cube had been retrieved from within the stasis field the surrounding atmosphere had been suffused with anomalous and exotic, diffuse energies. There had been nothing else within its secure chamber to explain how it might have been powered. No control throne, no cogitators or activation runes, scarcely any devices save the lighting. Yet somehow, it had been beginning to do...something.

With every contemplation of the Cube Augor had indulged in, the more he became certain the Nurthene Rebels had been correct in their beliefs, sick and twisted as they had been. The Cube was a weapon. Some arcane, alien weapon of unknown function. Moreover, the rebels had also been correct in their belief that the cube would have destroyed the planet - and of more imperative interest, they had also been correct that it would have killed even him. Heretech, that was rightly sealed away within the depths of the Ineffable Artifice's black vaults. To study Heretech with the desire to replicate it was heresy, but Augor hoped that the underlying principles themselves, once understood, could be achieved through more mundane and cleaner methods that would be approved of by the Synod of Mars. Abstract, scientific principles divorced wholly from unclear xenos form.

All of his being collapsed inwards upon the contemplation of the Cube. All that was within him considered it. The latest discoveries and reports from dark and void regions of space the Stargazers explored, the most recent imagery and depictions of cultist iconography from myriad worlds, the templates and secrets of recovered archeotech and heretech alike compared and considered.

And there, the first glimmering of insight bloomed. The Three Swords of Laer. Entrusted to the Macroclade Fleets and Malagra Dinwright by the Night Watch. The sickening forms of the xenos weapons had seethed with barely contained warp energies that Augor could sense from the moment they had been brought aboard the Ineffable Artifice. He had personally overseen the interment of the sickening Heretech within the Black Vaults, and all that his mind had perceived of the blades then turned what he could discern of them to the purpose of contemplating the Cube.

The Blades had whispered to him. According to reports, any Adept who lay hand upon the blades were overcome with violent and indiscriminate fugue, attacking friend and foe alike and becoming overborne with inhuman vigor and monstrous strength. Weapons of this nature had been found before, and though the Mechanicum and the Ordo Astranoma's reports on them were light on descriptive details for fear of perpetrating Techno-Heresy, enough had been observed simply by frequency of encounters for observers to determine that such weaponry was commonly aspected in some fashion, with common themes and perils shared between them - and generally, the cultists and traitors who wielded the weapons when finally lain low and interrogated claimed that the implements spoke to them.

And somehow, the murmurs that had emanated from the blades when Augor had gazed upon them with his sightless hollows had revealed a new facet of the Black Cube's true nature.

The Cube had not always been as it was now. It had originally been made as a weapon of war by an ancient, now extinct xenos species, and from there it had then been tainted, corrupted, and altered through deliberate exposure to the energies and vagaries of the warp. Much like the three Laeran Blades themselves had been. The Blades also reacted to each other with a resonance, a resonance that within certain distances could be used to locate more of them. Useless at interstellar ranges, but might have proven useful on Laer itself hd the Prefecture Magisterium not ordered the Exterminatus of the planet.

This knowledge, turned and refocused upon the Cube, revealed a similar quality. The Black Cube bore a resonant form of energy. Unlike the Laeran Blades however, the Cube pulsed with an eminent intensity that held true across immense distances. It was then that Augor knew: The Black Cube was not unique. There were more of them...

Augor sucked in a breath reflexively as the trance ended and his bionics mediated control over his bodily functions back to his unconscious mind. Slowly, he turned his sightless gaze towards the floor and looked blindly down, down - into the belly of the ship, at the exact spot where the Black Cube was contained inside a Null Box within the Black Vaults. It was impossible to discern what form of resonance the Cube had without removing it...

Just as soon as the thought came, Augor dismissed it. Down that road lay only madness and betrayal. The Black Cube would never know the outside of the vaults again.

...And that beside, even without knowing the exact characteristics of the Black Cube's resonant energies, he had witnessed it before and contemplated it long and often enough to be able to at least formulate a number of guesses. Augor rose from his dais and made for his chamber's foyers, his purpose now clear. However many more of the Cubes existed in the galaxy, they could not be permitted to remain outside of Imperial control. Locating and containing them would be added to the Ordo Astranoma's foremost priorities. His honor guard fell into step behind him as he left his chambers and made way for the nearest conveyor shaft, already sending advance notice of his intent via vox after a brief instruction Augor wordlessly conveyed to them with his impulse unit.

Twenty minutes of navigating the interior of the massive Ark Mechanicum later, Augor and his guards arrived at an area of the ship that might have been considered unusual aboard any Voidship outside of the Mechanicum: The Extreme Range Deep Space Augur Manifold. A rare instance of a passive augur system tasked with the singularly challenging task of passively listening for distant places and objects of note, rather than most of the warfare-oriented active augur systems that screamed high-powered energy emissions in every direction to forcibly reveal everything nearby. The Manifold was colloquially referred to as 'The Lump' by the crew, as the device itself was little more than a solid block of exotic alloy with delicate interlaced relays, which acted as the primary receptor for the augur's passive scanning array. The Lump was larger than most Imperial Knights, suspended in the midst of a massive hangar dedicated solely to its maintenance and servicing. The crew charged with servicing it had been momentarily dismissed from the chamber to convene in a nearby shrine for an unscheduled devotional while their seneschal and overseeing Tech-Priest waited to address the Primarch personally.

It was a practice Augor had grown to prefer when it came to dealing with the Legion Serfs and Mechanicum personnel who crewed the ship. It was inefficient and time-intensive for them all to break from their tasks to offer distracting praise and worship to him wherever he went, but would have been improper decorum and upset most of them to insist on more subdued behavior. The obvious compromise being to clear the paths and chambers the Primarch moved through aboard the ship in advance of his arrival, usually in the form of the impromptu and unscheduled devotional, breakfast, inspection, and even the occasional outright early break.

Which still left their superiors to contend with.

"Glory and reverence unto you, hallowed and honored child of the Omnissiah. To be blessed by the unmatched joy of your presence in our humble shrine of knowledge is a most divine endowment beyond what we deserve-" The Tech-Priest, a junior Magos by the name of Mykidrios who had likely cursed their assignment to the augur manifold as a punishment in the first place, went on, bowing deeply and repeatly, raising and lowering their arms as they went. Besides them, the seneschal for the legion serfs who worked alongside the minor Tech-Priests within the section was prostrate on the floor, audibly chanting a semi-incoherent canticle to serve as a backdrop to the Magos' praise.

Augor entertained the lavish exultations of the Tech-Priest for nearly a minute and a half before identifying what was (probably) a full grammatical stop in their speech to raise a single hand in a placatory gesture and bring the Magos to a halt, even as the seneschal continued to chant aloud beside them.

"Magos, a new priority task for you and your staff has been divined." Augor began with a practiced, cultivated intonation acquired over a century of talking graciously down to people. "This matter is, in fact, to be listed amongst the greatest priorities your staff are to be entrusted with. It is of such import that I will be tasking a number of other Ark Mechanicums in other Macroclade Fleets to assist in the endeavor. I will hereby be charging you with not only overseeing this task, but with coordinating the Magos serving as your counterparts aboard these other vessels. You shall be their direct superior in this matter, and I will arrange for a new cogitator archive to be assigned to your staff for the purposes of facilitating this project."

The Magos' reaction was nothing short of rapturous, falling to their knees beside the seneschal and launching into a full-blown sermon of adulation vocalized entirely in the sharp, static hiss of Lingua-Technis. Augor carried on, gauging that the tech-priest was now sufficiently overwhelmed with adoration to feel any ire at being interrupted.

"The task is of a particularly sensitive nature, and as such I will be assigning additional permanent guards to your section. Members of the Prefecture Magisterium will also be making regular check-ins with you and your staff - this is not a punitive, and merely a precautionary measure due to the risks that will be entailed."

The Magos seemed to deflate at that, finally breaking off their sermonizing to stare blankly up at Augor. The seneschal had likewise stopped canting and was aiming a conflicted, confused expression up at the Primarch.

"Risks, most righteous champion?" The Magos inquired. "May I beseech you to impart upon this humble servant what sort of risks my staff and I might expect to encounter in performing this task?"

"None that you are not already aware of. The same variety of risks that come from monitoring warp storms and the furthest reaches of void regions beyond the light of the Astronomican." Augor offered in a conciliatory tone. "I have every confidence that your usual precautions and measures against the adverse effects of monitoring such realms will serve you ably in the performance of this task as well. Consider the additional security of an honorary nature, for rest assured, you and yours will be performing the work of the Omnissiah."

That endorsement caused the Magos to swell in confidence once more. "A most vaunted benefaction, oh beneficent Primarch! Pray tell, if it pleases you to say, what task do you require of us, and what other Arks shall I be coordinating with?"

"As to your second question, I am not certain offhand. I am not personally familiar with the specifications of every Ark Mechanicum within the Ordo Astranoma's Macroclade Fleets." Augor indicated with a genial wave. "Likely they will be whichever vessels possess manifolds or augur systems equivalent or similar to this one here. I have seen enough of them to know they are not as common as one would think. As to your first question," He gestured for the Magos and the seneschal to rise as he walked around them. "Come. I will be personally configuring signature parameters. You will be looking for geodesic perturbations coinciding with the presence of ambient exotic radiation..."

Several hours of discussion later, Augor left the manifold chamber and abruptly stopped in his tracks as he received a priority alert via vox. Communications had received a priority message directly from the Fearful Symmetry, the Ark Mechanicum of Archmagos Rarnet - the seniormost Tech-Priest presently within the Ullanor system short of Augor and Mercaerath. Though unexpectedly, the message was not from the Archmagos.

It was from none other than Usriel - the Primarch of the Nineteenth Legion.
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The mountain of cushions and blankets which Sekhmetara fell backward onto amounted to a welcome reprieve to the trials of the day. Much as she was hardly one to shy away from the spotlight, often the politics and grandeur of her role as one of the scions of the Emperor could be more taxing than the fires of war for which her gene-enhanced form was built for. Politics may have been in her soul but was burned within her blood. The teal of the two-piece silk shuka drifting about her in the artificial breeze of her private chambers. In a display which would surely be disrespectful from any other, the colouration of her private wear was a slight nod to her favoured sister’s title as the Emerald Priestess. She wasn’t quite aware if her double primarch visitors ‘had’ a change of clothes for private matters, but she had set aside the time and space for them to do so regardless. Failing that, perhaps one of few individuals in the galaxy who could even loosely claim to have ‘something in their size’ was the host and so something could be salvaged.

“Enkosi, Enkosi, hamba.” Sekhmetara waved off the attendants which immediately flocked to the edge of her divan, leaving behind the decanters of Mithran wine laced with the Fenrisian herb introduced to her by the Emperor to enable even Primarchs to experience the benefits of wine. Mithran cuisine, known for both sweetness and fire, presented itself in the form of various side plates. Her people were well known for feasting, albeit with many smaller plates as opposed to the set courses common in other human cultures from across the Imperium. As her sisters arrived, Sekmetara sucked the full flesh of a Mithran date from the pip around it, motioning with her golden glass of wine from her reclined place to the two. “Sit, drink, eat, we are utterly alone, for once.”

Though the ornamentation within the Ultus-Solis was nothing new to Nelchitl, she always found herself strangely at odds with the design choices of her sister. To use such a mighty machine of war as a Gloriana for hosting the delegations of long-lost branches of humanity made sense. To awe the rediscovered worlds with the wonder and immense power of the Imperium’s manufacturing and the ability for war could set the tone before the first delegates had even landed in its vast hangar bays. But the interior had always been of such lavish decoration and opulent finish that it had always appeared as more of a luxury pleasure barge suited to the likes of nobility. Though, Nelchitl couldn’t lie to herself and say that the ship's extravagance was uncalled for, only that she disagreed with it.

She took another goblet of wine from a waiting attendant and waved him off with a hand. The server sliding quietly away as Nelchitl changed into one of the many outfits that had been laid out for her by Sekhmetara. She chafed at the sight of herself in the overly large mirror adorning one wall of the room, the blood red dress that she had chosen looking and feeling out of place on her as she longed to be back in her armor. With a single gulp of her goblet she was done with the wine and moving to meet her sisters.

Entering the chamber Nelchitl made a quick path to the assorted food and drink that had been laid out for them, and with little more than a smile to Sekhmetara finished another glass of wine before picking up a plate of assorted meats.

“Count yourself blessed, as I only wear such things for your amusement, nothing else Sister.” she said as she too fell into the myriad cushions and pillows of the room, “If any of your favorite little Remembrancers take a picture of me in this… Well.” she didn’t finish the thought as she took another long drink from her glass, “This does not suit a Scion of the Emperor.” she finished sorely as she attempted to shift to a more comfortable position in the dress.

Daena fiddled awkwardly with the clasp of her outfit as she prepared herself to greet her sisters, the woman slowly but surely lowering the mental walls she had erected around her true self. Far from finding her surroundings distasteful, she embraced the ostentatious decor as an anchor for her roiling mind. In truth, she had prior expectations to fall back upon for a private retreat with her only peers - perhaps the only individuals in the galaxy she both wanted to and could be herself with. But the charming diplomat gliding among the retreats of the powerful? That was close enough of a role to at least get her through the door. As far as after that, well, she’d play it by ear.

Steadying herself in the way that humans do, a category that she ruefully considered she still technically counted as, the Primarch finally placed the clasp of her voidblack gown in place. The dress was rarely worn, typically only on those happy occasions when newly rediscovered worlds voluntarily joined the Imperium. Its clasp was of pure silver, fashioned in the shape of the Imperial Eagle with her father’s lightning bolt clasped in one talon and a garland of laurels in the other. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she remembered her father’s tailor taking the commission as a personal challenge, designing the outfit from scratch to accommodate her wings.

Drawing one last breath to steady herself, she entered her sister’s lounge, ignoring the few servants that she had to pass in order to reach it from the dressing room. Gliding into the room, Daena let her smile grow - a far warmer and calmer expression than the one she wore earlier in the day. “I think it fits you splendidly, little sister,” the Angel teased, continuing towards Sekhmetara and joining her on the small mountain of pillows. “I hope I did not overdo my introduction?” she asked, irisless eyes gazing up at the Mithran woman, this time making no attempt to hide the undercurrent of anxiety that had clouded her thoughts since her display in the hangar.

“We have a saying on Mithra, a trap with no bait is no trap, but bait without a trap is just a gift.” Sekhmetara shifted slightly to lean upon her side, slightly raised up from her sister she smiled kindly to her. “Those that will not be won by honeyed words might still be won through fear, and if neither of those work, we can always throw Nelchitl at them.” She finished with a moment of levity, her eyes moving with mischief gleaming across them to regard her other sister, tilting her head just a little as she regarded her.

“You’d be surprised how dangerous a picture of a woman in a pretty dress can be, maybe I should sacrifice a remembrancer to enshrine this particular vision perpetually.” Her tone remained light with a teasing, if not unkind, tone. One hand moved languidly to her lips as she lifted the goblet of wine to her lips, savouring the taste and the previously unknown shifting of sensation that came with the touch of the altered alcohol. As swiftly as the Primach would notice a threat in battle, the taller of the primarch sister’s noticed her winged sibling’s lack of drink, and her other hand was quickly stretching to lift a spare from the low-table before her throne of cushioned padding. The wine was pressed to Daena’s hands with a laziness that belied a secret forcefulness. “It will help whatever storm brews behind those perfect eyes, dear sister.”

Nelchitl turned to regard Daena as she entered the room, the Scion of the Doomsayers a far better fit for a dress than she herself could ever be. She gave Daena a vexed look as she brought the cup of wine to her lips, “I am not little.” she huffed, her tone betraying the fact that the Emerald Priestess had taken the words of her sister quite literally, “But thank you.” she yielded to Daena’s compliment before turning her full attention to the honied words of her favored sister.

“I would prefer not to have to kill one of your cherished pictographers, but if you insist.” she smirked at Sekhmetara as she took another drink of wine. With a turn she faced her whole reclined body toward Daena, the silk of her dress shifting quietly around her as she did, “Drink, for these are blessed times Sister, and tell us what troubles you so. Perhaps, though I know I’m not the wisest among the Emperor’s children, we may be of some help to you.”

“I could always take the pict myself,” Daena teased, before looking down at the drink being pressed into her grip with a clear hesitance. To willingly have less control of herself than the already uncomfortable state she was in without psychic barriers was like being asked to strip naked when she was already unarmored. But, after looking into the eyes of her sisters, she relented.

A silence spreads between the three as she holds the wine in hand, Nelchitl’s unanswered statement the only thing on the Angel’s mind even as she stared into the cup. Her wings fluttered down close around her body as indecision wracked her mind, the massive woman eventually giving a sigh of defeat. “I saw your deaths,” she whispered, immediately drinking a heavy draw from the Fenrisian enhanced brew as if to drown the words she had spoken.

Nelchitl paused as she drank, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly as she lowered the wine from her lips. A tense moment of silence passed between the three before the Emerald Priestess abruptly rose from the cushions arrayed about her. Her dress flowed about her form, both beautiful and terrifying as she came to her full height, the light of the chamber catching the fine thread work of the gown and seeming to radiate a soft red glow about the Primarch. She brought a leg up onto the table before them, knocking over a small tray of delicacies and a pitcher of wine as she did. Raising her glass to the sky she smiled upon the troubled form of Daena, “Each of them more glorious than the next I’m sure Sister!” she beamed, “To give our lives in service of the Emperor and his vision…” she swayed where she stood, her eyes watering slightly as she looked down upon her sisters, her precious emeralds.

“Glory to the first to die!” she proclaimed haughtily as she pumped the wine glass further into the air, spilling wine over her fingers as she did.

The warmth of Sekhmetara’s eyes remained on Daena even as Nelchitl responded with the martial bravado which so defined the ‘youngest’ of the sisters in some amount of concern, but mostly with the dangerous curiosity of a huntress. Her sister’s words were as much an opportunity as they were a warning as she considered the consequences of such. Was her fellow primarch prophetic as part of the esoteric gifts of their bloodline, or was she simply mad? Perhaps both.

Finally as Nelchitl exclaimed her toast, the Mithran primarch turned her gaze to her treasured sister, a smile crossing her features as she rose from her languid recline amongst the cushions of her divan, lifting her own goblet of wine.

“Glory Unending, and the promise that we shall all meet again amidst the Light Eternal.” Since compliance the old Mithran term for the realm of enlightened souls, said to become the forge of the stars themselves, had developed to relate to the guiding hand of the Emperor in all things. Officially it was a secular term for the power of reason the Imperium represented. In more whispered tones, it spoke to the Mithran doubt that one such as the Emperor could be considered anything other than divine, with his treasured daughter but a step from the cusp of godhood. “Besides, only I can challenge Nelchitl for martial ability, and I have little reason to kill her, beyond wasting my wine and food.” Sekhmetara added in a teasing tone, drinking a further gulp of wine after their finished toast.

Daena forced herself to look up at Nelchitl as she spoke, but the smile did not reach her eyes. It was far from the pristine formalism of an emissary of state, the oracle quietly enduring the agony of being awkward. The wine, at least, helped.There had been no substance on Irkalla that could inebriate her semi-divine form, and a part of her could not help but enjoy the experience. But it was far from enough to overcome the unease of her visions, and of her ‘younger’ sister’s inadvertently recreating them.

With a defeated sigh she swiftly drained her glass before tossing it aside, the angelic woman slumping down on the mound of pillows. “I wish I could say all your deaths were glorious,” she began slowly, raising a hand towards the slowly spreading pool of wine Nelchitl had spilled. “I will do my best to explain.” The wine slowly began to lift off the ground, forming a thin strand, one of its ends splitting into many. Almost as an afterthought, Daena’s discarded glass floated up to join the display, the stem marking the barrier between the single strand and the many.

“What was is a simple enough of a question,” she said, lazily gesturing towards the single strand. “What will be is far less so,” she continued, inclining her head towards the many ragged strands. “Each of these possibilities could occur, but only one will,” she whispered, the wine glass sliding onwards, wine dropping to the floor once more as only one was chosen. “My own gift concerns endings, and of course not all fates are equal. A man conscripted into the Auxilia may one day be installed as a Governor and die at a great age in his palace. But it is far more likely that he will perish in battle. Most men have simple lives, simple fates, and simple deaths - some preventable, others not. But you, my sisters, do not. I cannot tell which of your fates will befall you, I cannot dismiss the ones which will not win you glory. And that frightens me,” she finally said, her detour into lecture and explanation finally ending with the frank admission, punctuated by the sound of the river of wine falling daintily into her hovering glass.

Nelchitl, still standing with a leg upon the table laughed, a hearty thing, full of amusement and bravado as Daena seemed to shrink within herself. She didn’t mean to offend her dear sister, but her words were simply too easy for the Primarch of the XVII to dismiss.

“And how many of my deaths have you prophesied thus far? Yet here I still stand before you both!” she tossed her goblet clear across the room as her sanguine rose within her and scooped the pitcher of wine from the table that was meant to refill the trios goblets. With a grin she drank amply from the pitcher, draining it’s contents in a few easy gulps. “Your prophecies are not set in stone sister, you yourself know this best!” she insisted as she wiped the wine from her lips, “Those deaths that lack glory I will simply defeat as they show themselves.” Nelchitl finished earnestly as she threw the empty pitcher to rest with the goblet from moments earlier.

She turned away from the pitcher as it clattered to the floor and looked upon her sisters, eyes glistening with pride, “I am no ordinary man…” she motioned to Daena and Sekhmetera after a moment of thought, “We aren’t even men.” she nodded thoughtfully, “We lead no ordinary lives, this we all know for truth. We are the chosen of the Emperor, Scions of the Master of Mankind!” she crossed her arms over her chest as she smiled down on Daena, hope and belief in their undertaking and in Him radiating from every ounce of her being, “He has entrusted us with his greatest undertaking! There can be no death lacking glory awaiting us! We shall shatter your visions and dance upon their shards! Of this I am certain,” she pressed her hands to her chest in the sign of the aquila, “The Emperor protects.”

Sekhmetara laughed in a manner full of infectious joy at her sister’s display, without a hint of a mocking tone, mirroring her salute moments after the empty pitcher clattered to the ground. “The Emperor protects, and he has no greater champion than Nelchitl of Ixhun.” Sekhmetara’s laugh ended with a bold and bright smile, her bare feet gliding across the soft rugs laid out across the chamber as she traced her way back to the private entrance to the trio’s chamber of escape from the wider galaxy, slipping only partially through the dividing curtain with a polite but brief request of “More wine,” to the awaiting servant, hovering so as to never overhear the Primarchs within, but at hand should they be required. The Mithran primarch did not wait to see her order fulfilled, instead pacing back into the room, the soft silk of her emerald garment flowing across her smooth skin.

“How do those wonderful feathers of yours handle being wet my dear sister?” Sekhmetara asked as she drew closer, even as the servants arrived with more flagons of wine, one immediately refilling Sekhmetara’s glass as it dangled from her right hand, while the rest was simply positioned back on the table before the mortal humans withdrew. She did not reveal the cause for her question, instead moving to refill her sister’s drinks themselves, quite pointedly handing Nelchitl another goblet as opposed to the whole pitcher of wine.

Color returned to Daena’s face at her sister’s bravado, the Oracle heartened by the belief that Nelchitl spoke true. Fate could be defied, that much she knew better than most, and none could face greater challenges than Nelchitl. She hoped. So strongly did she hope that without even recognizing Sekhmetara’s question she stood from the cushions and threw her arms around her ‘younger’ sister, reenacting their embrace in the hangar bay but without any of the pomp or formality.

A niggling part of her mind informed her that there was a question yet unanswered, the fact asserting control of her thoughts at the same instant she opened her mouth to speak to Nelchitl. Deciding that was as good an excuse as any to prevent her wine dulled mind from further embarrassing herself, she slowly shut it. Sheepishly, she turned her head towards her ‘elder’ sister, embarrassment soon replaced by confusion. “Well enough, I suppose. I retain the ability to fly even in the heaviest of storms, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she replied, completely oblivious as to Sekhmetara’s true objective.

Nelchitl smiled wide as Sekhmetara praised her. Being recognized as His greatest champion was intoxicating, exhilarating. Her hearts began to pump faster as the weight of the words processed through her superhuman mind and her breathing became shallow and clipped. Her mind swam with the possibilities of others thinking so highly of her. Of her daughters and nieces, brothers and sisters, of the common folk of the Imperium, but no one individual resounded as strongly in her mind as did the possibility that He thought so highly of her. “You spoil me sister, though I am inclined to agree of course.” she beamed, the smile spreading to her eyes as she spoke.

Before she could continue she found herself wrapped in the embrace of Daena, the sudden show of affection catching her mind slightly off guard as she pulled herself out of the reverie that Sekhmetara had caused her. She brought her arms up and wrapped them fully around her sister, the delicate threads of Daena’s dress a strange sensation when compared to the power armor Nelchitl was so used to interacting with her in. She brought herself to look at her older sister as she appeared about to speak, but found only a timid look of embarrassment in place of the ironclad surety that Daena so often wore on her perfect features.

Nelchit, still embracing her sister, turned to Sekhmetara with confusion on her face as the oddity of the question came to finally process through her mind, dulled as it was by the wine and overwhelming emotions from just earlier. “I hesitate to see how this has anything to do with me being the finest champion the Emperor has ever known.” she stated with a laugh before gently untangling herself from Daena’s embrace.

“Oh very little.” Sekhmetara admitted with a grin only slightly concealed by her raised goblet of wine, the hazel of her eyes flecked with gold as her mischief blazed through for a moment, the tallest of the female primarchs allowing her fingers to drift to her own hip as she paced closer to a panel on the wall, hidden among the various drapes and curtains decorating the chamber. There was a brief chime of affirmation as one outstretched finger from her wine hand pressed down.

The transformation of the room was not particularly rapid, but it was dramatic, the smooth stone of the flooring beginning to retract away, steam immediately rising in gouts from beneath as the central portion of the lounge retracted away to reveal the contents beneath. Scented water bubbled, but without the fierce nature to suggest truly harmful temperatures. As the stone slid away to near to Sekhmetara’s feet, on the very edge of the revealed pool, the slotting stone folded into the shape of stairs, leading down into the churning water. With a coy smile, Sekhmetara took the first step, allowing the water to swirl over her ankles, she increased her descent.

“Bring the wine.”

Nelchitl watched with confusion as the room transformed before them. She stood for a moment watching her sister as she entered the water, “I don’t think this dress is suited for such activities. My body glove is back in the dressing area, I’d prefer not to ruin this fine piece if it can be avoided.” she stated hesitantly as she stopped just shy of jumping into the pool. Gazing into the churning waters, the want to simply enter the waters nearly threatened to overpower her consideration for the dress she had been loaned by her sister.

“I must say sister, this is perhaps the politest way anyone has ever told me my tendency to lecture is boring,” Daena replied dryly, looking down into the pool with a wistful expression that soon morphed into a smile. “Praise to you, O mighty Sekhmetara, befuddler of prophets and blinder of oracles, defier of fate,” she said in teasing praise, raising her glass towards her sister. “None of my seers forewarned me of this.”
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The XVIIth Legion
Alercona Bluffs, Delos Hive Outerlimits - Praxia


Though tradition called for the ascension of Neophytes to take place on the highest point available, Nelchitl had taken her own personal liberties this time around. She relinquished that perhaps her sisters’ flair for the dramatic had swayed her decision as she took in the vista before her from the altar at which she stood.

Directly in front of the altar stood two hundred and thirty-seven Neophytes, replacements all of them, were arranged in the form of one of the great Serpents of Ixhun, jaw agape as if to strike. They were clad in the armor of fully-fledged Astartes, though they wore no helmets and possessed no markings to denote company or position. She gazed upon them each in turn as she stood at the raised dais and watched as pride and admiration swelled in their faces at the personal recognition from their Scion. Directly to her right, arranged in neat formation sat an identical number of Astartes helmets. The helmets themselves were separated by color, with cyan the standard color of all the rank-and-file within the Serpents making up the majority of those helmets arranged before her. As she moved her eyes over the helmets she frowned as she picked out a group of some twenty white helmets marked by the office of the Apothecarium. As she moved to the final helmets in the formation she stopped on the two that stood separate to their peers, a pair of completely white helmets, the sign of a Serpent veteran standing silent command over the rest of the helmets arranged behind them.

She smiled as she recalled the intense argument that had taken place between her Company Commanders over which of the Neophytes had truly earned such an honor on Praxia as to be inducted into the First Company at their ascension ceremony. Though she had always planned to differ to the judgment of her First and Second Captains, Nelchitl had gained a good amount of enjoyment from her commanders' exasperation at their Scions seeming inability to decide on the most deserving Neophytes.

The wind shifted atop the Alercona Bluffs, a cold wind pushing in from the East prompted the Primarchs gaze to shift to the view behind her. Delos Hive lay in the distance, vast swathes of the urban sprawl lay in ruin, pillars of smoke still streaming high into the atmosphere, and uncontrolled fires consuming entire districts even as the war came to its close. That this, the cost of their rebellion, was the last thing that these traitors would see before they gave themselves to the Emperor in repentance was something of poetry in motion. Nelchitl wondered if she should have invited her sisters if only so they could witness the theatrics she had managed here.

Turning to face the line of traitors before the altar Nelchitl moved quietly to its stone edifice, running her fingers along its rough-hewn surface at a deliberate pace. Her fingers brushed over the ritual blade that had been laid out at the center of the altar and curled around it. Raising it toward the city she began a slow chant of devotion to the sun, a simple prayer of her homeworld, meant to signal the rising of the light and the outset of a new day. As she spoke in hushed tones, rays of light began to spring forth from beyond its skyline. With the final words of the prayer, the Praxian sun crested the city's outline, casting it in long shadows where the light met the mile-high pillars of smoke and washing large portions of the rest of the city in the warm glow of sunlight.

She turned to the first traitor in line, the man's face racked with terror as he stared upon Nelchitl. “Come.” she spoke softly, barely audible to those around her and yet the man stepped forward, the Primarchs words an irresistible command to the mere mortal.

With a single hand, she grabbed the man by his neck lifting the traitor from his feet, his eyes wandered past Nelchitl’s form as she raised him up no doubt to take in the view of Delos Hive bathed in the light of the very being he had betrayed.

With a slow reverence, the Emerald Priestess brought the ritual dagger up, silently slipping it under the man's ribs with little more than a surprised gasp as reaction. Warmblood ran down the blade and onto Nelchitl’s arm, quickly turning her bare chest and the only item of clothing she wore, a traditional off-white cueitl of Ixhun’s Priesthood of the Sun, a deep red.

With a twist of the blade, the Emerald Priestess opened the traitor's chest wide before dropping him onto the altar. Leaving the blade lodged in the man she reached both hands into the pooling blood within him. She looked upon her daughters as her hands remained immersed in the fading life of the man before her and locked eyes with the first Neophyte among their ranks. With little more than a nod, the Neophyte stepped confidently to the altar, dropping to a knee before her Primarch. The Neophyte raised her eyes to look directly into her Scion’s, and with calm piety, she spoke.

“Let the Sun rise upon this day my Lord.”

“He smiles upon it.” the Emerald Priestess responded as she gazed lovingly across her assembled daughters, each of their faces bathed in the warmth of the sun from behind her shoulder.

“By your command, I stand your servant.” the Neophyte continued with a hint of apprehension in her words. The Emerald Priestess felt affection rise in her chest as she looked upon the Neophyte in understanding her anxiety at being first among her peers.

The Emerald Priestess nodded and the Neophyte rose slowly to her full height.

“By my command, you rise His servant.” the Emerald Priestess paused as she took the heart of the traitor from within him and held it out for the Neophyte before her, “You rise Astartes.” she intoned privately, only loud enough for the daughter before her.

Without hesitation Sister Yaretzi took the heart from the Emerald Priestess and began to devour it. At the same time, Nelchitl stepped slowly around her daughter, her hands dripping in gore as she painted the company numbers and position markings on Yaretzi’s armor as her daughter ate. Giving the markings a once over and satisfied with the job, Nelchitl stepped back to her original position and gave a nod to her daughter.

The Serpent stepped away and toward the formation of helmets stopping at the head of the formation. Nelchitl watched with a smile as her daughter knelt down and picked up a white helmet and sealed it to her armor, taking the place of the helmet in at the head of the arranged formation.

She turned once more to the Neophytes and the line of traitors before her, “Come.” she repeated.

Hidden 3 yrs ago 3 yrs ago Post by Serpentine88
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Nimue Arcada and the VII

in

The Campaigns of the Suppression of the Intcom



“Ah, the sound of music. Do you know what this piece is?” Nimue asked. She sat in a lavishly plush maroon chair, sitting on a decorated wooden table of moderate size and excessive decoration. While usually, in such a scenario she would be in proper, elegant attire fitting of High Tea - the current company were not those she usually would prefer. As such, she was clad in full Artificer Armour, with only her helmet removed - not that it mattered, her psychic aura glowed with such intensity that they likely could only see a golden, sparkling silhouette of her armoured form. Somehow, the chair survived the armour’s weight. The two men and a woman sitting with her, trembling ever so slightly before the golden, glowing giant of a woman, shook their heads. They did not recognise the classical-like melody of notes.

“Of course you would not, being the unwashed barbarians that you are. This is The Vigilitanzi, composed and orchestrated by my very own legion’s Bequa Kynska - a name you three certainly have never heard of unfortunately, but a truly gifted genius of the musical arts, she perhaps would have been Terra’s finest composer had I not poached her from the Operas”.

The three, still working up their wits and courage after their harrowing journey boarding The Primarch Nimue’s very own flagship, The Llamrei, as well as trying to cease their flinching at the golden light blaring next to them, stayed silent. Nimue, with little concern for her honoured guests' clear discomfort, continued to sip her Fygillian spiced Tea, its aromantic fragrance a favourite of hers. She glanced again at the three guests' own attire in mild disgust and abhorrent curiosity. What an alien ensemble it was… a streamlined coat of singular dark colours, plain white layer beneath...and what seemed to be a singular triangular tie of some sorts, not even a cravat! She had never seen anything like it in the Imperium.

Looking away from her guests faux pause, she, the guests, the various attendants, officers of the Imperial Navy and various Astartes of the Celestial Inheritors hovering around the palace-like viewing deck returned to watching through a great viewing window, at the world below them.

“Ah… Aetva” Nimue breathed.

“Aetvatia”. One of the three, a scornful man with balding brownish-grey hair and a large mustache said, trembling but so enraged that he spoke with some clarity, something almost like defiance.

“Ohoho, yes, yes” Nimue surprisingly shrugged this petty defiance off - something she had killed others for less. “Aetvatia”. She confirmed.

And just then, as she sipped again from her tea, a ‘boom’ was heard through the viewing deck, as another bright light shined on the planet's surface. A particularly sizable thermonuclear explosion, if it was a shell from one of the Imperial Fleet’s orbiting cannons or an ICBM fired by the defenders Deathstrike Launcher equivalents, Nimue could not immediately tell.

“Delightful!” Nimue cheered, in a tone that, honestly, should never be heard from a figure like a Primarch. To be frank however, the boom was in fact entirely artificial. Nimue simply found the absence of all sound in the void to be utterly ghastly.

“Come now, boy” she chastised her guests, particularly the one now looking away from the screen. “See for yourself”.

“For peace’s sake! Decency!” the looking-away man, an awfully thin, shrunken vultrish thing with… what almost seemed to be strange Mechanicus-like optical augments, but also clearly not, begged. “We are asking for a ceasefire! You accepted this meeting! Do you have no decency!?” his voice reached shrill, panicked notes, unseemly to Nimue’s ears and ruining the concert playing behind them.

“This is decency” Nimue said evenly, and, in contrast to her saccharine glee before, was now again direct and cold. “That you are here alive, aboard my vessel - in the presence of my esteemed self, is decency. That I did not execute you, let alone this clearly xenos woman with you for merely existing, decency. That I am even bothering to consider the civilian lives that may or may not be spared in this horrid campaign. Decency”. She said with a sneer.

“So sit. Eat one of the cakes and try the Fygillian Tea, the fragrance is quite exquisite”. Nimue finished.

And so, reluctantly, they did. The immense battle occurring before them continued without concern, every now and then orbital fire seared down from the imperial ships above onto the embattled surface where the Imperial Army and the VII Legion fought valiantly against this backwards world. It was quite peculiar, that they named their world Aetvatia and yet were known as the Intcomese, or Intcomians or some such.

The battle was nearing its end, of course, hence why Nimue was here listening to the pathetic whining of the world’s representatives - still, she was confident the Lady Commanders of the 2nd, 3rd and 5th Hosts (Chapters) could handle the assault of… what was it? The Dyach River? She was not particularly interested in the landmarks of this ugly world. For Engraila’s sake, their cities consisted of.. of… uniformly disgusting pillars of concrete smeared in nothing but glass! As horrid as it was, Nimue was glad that with the river’s defenders soon to be broken, the armoured columns of Baneblades and Fellblades would quite simply encircle the enemies stuck behind the river, and then roll into the planetary capital.

While they peacefully drank their tea and ate the cakes, the xeno women, an abomination if there ever was one, xeno females representing the diplomacy of a supposed ‘human’ world, looked up, straight into the blazing aura of light that would be where Nimue's eyes were. The xeno’s eyes were… Desperate, if Nimue had to guess. but they were stern. She did not even flinch or blink.

“Our terms. We will end the attempts to retake the separatist-occupied Tymo if-”

“Refused, of course”. Nimue interrupted, a bored reflex of utter disinterest.

“You didn't even hear the proposition. The Foreign Ministry of INT-COM is perfectly willing-”

“To repeat the same nonsensical request it has asked of me for the last twenty times. How many times must I repeat myself? I will accept only the unconditional surrender of the Intcomese”.

“INT-COM” the vulture-like man emphasized the term, before continuing “is only accepting the presumed casus belli of the… ‘The Emperor’s’... Earth Empire” the man said with confused bafflement.

“We and the rest of the Intercommunity recognise the right of Tymo’s right to self-determination, and while we implore them to reconsider their xenophobic reasoning, if they wish to join with the Earth Empire so desperately as to call on its armadas, then we must accept the decision of its citizens, even if it may lead to Kaos”. He continued.

“I, as a Primarch of Him on Terra, must then implore you to consider what I have said previously. This is not nearly enough. My mandate is to reforge the Human race’s undisputed mastership of the stars. I was perfectly willing to focus my attention on those ghastly Orks but you simply would not learn. your. lesson. I do not care for Tymo’s right to self-determination. It is madness and insanity that you allow things called ‘votes’ and ‘committees’.. And.. what was it, Holo-Celebs... some kind of Bureaucrat? To decide your foreign policy! Your people choose to wage war against my Astartes. The moment you fired that first plasma bolt, that first snubber round. You had forsaken your claim to a mere exchange of some rock.” Nimue was, to once again, repeat herself.

“I offer you the chance to provide complete and unconditional surrender, you will end all resistance and turn in your arms, and then you can save the lives of your ‘citizens’ you love so much”.

Somehow, the mention of one’s love of citizens however alighted something in the eyes… of not the two human men, but the xeno woman. Her alien, greenish-brown and spiney face arose, filled with newfound and sudden, yet inexplicable confidence - enough to slightly surprise Nimue.

“Yes, we do love our citizens deeply. Moreso than you could possibly know” She said. “I will offer different terms then. We will surrender and lay down our arms on the Dyach and the rest of Aetvatia so long as you permit any and all citizens of the Metrospheres Beta, Gamma and Delta free passage through a neutral, humanitarian corridor to the rest of INT-COM space”.

A slight giggle of laughter burst from Nimue momentarily. “Your xeno friends I assume?”

“Any and all citizens. We do not need to distinguish between free people as you do”.

The others in the room braced themselves. The naval officers and Astartes had once heard a very similar line from a certain hated foe of their Primarch, and so expected this to be the fated end of this vile creature and her treacherous human compatriots. The fated blow, however, did not come. Nimue seemed to be showing uniquely supreme patience. Instead, she simply sipped the last of her tea and nodded politely. Nimue's aura of light flickered ever so slightly, and then actually dimmed, not enough to show any of her features however.

“And why would I allow my enemy to extract their tanks and guns from the battlefield? Why would I allow my enemies’ soldiers to retreat to fight another day?”

“Your army may observe the corridor. No military hardware will leave Aetvatia. Our armies as you have seen are dominated by machines. The overwhelming majority of those who would pass this corridor would be civilians”. It seemed, against all odds, that Nimue was actually listening to this Xeno Diplomat’s reasoning.

“And what of your precious anonymous ‘benefactors’?” Nimue inquired. This time, it was the xeno’s turn to be surprised. A slight, if smug, smile broke across Nimue's face. It seemed they were under the premise that Nimue did not know that some third party were funnelling advanced technology and weaponry to the Intcomese. So far, the only thing that Nimue’s tech-priests could gather was that they were an awfully advanced xenos… supposedly of a centauroid-like frame that made great use of…. Abominable intelligence.

“There is no such thing”.

“If you lie again, I will kill you and every single ‘citizen’ in that Metrosphere of yours”. Nimue said directly. A heavy, pregnant pause followed, as the three INT-COM diplomats looked at each other. Nimue through this exchange of glances could confirm that the xeno woman was in fact their leader - perhaps even a high-ranking leader of that mysterious “Foreign Affairs” entity.

“They… they will have to accept the outcome of this agreement. They share our faith in reason, the struggles of all peoples against Kaos, even your people”. Nimue had no clue what this “Kaos” was, she assumed the xeno meant chaos, but the awkward pronunciation of the Low Gothic made it questionable. Still, she figured she understood the overarching idea. And even better, this parlay had confirmed one thing - The long-suspected third party did truly exist and was arming The Imperium of Man’s enemies with highly advanced weaponry.

Nimue wasn’t sure why. At that moment, as an act against the hated Xenos, she considered rejecting the agreement for no other reason than to see the determined, earnest face of the xeno collapse into despair… but she didn’t. Perhaps it was out of a feeling of victory from securing the existence of the “third party”. Perhaps it was a desire to hurry the end of this war so that she could join her siblings at the Council before Micholi forced her to kill him. Perhaps it was even guilt that she seriously considered murdering millions just to see a single Xeno suffer.

Nimue did not shake hands with the diplomats, a nod of heads was enough, and they were allowed, unmolested, to leave her flagship. The orbital drumming stopped and the music was silenced.

Nimue’s war with the INT-COM, the Xeno-lovers and whoever their mysterious benefactors were wasn’t over, merely postponed. A humanitarian reprieve, she was willing to give them.
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Hidden 3 yrs ago 3 yrs ago Post by Ezekiel
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Ezekiel

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Gloriana Class Battleship Ultus-Solis
High Orbit Anchor Over 20-63. Locally known as Praxia


The request had arrived quietly, a single serf dressed in the heraldry of the XVII catching Isabis Khafre in transition between her chambers and some unknown destination. With a simple bow he had offered her a piece of paper, marked by the wax seal of the station of the Seventeenth Primarch. He had waited until the adoptive sister of a Pimarch had finished reading its contents, a simple invitation to attend to the Emerald Priestess with all haste, though the obvious fact that it was a command more than an invitation didn’t need to be stated in words.

The serf had waited quietly as the famed Remembrancer had read the contents of the letter, and with a single hand had ushered her away down the corridor. Without a word, Isabis was led through her own Legion’s flagship, through pathways and chambers so ill-traveled that the two were likely the first mortal souls to use them in untold years. After some ten minutes of walking the Serf brought Isabis into an auxiliary loading bay, one of hundreds in a ship like that of the Ultus Solis. At the far end of the bay with engines idle sat a Serpent Stormbird with its maw open for loading.

Without hesitation, the Serpent’s Serf had led Isabis inside of the darkened troop bay, the first sign that anything was slightly wrong being the presence of two silent Astartes harnessed in at the far end.

With a quick hop from ship to ship, the Stormbird landed in a similarly nondescript hangar in the Serpent’s own flagship, Solstice’s End. Quietly Isabis had been led from the ship by the Serf once more, though this time he relinquished his place as guide when the two Astartes exited the craft and took up positions at either side of the mortal.

The two Astartes quite out of character for the daughters of Nelchitl remained quiet as they walked. Leading her on through the ship through a similarly strange number of vacant passageways and chambers before they exited through a pair of extravagant doors depicting the arrival of the Emperor on Ixhun and into a room equally as impressive. Frescos of the Emperor and Nelchitl in the heat of some obscure battle lined the ceiling, with extravagantly carved pillars of the Legion and its attachments honor rolls tallying endless names of the lost heroes of the Imperium and the 685th Expeditionary Fleet in immaculately small script held the ceiling aloft. In the center of the room, a table lay fully supplied with delicious meats and fruits of unknowable succor, as well as two wine glasses one clearly made for a human, and the other for a far larger individual.

“Wait here.” the two commanded as they exited back through the doors, leaving Isabis to her own devices in the finely furnished room.

Nearly an hour passed before a door, so finely cut into the ornamented wall as to be nearly indistinguishable from it, opened into the room. The Primarch of the XVII entering in her armor before it closed flushed behind her.

“Isabis, sister of my sister.” she greeted her with a smile, “I pray the travel was not too distressing.” she continued as she took up the glass of wine and took a drink. Thinking as she swirled the red liquid within, she looked over the sight of Isabis with a hint of pity for the woman, “Tell me Isabis, why do you think you are here?” she asked, the test in her words clear as she adjusted the weapons at her hip and took a seat in a chair obviously custom-built for her armored form.

There were few mortal individuals who had more experience than Isabis with the presence of the gene-scions of the Emperor, but even to her, their arrival was marked with the quickening of her pulse and the need to forcibly steady her nerves. She paused as she wrung her hands together, her breathing quivering as she beheld Nelchitl in full. Of all of Sekhmetara’s siblings she had met, few had the sense of physical danger that the Serpents’ primarch presented, and never had she encountered them in so private, so proximate, a setting. While she managed to hold herself steady in the presence of the demigod, she could not force herself to drink and eat, not yet. Thankfully, her mind did not betray her, nor her words, and after the brief pause she recovered enough to reply.

“Sire, I do have some idea.” She had long picked up on the Primarch’s favoured form of address and it slipped easily to her tongue. The memories came back to her of the ceremony on the summit. She perfected the art of slipping away from the Auxilia supposed to prevent remembrancers from wandering further than they were meant to many years before, assisted by the lack of desire to restrain a member of a primarch’s adopted family. She had beheld the sight in all its glory, marveled at the work of the divine Emperor’s child yet again, and the offerings they made in his name. Isabis knew her divine work, however, and even that which she found majestical could not be above being used for the betterment of humanity.

“You may fear that this knowledge might come to hurt your daughters, even yourself. If this were true, you would have my undying support in ending this threat in this moment.” Her breathing quivered even as she made the suggestion, while she meant the Primarch no harm, it was entirely another thing to vocalize the acceptance of one’s demise in the presence of the bloody handed presence of Nelchitl. “When I first beheld my sister, I knew she was not of mortal creation, only the divine could forge something akin to her. When I beheld the Emperor, beloved of all Mankind, I knew that I was right.” She breathed shakily, she had not confessed her thoughts so openly to a being of divinity in some time, the rush was as exhilarating as it was terrifying. “I know you see the same, I know you see it in your father, see it in my sister….And I, in turn, see it burn fiercely in you, Sire, as well...And never more than atop the mount of your victory.”

Nelchitl had allowed Isabis to speak, some part of her feeling compelled to listen, like a priest of old beside one’s deathbed she simply watched the mortal prattle on. She could practically hear the girl’s heartbeat thudding against her chest, taste the fear on her lips, though she relished the sensation there was no part of her that looked forward to what had to be done to her own sister’s kin.

As Isabis finished Nelchitl allowed herself to laugh. A mirthless thing, it slid from her lips as she reclined further into her throne. “The only one here with anything to fear is you, dear Isabis.” she said as placed the cup of wine down at her side, “My daughters and I will be fine. We shall endure, but you,” a section of the armor at her thigh hissed as some unseen mechanism worked, a small piece of the armor lifting away from itself as the handle of a blade made itself visible, “your fate remains uncertain,” she said as she lifted the dagger out of its place in her armor. With a flick of her wrist, the dagger cut through the air lodging itself into the table squarely in front of the Mithran.

“You mean to offer your life for my forgiveness? You mean to sacrifice yourself for me, in His name?” she stated as she remained in her seat, a look of disgust painting her face as an insidious smile graced her lips.

“No, I mean to say that were I any other, who does not understand what they saw, that I would advise in ending me.” It took a force of great will not to flinch at the sudden impact of the dagger, but next to the arrival of a Primach, the threat of physical violence was no great shock at all, instead she simply patted down the front of her gown, then looked into Nelchitl’s eyes once more.

“You are mistaken, though. You cannot kill me. You know that you cannot. Not that it is beyond your authority to do so, I am a mortal, you the child of his divine majesty. But that will not end Lady Sekhmetara’s grief, will not end her rage, and if you conceal it from her, she will know all the same. Her eyes are upon us.” Isabis unknowingly spoke the words which would one day carry from countless more lips as she steeled herself in the face of so brazenly speaking to a Primarch, a violent Primarch. Even as she thought it, she corrected herself. They were all violent, demigods forged for war in the greatest war there had ever been. “But we do not have to decide fates….I think this is an opportunity for comparison. I have spent the years studying the cultures of humanity and the works of our great Emperor….I think there are details, similarities, forged across the stars between worlds that have never met. I am forging the map that will show the way to the Emperor’s divinity….I would share it with you.”

Nelchitl’s head cocked slightly to the side as she stared into the mortal’s eyes, a small sense of respect budding for the woman as she managed to maintain a sense of composure even as she faced down a Primarch. Though of course she could, Nelchitl was more than aware that having been by Sekhmetara’s side for many years Isabis had certainly come to better understand the effects of being in a Primarchs presence. “You speak as though you understand Isabis....” she stood with blinding speed, the table that had once been between them twirling across the room as it was lifted in a flash before smashing to pieces against the far wall.

The Emerald Priestess leaned in close around the mortal, her arms on either side of Isabis trapping her in place as her overly sized head came to rest just inches from the mortals. The Emerald Priestess’ brown eyes a storm of anger and confusion as she spoke in a low growl, “What do you know of the Divine? You dare to imply that my Legion, that I disregard the writ of my own Father?”

Isabis closed her eyes at the sudden surge of motion, the only way she could stand her ground against the onrushing demigod was to deny at least one of her senses the ability to perceive them. It was enough, while she could not keep her breathing steady nor hide the quickening of her breathing even further, she avoided the natural urge to cower, instead eventually opening her eyes to match Nelchitl’s glare. In those eyes she only saw further confirmation of what she knew to be true. The broiling wrath of the divine forced into physical form. Even with her sense of utter danger, it still brought a single tear to her eye, awed by the beauty of a God’s creation.

“He thinks we are not ready. He was there for the Long Night, when humanity turned upon itself and erected countless false idols, false faiths, to cling to. He has seen the harm we have done to each other in the name of damned churches and heresies. That is why he must deny what he is, until we are ready to behold the truth.” She had not meant to set forth her dogma so readily, but once honesty had worked its way to her tongue she could not hold it back. Here, finally, was one of the Emperor’s children who she knew she could get to understand, who, in her own way, already understood. “This is why such things must remain hidden, why I am no threat that needs cutting away. I am a sister in belief, as much as I am a sister in bond to Sekhmetara and sister in blood to Kvasi. You know this too, and when the time is right, we will all bask in the new dawn of his light.”

Nelchitl felt disgust rising in her stomach as Isabis cowered before her, to close her eyes while she was being spoken to by one of the Emperor’s children was practically an insult to Him. Though what feelings she gathered at this affront were quietly dispelled as the Mithran once more spoke of her belief. The strange similarity to the Emerald Priestess’ own feelings on the matter not lost on the Primarch as she lifted herself away from the mortal, her features softening considerably as she backed away.

“It seems I was correct in bringing you here Isabis, though for a different reason than I had originally intended,” she admitted as she sat back down across from the woman. A smirk grew on her lips as she seemed to study the Mithran, genuine interest flashing across her face as she reran the words of Isabis in her mind.

“He is magnificent, is He not?” she asked quietly, almost a whisper as if avoiding the ears of some unseen enemy as her eyes turned to regard the fresco above them, “And though it pains me to have to keep such things from the wider breadth of humanity, it is His will that they remain ignorant.” she relinquished wistfully as the memory of her own censure came back to her.

"You are all magnificent. Each of his sons and daughters, a glimpse of the divinity that is him." Isabis breathed, her words barely less of a whisper than the Primach's, now holding her gaze in a combination of determination and awe. "We cannot fully comprehend the reasons for all that he does, for who can know the mind of a god? But still, his acts remain, but those of us who know the truth can still provide the worship that must one day spread across the stars. When we are all ready." The mortal woman's words lost any of the nervous shake as she moved fully into the flow of her faith, the charismatic force of her tone and personality returning to the celebrated remembrancer. She paused as she finished speaking, no longer due to a need to collect her thoughts, but instead heralding the change of her subject.

"I believe I know why he must hide as he does, behind reason and science. In all my efforts to find the Light of His Divinity, I have found….others. Beings who slumber in the great darkness and are made strong by heresy and suffering. He must protect us from them, and in doing so has sacrificed his own rightful place, to be recognised as divine." Memories flooded back to Isabis, of her time as a youth among the Silver Court of the Empire of the Scale, her education as a noble-priestess of the Serpent God. As fresh as the day it had happened, she remembered the presence in her mind, a constant reminder she was right. The memory sent a shudder through her, before she remained in the present once more.

"To be victorious, he will need his champions, his demigods, his children, most of all."

Bringing her eyes down from the fresco of the Emperor above them, Nelchitl lamented that even though it was of unquestioned beauty it held nothing to the form of her Father in the flesh. She listened quietly as Isabis spoke, of some other power lurking parallel to the Emperor Himself. Her interest piqued she leaned forward, the glint in her eyes one of curiosity rather than violence.

“There can be no others. Whatever these things are, some perfidious Xenos race so powerful as to be beyond understanding if I had to guess, they shall be purged as all before them. None can stand in the way of His plans, and that you say such beings exist is…” she shook her head slightly and laughed, “heresy to claim a false idol. Though can it really be heresy if we hold no sanctioned views in the first place?”

"I know not what they are, but traces of them are found across the galaxy, fostered among humanity throughout the Long Night. As much as humanity is not ready to know the truth of the Emperor’s being, the truth of them is hidden from us as well." Isabis spoke with earnest belief, mixed with a tone of desperate warning. She knew what she had felt long ago and had encountered countless examples of others feeling the same since. She knew not why the Emperor hid such from them. It was surely for good reason, but then it must also be his will for her to privately warn those she could.

There was another long pause in her words, before with another steadying breath, she removed a dataslate from her robes, holding it over to the Primarch. "I have been...trying to compose my thoughts, my findings, on the Emperor’s divinity. I have not shared this with any other. I would be honoured if you might read it, and see how our thoughts compare."

“I doubt these beings are anything to worry about Isabis,” she countered softly, “were they truly such a great threat, He would have told his children by now. How else could we face something as powerful as He?” she outwardly dismissed Isabis’ warning, though internally Nelchitl was rife with confusion as warring parts of her own mind went at each other over what was being said.

With a nod Nelchitl reached out and took the data slate from the mortal, her eyes skimming it’s contents even as she spoke once more, “I will look through it, offer corrections or my own views if it would suit you. Though I dare not say that I helped in penning it’s contents if you want my help. I cannot tempt the ire of Malcador again in this regard.” she finished bitterly as she continued scrolling through the words. Though she did not say it, she could see why Isabis was so lauded a Remembrancer as she read through what she had already written. Vast paragraphs of the Emperor’s wisdom were arrayed in such ways as to seem scripture. She smiled and kept reading, almost lamenting the speed at which she devoured the mortals' work.
Hidden 3 yrs ago 3 yrs ago Post by Serpentine88
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Serpentine88 Writer of Overly Long Character Sheets

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Nimue Arcada and the VII

in

The Campaigns of the Suppression of the Intcom II




Along the Dyach River


”FIRE!”


A shudder and hum, followed by cracks of lightning, and then a whoosh.

“Effect?” A stocky, broad man standing partially out of the a cappella of his tank said. He looked out with binoculars to try and confirm his own question, however at these ranges not even with its zoom functions could he see what his gunner could.

“It just… just fucking bounced off!” An outraged, though tired, voice shouted back.

A string of resigned groans followed from the rest of the crew.

“I predict only a likelihood of 14% at penetrating the upper glacis of our current target” an automated voice said in monotone deadpan “perhaps shooting at somewhere else on the target may be more effective” the voice continued, suddenly with a drip of sarcasm.

“Shut the fuck up QUTAM!” The driver of the tank shouted at the Artificial Intelligence built into the tank. “And what the fuck are those monstrosities! Why do they have two barrels? And why are they so fucking hard to kill!?” He ranted to himself, as the A.I continued to operate the autoloader for the tank’s electromagnetic railgun.

“INTCOM Command has designated this adversarial armoured unit an ‘Invader’ class super-heavy tank. It unknown however what the Earthling military refers to their armoured units as-”

“I said shut up!”.

“Affirmative, driver Eugene”.

“Keep the tank in reverse, keep to the trees if you can, Eugene. If that thing hits us we are all going to go up in flames”. The binocular-wielding man finally said. He had only not so long ago watched that very same tank obliterate seven other tanks of the very same kind he was currently commanding. “QUTAM, load APFSDS” he added.

“Aye aye, Commander”.

“Affirmative, Commander”.

The Intcom tank would usually fall back into its camouflage of light-distorting invisibility, however it only flickered ineffectively over the hexagonal-lattice armour of the XMT-15 MBT, an Earthling gunship of some sort having riddled the armour in so many holes the camouflage no longer functioned. Between the flickers of invisibility, the words “Last Out of Metrosphere Alpha” could be seen painted along the side of the tank.

While their tank rolled back, shots fired back and forth along the vast distances of the battle as fellow reversing XMT tanks fired at the advancing wedge of Earthling war machines. While their own tanks were sleek, clean and a mixture of sharp angles and curves… the Earthlings own tanks were bizarre bulky objects with rhombus-like frames and covered in far too many cannons to be reasonable or logical. Not to mention being painted in bright gaudy colours - including pink. Fucking pink.

And yet those stupid pink things were fucking slaughtering them. The commander placed his empty hand over his face in a long, terrible, soul crushing sigh of existential pain.

Looking again around him, he saw the shivering waves and mirage-like effects of an active cloak beside his own tank. He saw the corpses of both dead tanks and infantrymen, and the crashed remains of far too many aerial drones - some of those things were supposed to be state-of-the-art shipments from The Benefactors.

Another shot sped across the horizon, rocket-propelled charges in the shell only speeding it forward, straight into the shimmering distorted field of a nearby tank that had fired only moments before, a fellow tank crew. Instantly gone in an explosive flash.

“Enemy is utilizing a yet unknown form of rocket-propelled HEAT shell, based on the observed characteristics. The Upper-glacis armour of the XMT-15 of crew two hundred and seventy three was inadequate” QUTAM reacted to the inferno that was once a crew of friends.

The commander loved his tank. The XMT-15 “Benfrank Jeffeshington”, named after an ancient rebel leader of Earth, who led a coliseum slave-uprising of only 300 warriors against a million. But here, right now, his tank was woefully unmatched. It was looking like ol’Jeffeshinton is going to need a lot more than 300 warriors to win this battle…

Looking up even, the battle was no better. Air supremacy had been lost long ago, and the few drones and air-superiority fighters left were mostly there to distract the enemy’s air assets than to attack anything. It was barely enough to maintain this ‘orderly retreat’ from becoming a full on rout.

The commander watched as an INTCOM fighter trailed down to the earth, plumes of smoke and fire following it as three of the Earthling’s passed by its fall. He took hold of the pintle-mounted heavy stubber and fired in futility up at the enemy aircraft. The point defence turret beside him, operated by QUTAM turned with a whir, but did not fire. The A.I understood there was no point.

Their backwards, reversing retreat through underbrush, mounds of soil and the dead continued only until the commander saw a shell fly into an allied tank from behind.

“Enemy shell from behind! We’ve been flanked!” He and the A.I QUTAM in essence shouted simultaneously. Following their shout, comms flared up with the simultaneous shouts of alarm and panic of many hundreds, even thousands of fellow tank crews.

“Turn the tank around! The flankers are closer to us! Get us facing them, hurry!” The commander shouted, actually seeing one of the armoured beasts behind them, rushing forwards in what was clearly the front of a wider encirclement. It was like its two-barreled cousin, only instead with a single main barrel… and what was, ten - no eleven guns total. Fucking insane.

Eugene, an excellent driver, quickly spun the tank around from its reversing to facing the flanking super-heavy invader, with very little time available for the enemy to even see their tank’s side armour. The enemy tank was firing its eleven guns at multiple of their tanks at once, even penetrating two XMTs simultaneously. Predictably, their own exchanging fire resulted in little damage to the beast.

“Fire!” The commander shouted, and he watched as their electromagnetic kinetic APFSDS-shell flew into the enemy’s turret armour, only to ricochet wildly into a sharp angle upwards into the sky. Drawing too close now, that the enemy tank’s coaxial autocannon was now firing out towards their tanks charging towards it. The commander was forced down, closing the capella above him. The enemy tank’s bolters and lascannons were firing wildly around it, trying to find invisible tanks charging at it as well. It’s main cannon fired, annihilating a tank directly besides their own, its invisibility field also having failed long ago.

“Take its side! Rush it! Load HEATFS!” The commander shouted, seeing another shell they fired again bouncing off the beast of a tank.

The rushing INTCOM tanks, caring not for formation as the Earthling tanks encircled them, charged towards this one singular tank coming at them at visible eyesight distance. Autocannon rounds pinged over their own tanks armour, a lascannon bolt searing its hexagonal lattices.

“Just one” The commander murmured to himself. So many of their fellow comrades had died. The ruins of tanks littered everywhere they passed. It seemed to be a single tank versus perhaps dozens, and yet they were still losing.

“C’mon”.

“The target’s main cannon is rotating! Expected target is ourselves, advise maneuvering countermeasures!” QUTAM announced, mostly ignored by the crew.

“Just one” The Commander repeated. They didn’t hold out in Metrosphere Alpha for so long to die like this. Their tank was speeding ahead towards the side of the enemy’s own tank, speeding just ahead of its turret’s rotating barrel.

“I repeat, enemy turret rotating!” The A.I shouted, before overlapping its warning with another warning “Enemy aircraft strafing!”

Through the cameras within his tank, the commander could see what appeared to be the flying jetbike-things of the Earthlings with those psychotic supersoldier women riding them, wielding lances. The point-defence turret was now firing at them, QUTAM desperate to do something.

“Just one kill, c’mon!”

“At this speed, the enemy tank will fire upon us before we can reach the enemy’s side! Begin maneuvering countermeasures!”

“Come on. C’mon, just one. Just one!” They were not at the side, but rather the corner of the enemy tank. The enemy tank’s barrel was almost aligned with their own aiming towards each other.

“Fire!”

The gunner, headless of the A.I’s protests, fired, despite not having the side profile of the enemy tank. The commander closed his eyes.





He opened them. He was still alive, and his crew were cheering. Somehow, their shell penetrated, a fluke or miracle - maybe even a shot-trap in the armour. He did not care, he could only watch as a blaze of fire erupted outwards from the enemy tank’s turret, a pillar of fire burning as a signalling grave.

“No life-signs within enemy target, dramatic loss of power within! Engine Kill!” announced QUTAM, again stating the obvious.

Truthly, they were dead either way. On both sides now, advancing enemy tanks were emerging, the charging allied tanks really with nowhere to go. Those jetbikes were swooping down, the lances somehow penetrating their fellow tanks upper armour as if they were made of foil, and surges of crackling energy then detonating them from above. The Commander did not care, for he now could die happy knowing he had taken at least one with him. He opened up the cappella again, standing up half-out of the tank, smelling the air, listening to the screams of metal and explosions.

And… a roar.

A terrible, metallic roar. He turned, back towards the blazing enemy tank they had just gutted, an immense pillar of flames still shooting out of its top hatch. His eyes opened wide, his pupils pinpricks.

“Impossible...” it was not The Commander who said this, but QUTAM. He could only agree. It… it just wasn’t.

The machine, the roaring, metallic screeching machine, enraged… was still turning its barrel towards them. Its armour glowed. Glowed with hatred and anger, the righteous fury of so many millions of years.

“They’ve got an A.I too!” shouted Eugene, the only logical conclusion.

“Negative! No sign of activity within the former target!” The A.I responded, bursts of binary heard between its own outbursts.

“It has to be!”.

“Negative! No sign of activity! No power!”

“Then, someon-”.

“Negative! No life signs!”

The commander, eyes fixated on the roaring machine, its barrel turned towards their own tank. He could see eyes, glaring at him, looking into his soul. He was not a religious man, He did not believe in magic. At least not before that moment.

The roaring beast fired its cannon at them. It’s aim was not accurate - but it did not need to be. The force of the blast caused The Commander to be flung from his Cappella, hitting the ground. It was lucky too, for moments later his tank erupted into flames and debris.

The Commander looked up into the sky. He could not move, it was possible his legs or back or everything was broken. He blinked, and when he opened his eyes again a giant clad in armour was staring down at him. He knew it was one of those women, if only because of the ridiculous breastplate. She held a bolter in one hand, its barrel aiming down at his face.

“The Emperor’s Grace. Any last words?”

“Fuck you”. He said. He expected immediate execution then, but instead there was awkward inactivity, as the giant woman still stood there, gun aimed at him. There were crackles and chirps from the woman’s helmet, her face hidden behind the same sneering Astartes helm.

The woman then lowered her gun, and then raised her hand upwards, making gestures with her fingers to the other jetbikes flying around in his field of vision. All around the battlefield, the cannons ceased firing.

He would have placed his hands to his face again to sigh, but he wasn’t sure they were still there.

Last Out


“The Emperor’s Grace. Any last words?” Captain of the 2nd Host’s Seventh Company, Morgause Sangive, announced solemnly to the broken human below her. The human, who’s square-like and stubbled broad face was drawn in great pain, stared at her, having just been flung from his strange and likely xenos-infested tank.

She and her sisters had rode in on venerable steeds, Duskeagle Pattern jetbikes - VII customisations of the Adeptus Custodes own Dawneagles. Their Host Lady Commander, Lyx Devine, had once again decided to attempt one last encirclement at the Dyach before they reached the urban region known as ‘Metrosphere Beta’, and so they rode out to, from above, pierce, destroy or disable the ‘peasant rabbles toys’, as Lyx referred to the enemy’s armour.
Personally, Morgause had no ill will towards this man. Surely, their cooperation with xenos was abhorrent, and their lack of aristocratic grace improper - but she had just seen this man destroy a Baneblade, despite a vastly inferior steed being his own. If not for the Baneblade’s enraged machine-spirit, so outraged by its defeat against such an inferior foe, this man’s crew may have seen tomorrow’s dawn.

It was commendable. While she would be his executioner, she would pray for him and hope that whichever god watches over his people finds him worthy of a warrior’s paradise.

“I wish to have intercourse with you” said the man, in extremely broken, almost incomprehensible Low Gothic.

Morgause blinked. She was not expecting that. Certainly, her legion was known for its ability to draw out the baser instincts of others and general infatuation, but - ah. Thinking on it, it made far more sense that this was some form of miscommunication. Certainly, he must be suggesting that he wishes to join the Imperium of Man.

This brief hesitation, following the man’s sudden and inexplicable statement held her execution long enough for her vox to chime in.

“Company Seven, this is Host Command, speaking on behalf of Lady Commander Lyx Devine of the 2nd Host. You are to immediately cease all offensive operations and assume all targets are now designated as ‘enforceable’ rather than ‘extirpate’. A ceasefire has been declared on the condition of the enemy force’s surrender. Victory is ours, Hail Nimue!” The Vox finished, followed by further vox chatter of affirmations.

“Affirmative, Host Command” Morgause herself added.

She lowered her bolter, glad that she no longer had to execute the man. Awkwardly, the misunderstanding still on her mind, she stepped back from him. She raised her hand above her head and signalled to the VII Riders above to assemble. As she did so, their armour ceased fire, and it seems the Intcomese own armour had been given the same message from their command, as they too ceased fire.

Morgause had the man checked over by an apothecary from her company, the area around them and the burning Baneblade now a mustering area for the seventh company. Lines of jetbikes sat stationary, their knightly-maiden riders dismounted and idle, interceptor lances down - some, to her annoyance, were actually checking their steeds or armour for dirt or blemishes. At least they were not applying cosmetics in the middle of a battlefield, she thought. The fact that the number of incidents of this nature was greater than zero… Only in her Legion, she supposed.

With the waiting, finally the armour caught up with them. Baneblades, Fellblades, both of the VII and the IA regiments attached to them. Lighter tanks followed, numerous Wode-Pattern tanks, Vanquishers, IA Chimeras. Basilisks. VII Land-raiders and rhinos. Valkyries flew low above, over the desolate, smoke-plume covered landscape by the River Dyach. Enemy soldiers, now POWs, were being marched in lines with their hands on their heads, IA guards watching over them. There were Xenos too, mixed into the line. There had been at least one incident already, of a xeno being summarily executed even after the ceasefire, but otherwise the Xenos were acknowledged as part of the ceasefire as well.

If the Xenos survived their internment, of course, would be another question. The VII did not acknowledge the Edict of Tolerance. They would never join the Imperium of Man, as many of their human comrades likely will, eventually. She hoped even.

No Emperor




“For The Emperor!” a distant shout. Filled with rage and fanaticism, shouted by probably hundreds of Earthlings as they charged again for a freakin’ bayonet charge.

Fortunately, the distant part was the important part. They were not coming here. And sure enough, the drum of exchanged artillery from both sides soon drowned out the Earthling’s warcry.

Metrosphere Delta was still holding, but only just. The burning skyscrapers, the collapsed highways, the rubble of buildings spilling over into the streets. The holes in the roads, opening up the subways to see the las firefights below.

Ignoring the damn mushroom cloud in the distance. No one liked thinking about that part.

Genjkins, a mere pvt conscript, was not very happy he was here. He drew snake eyes at the front of the bunker, and they threw him into a truck rather than underground, and now they had him charging into nuclear clouds rather than hiding him away from them.

He was slouched against sandbags piled behind an apartment building’s bullet-punctured and las-burned wall. An anti-tank railgun, requiring three people to move it, was placed stationary on a rug in the room, pointing out of a large hole in the wall towards the streets below, in the event an enemy APC shows its side passing through. Old plas containers of foodstuffs littered the ground. Not even military rations, it was food they had scavenged from the local megamart. A bucket collected dripping water from holes in the roof above, a filter placed inside the bucket so they could drink safely.

Slowly, they heard steps coming up the stairwell. Genjkins and the other conscripts and volunteers turned to aim at the stairwell, only the hear the new sergeant bark up at them that it was only him. He didn’t like the new sergeant, he preferred Rau - but Rau got his skull crushed in by one of those giant women’s boots. His fucking brain matter flew for meters.

“Get your asses up you pieces of shit! Get up! We need you down stairs, the benefactor-shit needs people to hurl shit for him”

“Ughhh” was the general response of the conscripts.

“Get going! Go, go, go!

They all got up and started shuffling down the stairwell, except a couple who had to help translate to a few Freedom Battalion volunteer fighters who had no idea what the sergeant was saying… as well as the xeno who had no ears, mouth or eyes and only communicated through, well, he had no fucking idea.

They shuffled, still, they shuffled.

Passing different levels of the apartment building gave Genjkins insight into how things were going. The room below theirs was filled with corpses, only a jittering neurotic left maning a heavy stubber. The room below that was the food storage, which was empty.
Reaching the ground level, there were now about twenty men and women gathered in the building’s lobby, some xenos and even a child, carrying around what seemed to be a grenade launcher. Lucky kid, all he had was a auto-stubber. He doubted this thing could even penetrate the armour of ‘emperor’ shouters, let alone the armoured chicks.

Organised, as much as conscripts and volunteers… and child soldiers could be, the sergeant then had them all out of the building, ducking and weething through wreckage and cover, as they headed towards a nearby parking lot. They all ducked and crawled for half an hour when a burst of heavy stubber fire passed over them.

“For the emperor!” the heavy-stubber shouted.

“No emperor!” someone shouted back.

Eventually, they arrived at the carpark, a journey which would have probably taken less than five minutes had they not been in an active warzone. There, standing ominous, was a man in a strange white, one-piece tunic.

This was who their sergeant called ‘Benefactor-shit”. A nameless human man, covered in augments. He did not speak their language, only communicating through one of their xenos Freedom Battalion volunteers, whose origins were also unknown. He would also speak, in whispers of some undecipherable tongue, to a glowing assistant, an A.I, probably linked to his head. Benefactor-shit was where all their best equipment came from. If the Earthlings were invading them from some fucked up past, then this man was probably stepping out of a time-machine from the far future. He showed up with trucks and drones, delivering crates filled with… utterly bizarre weapons.

Crazy shit. Bows and crossbows that fired lascannon beams out of them. Some kind of weird throwing star-grenade. Once, they argued about what the hell to do with some kind of spear or javelin, until former-sergeant Raul just threw the thing at an enemy APC. The Javelin came to life in mid air, went through the APC with oil and blood trailing behind it, before going on to penetrate a second tank, whip up to hit one of the armoured chick’s jetbikes in mid-air, and finally exploded on a fourth vehicle’s turret. Genjkins felt stupid after that, as just before he complained about why they didn’t just give them more missiles.

But most of all, were the Centaur-frames. Huge, as large or even bigger than the armoured chicks the Earthlings used, wielding the same las-bows. He had actually watched once as Mr Benefactor-Shit actually disembarked out of one of the Centaurs, like it was powered armour that the Intcom marines used, though actually able to compete with the armoured chicks, as they were now evidently seeing.

On the ground, was a dead Earthling, one of the giant women. Beside her were at least a dozen corpses, and a shattered Centaur frame, half its frame blown off. Benefactor-shit, or The-Man-In-The-White as others preferred, was gesturing to them, and the sergeant quickly had them lifting and moving piles of old equipment into a single pile. Destroyed drones, spent batteries of strange design. They needed all twenty of them to struggle to move the half-missing Centaur into the pile. Damaged… and even still operating Las-Bows were thrown into the pile.

When they were done, the Man in White, Benefactor-shit. He raised his arm towards the pile, aiming some kind of signet-ring at the pile, and a bright golden light engulfed it, the pile evaporating into thin air. Genjkins then understood.

They were fucked. Benefactor-shit was destroying the evidence that he was here, or at least as much of it as he could. They went to work making another pile, and another. A truck arrived carrying more to be piled up and evaporated. Benefactor-shit also while this happened stood over the corpse of the Earthling super-chick, drones surrounding her corpse and scanning lasers and analysis schematics were appearing around her.

They ordered Genjkins to remove the helmet of the woman. They honestly expected some kind of brutish, bald woman… Genjkins instead saw what, honestly, he could only describe as a holo-supermodel, perfect features, large pouty lips, eyelashes, even makeup.

“You guys are seeing this too right? I’m not just hallucinating?” He asked, looking at her face. Hey, it’d been a long time.

“Yeah… yeah… we can see it too Genjkins” one responded.

“Well, I guess that explains the giant knockers then…”.

“What is this? Are we fighting giant supermodels from space?” Another shouted, with a ring of laughter. Genjkins could really only agree. This was like the plot of a bad pornographic holovid. A female conscript was groaning in annoyance, while a xeno was asking what the significance of the oversized mammary-shaped armour was.

While they laughed and groaned at the absurdity, Benefactor-shit was completely stoic, discussing with a xeno about whatever they discovered. Genjkins actually thought he recognised a word in Low Gothic, “seed”, but otherwise had no idea what they were saying.

All their activities, including Benefactor-shit, stopped then. They could all hear music, drifting through the city. It was the old public announcement hymn, before the Metrosphere’s government building got nuked. Where it was coming from, they had no idea.

“This is an announcement from the INTCOM High Command, representing the decisions of both Aetvatia and the Intercommunity. A ceasefire is now in effect across all theatres, INTCOM forces are to lay down their arms unless Imperial forces of the Imperium of Man do not cease fire. I repeat, a ceasefire is now in effect. Lay down your arms’.

The collected men and women were completely silent. On one hand, they were going to live. On the other - this was a surrender. The Battle for Metrosphere Delta was finally over. Benefactor-Shit, The Man in White, however, having completed his tasks… smiled.

“No emperor”.

The Man in White said in perfectly understandable words. And suddenly, his signet ring lit up and his entire body burst in bright golden light, within the light they could see the blackened skeleton of the man before it too was vaporized into ash, and then into nothingness.
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