Reality reasserted itself like a wave breaking upon a shore, bringing Franklin Valorian back to the present moment. He found himself grinning at the vision of his alternate self's final stand. "I ain't hear no bell," he repeated with evident satisfaction. "Truly peak me performance." He applauded shamelessly, clearly impressed with himself.
'Really?' Khaine's voice resonated in his mind, thick with irony. 'Just earlier you called me shameless for applauding my warshard when it gave you a proper challenge before you vanquished it. The pot calling the kettle black, I suppose?'
Franklin's smirk only widened at the god's observation. Around them, the battlefield was shifting, the Liberty Eagles are withdrawing with practiced precision. The God Emperor's presence had faded, time restored to its proper flow.
"The Emperor's gambit," Khaine mused, his tone contemplative. "Initiating the End Times to isolate the Golden Timeline. Cegorach would be absolutely delighted watching this particular performance unfold."
"When doesn't that clown love a good show?" Franklin muttered.
On the Deck of Sweet Liberty, the Continental High Command had assembled. Captain Steven Armstrong's massive frame dominated one corner, his augmented body humming with barely contained energy. Beside him, Captain Denzel Washington maintained his characteristic poise, even in full battle plate. Vladimir Mendelev, the Chief Librarian, stood slightly apart, his psychic hood casting strange shadows across his features, and Captain John Ezra maintaining his vigilant watch as usual. Henry Cavill, the man out of time, watched them all with the careful attention of one who had studied these legends in history books.
"Quite the coordination during the Chaos Gods' attempt to seize our forces," Armstrong remarked at Henry, his voice carrying its usual aggressive edge.
Denzel nodded, then made an observation that would spark an interesting discussion: "You know, we're like the Mournival in some ways. Both inner circles to our respective Primarchs, both comprising different character archetypes..."
Vladimir's scoff sliced through the air like a Siberian wind. "Eh, hardly worth mentioning."
Armstrong's laugh was a rumble of thunder. "The Mournival? Those 'advisors' of Horus?" His fingers sketched mocking quotation marks in the air. "Nothing but a façade."
"Bah!" Vladimir barked, his tone dripping with disdain. "Massive ego, hiding like coward under all that charisma." He tapped his temple, his psychic senses sharpening his words like a whetstone. "Horus surrounded himself with mirrors, not advisors. Fool admired his own reflection too much."
Henry leaned forward slightly, drinking in every word. The future he came from knew of the rivalries between Astartes legions, but this - this was premium tea, served scalding hot.
Denzel's expression shifted as understanding dawned. "I stand corrected, then. Although..." A slight smile touched his lips. "Being wrong now and then keeps us honest."
"The fundamental difference," he said, his tone a mix of dry humor and absolute conviction, "is that we do not waste time trying to be little shadows of Comrade Primarch. The Mournival? Bah, they are like cheap mirrors—each one bending and distorting, trying to reflect some piece of Horus. But us?" He gestured broadly, as if encompassing the entire Legion in a single sweep. "We are not copies. We are ourselves—tools sharpened by his hand, not pale reflections of his greatness. Our purpose is to fight, to win, and to bring glorious ruin to our enemies, not to play dress-up and pretend to be him."
He paused, a sardonic smile curling at the edge of his lips. "Let others waste time admiring themselves. We? We burn our enemies to ash and move on."
Henry did look, seeing them with fresh eyes. Armstrong, the extremist who'd sooner solve problems with his fists than words. Denzel, the disciplined warrior who sought peace first but would wage war with terrible efficiency when necessary. Vladimir, neutral and rough-edged, letting his actions speak louder than words. Henry himself, committed to peace but practical about its limitations, John Ezra too walked the line of neutrality.
"Don't forget Jaxsen," Armstrong added with a grin. "Man cusses like a Catachan Devil Hunter"
"Another extremist," Henry observed, "though different from you, Brother-Captain. You'll kick teeth in at the first opportunity. Jaxsen..."
"Ah, Jaxsen," Vladimir interrupted, gesturing dramatically with his hands. "He will mess with you in way that makes you question life choices. Why? Because he knows exactly when to strike and where to hit. Is like scalpel. Precision versus brute force."
Then, with a wry grin, he added, "But, of course, sometimes brute force works too. Depends on mood, da?"
"And most importantly," Denzel added, "we actually influence our Primarch's decisions. Franklin shares his thoughts, listens to our input..."
Armstrong's grin widened. "Though he does prefer his default approach."
As one, they all quoted their Primarch's favorite tactical philosophy: "'Anyway, I started blasting.'"
Laughter echoed across the command deck, the kind of genuine mirth that could only exist between brothers who had fought and bled together. They all knew their father well - his strengths, his quirks, his unshakeable determination.
"He'll listen," Denzel continued once the laughter subsided. "He'll even change his approach if the situation demands it. But..."
"But there will always be blasting," Vladimir interjected with dry humor. "Always blasting. Is only question of how much and which poor bastard gets it first."
"Liberty, comrades—it is not just word for us. It is lifeblood, da? It flows through every part of what we do, from mighty strategies of generals to small, glorious victories of humble squad. Without liberty, we are nothing. With it, we are unstoppable."
"Freedom to disagree," Armstrong said.
"Freedom to adapt," added Henry.
"Freedom to be ourselves," Denzel concluded.
The command deck fell silent for a moment as they watched their forces continue their disciplined withdrawal. Each of them knew that this was just another phase of the war, another step in the long dance of strategy and counter-strategy. But they also knew that they faced it together, not as sycophants or yes-men, but as brothers in the truest sense.
---------------------------
Segmentum Ultima,
The emergency klaxons screamed through the underground complex, their piercing wails echoing off gunmetal walls slick with condensation. Damon Prytanis felt something he hadn't experienced in centuries - genuine fear. Not the calculated concern of a professional assassin, but the primal terror of prey that knows it's cornered.
"The CIA," hissed G'reth, the mass of eyes and tentacles, operative beside him, its tentacles writhing in agitation. "Always the CIA. They're like a virus, spreading through every sector, every system."
"Shut up and move," Prytanis snapped, though his own heart hammered against his chest. The corridor ahead branched into three paths, and distant explosions sent tremors through the ferrocrete floor. The Liberty Guard were being thorough in their demolition work - no surprise there. The Independence Sector's forces never did anything by half measures.
Behind them, K'vax, their Slaugth infiltrator, oozed forward on its mass of writhing worm-flesh. "The eastern passage. My sensors detect fewer life signs-"
The creature's words cut off as another explosion rocked the facility, closer this time. Chunks of ceiling rained down, and emergency lumens flickered, casting strange shadows. The Cabal group - what remained of their once-mighty cell - pressed forward in desperate flight.
They'd lost three facilities in the Segmentum Obscurus last month alone. Two more in Tempestus the month before that. The CIA's systematic purge had pushed them back and back, forcing them into ever-smaller pockets of safety in Ultima Segmentum. And even here, in what should have been their most secure redoubt...
"Left!" Prytanis ordered, taking point as they reached the junction. The others followed - G'reth, K'vax, They rounded the corner at full sprint.
And stopped dead.
The corridor ahead stretched thirty meters before ending in a T-junction. But that wasn't what froze them in place. Halfway down the passage, beneath the flickering emergency lights, sat a single throne so out place. And on that throne Director Jaxsen, His massive frame, enhanced by the genetic modifications of a Primeborn, filled the throne with an easy confidence that bordered on arrogance. Liberty Eagles. Astartes flanking him stood perfectly still, their Exo- armor gleaming under the facility's harsh lighting.
"Well, well, well," Jaxsen drawled, his eyes fixing on Damon Prytanis. "If it ain't the most elusive piece of shit in human history." He remained seated, one leg crossed over the other, as casual as if he were at a social gathering rather than a high-stakes operation.
Prytanis and his group of xenos conspirators had frozen in place, caught between the advancing Liberty Guard behind them and the CIA Director ahead. The perpetual's face twisted with barely contained rage, his ancient features contorting as centuries of carefully maintained composure began to crack.
"How..." Prytanis started, his voice hoarse. "How did you find this place?"
Jaxsen smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Motherfucker, I've been in this game longer than you think. Your Cabal's got patterns – subtle ones, sure, but patterns nonetheless. You think you're the only ones who can play the long game?" He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "But let's talk about you, 'Damon.' That ain't even your real name, is it? That got lost somewhere between the nuclear fire of Iwo Jima and wherever the hell you slithered off to afterward."
Prytanis felt his enhanced muscles tensing, combat stims flooding his system. "You don't know anything," he growled, though the tremor in his voice betrayed his uncertainty.
"Oh, but I do." Jaxsen began walking forward, each step measured, unhurried. "I know about the brother you killed in Los Angeles. About Holiard in the Glass Temple. About Maser Hassan in the Spire Terrace - right before his Word of the Law speech, wasn't it? Real cute timing there." His smile was razor-sharp. "I know about Narthan Dume, the Tyrant of the Pan-Pacific Empire. I know every life you've taken across millennia of betrayal."
Damon's face hardened. "You think listing my accomplishments frightens me? Every death served the greater good. The Cabal understands what's coming better than-"
"The Cabal," Jaxsen spat the word, "understands exactly jack shit. You think you're the only ones with foresight? With technology? With understanding?" He gestured around them. "Look where all your understanding has got you. Driven from three Segmentum, your networks in shambles, your allies either dead or in hiding."
One of the xenos operatives, G'reth spoke up. "The Independence Sector cannot hope to stand against the forces we seek to prevent. Your interference only hastens humanity's doom."
Jaxsen's laugh was sharp and without humor. "Listen to me very carefully, you Xenos scum. You've fundamentally misunderstood what the Independence Sector is. We're not just another faction of the Imperium. We're not even just another human empire. We are humanity's insurance policy."
"Insurance policy?" Damon scoffed. "Against what?"
"Everything." Jaxsen's voice dropped lower, taking on an almost conspiratorial tone. "You want to know something funny? The only faction in this galaxy that could actually hold us in check right now is the Necrons. And those Motherfuckers are taking the longest nap in the history of the Galaxy"
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Damon's face. "You're bluffing."
"Am I?" Jaxsen smiled, and it wasn't a pleasant expression. "How do you think we found you? How do you think we've been systematically dismantling every Cabal operation across three Segmentum? Your organization has existed for millennia, hiding from powers far greater than us, yet we've forced you into this corner in less than a year "
"Technology can't solve everything," Damon insisted, though there was a note of desperation in his voice now. "The threats we face-"
"Are known to us," Jaxsen finished for him. "The difference is, we're actually doing something about them instead of playing shadow games and sacrificing good people for your twisted version of the greater good, hell Chaos has yet to even win against our Primarch"
As Damon's hand twitched toward a concealed weapon, Jaxsen's eyes narrowed, and his voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Don't even think about it. If you try to teleport out of here, I assure you'll be taking a dip in the Warp before you can blink."
"Impossible," Damon whispered, but the fear in his eyes suggested he felt the truth of it.
"The Independence Sector made it possible," Jaxsen stated flatly. "Just like we made it possible to track your kind across the galaxy. Just like we made it possible to identify Cabal operations through their quantum signatures. Just like we're making it possible to prepare humanity for what's coming without sacrificing our species' soul in the process."
"Jules, how many Cabal operations have we shut down this month?"
"Seventeen, sir," Navarro answered promptly. "This makes eighteen."
"And how many of their predictions about catastrophic consequences came true?"
"None, sir. Each elimination has actually resulted in improved stability in the targeted sectors."
Jaxsen spread his hands. "See? Your entire philosophy is based on a lie. You're not saving humanity; you're just making excuses for your own atrocities."
Damon's composure finally cracked. "You fool! You have no idea what forces you're playing with! The Cabal has seen-"
"The Cabal has seen what it wanted to see," Jaxsen interrupted. "And interpreted those visions in ways that justified its continued existence. But your time is over." He made a small gesture with his hand. "Capture the Perpetual, gun down the rest."
What followed was brief but violent. The Liberty Guard opened fire with surgical precision, their advanced weapons cutting down the xenos operatives before they could even reach their hidden weapons. Damon, despite his millennia of experience, found himself overwhelmed by the sheer speed and coordination of the attack. His perpetual's body, denied its usual advantages by overwhelming firepower, was eventually subdued.
------------------------
Kelbor Hal stood before the great crystalline cogitator array in his sanctum within Olympus Mons, his mechadendrites twitching with barely contained rage as data streams cascaded before him. Each stream carried another message of betrayal, another former ally turning their back on him. The forge master's metallic fingers clenched, servos whining in protest.
"Impossible," he whispered, his vox-enhanced voice crackling with static. "This cannot be happening."
The messages continued their relentless scroll:
From Forge World Metalica: "Your duplicity has been exposed, Hal. Our trading partnership is terminated."
From Ryza: "Did you think we wouldn't discover your deception? The same 'unique' plasma technology offered to three other worlds?"
From Graia: "Your credibility is destroyed. We stand with Archmagos Cawl."
His inner circle gathered in the shadowed chamber – Lukas Chrom, stance rigid with tension; Urtzi Malevolus, whose augmetic eyes whirred constantly as they processed the disaster unfolding before them; and Melgator, whose usual calculated calm seemed strained to breaking point.
"How?" Lukas Chrom's question cut through the humming silence. "How did they coordinate this? The timing is too perfect, too precise."
Melgator stepped forward, his crimson robes rustling. "The Radical faction has been more organized than we anticipated. They've been building to this moment, accumulating leverage, waiting to strike."
"But this Cawl," Hal spat the name like a corrupted data-packet, "where did he come from? His rise has been meteoric, his influence spreading like a virus through our networks." He turned to face his conspirators. "And now he dares to make a play for Olympus Mons itself?"
Urtzi Malevolus raised a mechadendrite in warning. "The parliament session approaches, and our support base erodes by the hour. Each forge world that abandons us strengthens his position."
The chamber's atmosphere grew heavier as a new data-burst illuminated the cogitator array. Kelbor Hal's optical sensors widened as he processed the information.
"STCs," he whispered. "Complete, functional STCs. Not fragments, not corrupted data-scraps, but complete templates." His voice rose to a screech. "He promises them STCs!"
The inner circle fell silent, processing the implications. Complete STCs were the holy grail of the Mechanicum, lost treasures of humanity's golden age. Their very existence was enough to shake the foundations of Martian politics.
Melgator's cognitive engines whirred as he calculated possibilities. "This is impossible. No one simply 'discovers' multiple complete STCs. The statistical probability—" He stopped mid-calculation, his augmetic eyes flickering. "Unless..."
"The Independence Sector," Kelbor Hal finished, his voice hollow. "The Eleventh and his domain." His mechadendrites coiled like angry serpents. "That upstart princeling and his pet forge worlds, thinking they can challenge Mars itself?"
Lukas Chrom's augmetic jaw clenched. "The sector's technological capabilities have always been... concerning. But this level of coordination, this precision of timing..."
"We've been outmaneuvered," Melgator stated flatly. "Cawl is their agent, he must be. The Radical faction, the Independence Sector, all moving as one against us."
Kelbor Hal turned back to the cogitator array, watching as more messages of denouncement poured in. Forge worlds he had cultivated for decades, alliances built on centuries of careful manipulation, all crumbling before him.
"The False Omnissiah's son moves against us," he growled. "Through this puppet Cawl, he seeks to control Mars itself."
"The parliament session," Urtzi Malevolus interjected. "We still have some support. If we can delay the vote, gather evidence of outside interference..."
"Evidence?" Hal's laugh was bitter, metallic. "While we search for proof, Cawl offers them STCs. Do you understand what this means? He's not just promising power or influence – he's offering them their deepest desires, their most sacred aspirations."
The chamber's shadows seemed to deepen as Hal's words sank in. Each member of the inner circle ran their own calculations, their own projections, and each reached the same devastating conclusion.
"Our position is untenable," Melgator finally stated. "The momentum has shifted. Even those forge worlds still nominally loyal to us will be tempted by the STCs. The parliamentary vote will—"
"Will see Cawl installed as Forge Master of Olympus Mons," Hal finished. "And from there, his ascension to Fabricator-General becomes almost certain." His optical sensors blazed with hatred. "The Eleventh's influence will reach into the very heart of Mars."
Lukas Chrom stepped forward. "Then we must take more... direct action. Before the parliament convenes. The Radical faction may have their STCs, but we have our own weapons, our own secrets."
"Yes," Hal whispered, his mechadendrites writhing with newfound purpose. "If they wish to change the rules of this game, then so shall we. The False Omnissiah and his son think they can control Mars through their puppet? Let them learn the true price of such presumption."
The inner circle drew closer, their shadows merging in the dim light of the sanctum. Above them, the cogitator array continued its relentless display of betrayal and shifting allegiances, but they no longer paid it any attention. Their focus had turned to darker calculations, to plans within plans.
"The parliament will not convene," Kelbor Hal declared. "Not as they expect. Let Cawl and his Radical allies come. Let them think their victory is assured. We shall show them that the true servants of the Machine God are not so easily displaced."
As his conspirators nodded in agreement, Hal's optical sensors fixed on a particular data stream – a message from the Independence Sector's border. His hatred crystallized into cold purpose. The Eleventh's interference would not go unanswered. Mars would remain true to the pure faith of the Machine God, whatever the cost.
---------------------------
In the secured depths of Magma City, Koriel Zeth's sanctum hummed with active void shields and datastream scramblers. The air crackled with electromagnetic interference designed to thwart any attempt at surveillance. Belisarius Cawl's towering form stood before a hololithic projection of Mars, his numerous mechadendrites weaving complex patterns as they interfaced with multiple data streams simultaneously.
"The numbers are clear," Cawl stated, his modulated voice carrying a note of satisfaction. "Olympus Mons is effectively secured. Hal's support structure is crumbling faster than even our most optimistic projections suggested."
Koriel Zeth studied the scrolling data with her augmented vision. "Your sudden appearance and meteoric rise has certainly caused the desired disruption, Cawl. Though I admit, even with foreknowledge, the speed of Hal's support structure collapse exceeds initial projections."
"Indeed." Cawl's mechanical chuckle reverberated through the chamber. "The human element remains delightfully unpredictable, even with advanced computational models. Hal's reaction to the exposed trade deals was 32.7% more volatile than anticipated. A fascinating deviation."
His mechadendrites reconfigured the hololithic display, showing a web of forge world allegiances. Red lines of support for Hal's faction dissolved and reformed as green connections to their coalition.
"The promise of complete STCs was a masterful touch," Zeth observed. "Though dangerous. Many will demand proof eventually."
"By which time the integration will be irreversible," Cawl replied, his optical sensors brightening with what might have been amusement. "The Liberator's calculations were quite precise on this point. We don't need to maintain the fiction indefinitely - merely long enough to achieve our objectives. And besides..." One of his mechadendrites produced a data-crystal that pulsed with authentic archeotech signatures. "Who says we're being entirely fictional?"
Zeth's augmetic eyes whirred as they focused on the crystal. "The Independence Sector actually provided...?"
"Enough STC's but in the Liberator's words, these are 'Outdated ones'. Enough to validate our claims, carefully curated to advance the integration process without disrupting the broader technological equilibrium. The Liberator understands the importance of maintaining certain... limitations." Cawl's head tilted slightly. "For now."
Moving to a secondary cogitation array, Zeth brought up the Phase Three projections. "The Traditionalists remain the key variable. Your analysis shows two primary branches?"
"Correct. The divergence centers on Kelbor Hal's psychological breaking point." Cawl's mechadendrites danced through the data, highlighting critical decision nodes. "If he chooses self-preservation, he'll attempt to go into hiding with his inner circle. A 43.2% probability. This would be optimal - allowing us to consolidate power while maintaining the appearance of legitimate transition."
"And the alternative?"
Cawl's optical sensors dimmed slightly. "A 56.8% probability that he chooses aggressive resistance. The models suggest he could maintain loyalty from approximately 23.8% of Mars' military assets, primarily drawing support from the more orthodox Traditionalist elements. Enough to trigger a significant armed conflict."
"The Schism scenario," Zeth nodded. "The Liberator anticipated this?"
"With remarkable precision. In fact..." Cawl interfaced directly with the cogitation array, bringing up a new set of projections. "He provided detailed response protocols for both scenarios. Note the positioning of Mechanicum assets already sympathetic to our cause. They've been systematically moved into strategic positions over the past solar months, under the guise of routine reassignments."
Zeth studied the deployment patterns with growing appreciation. "A web of containment, ready to be activated. And the Emperor permits this maneuvering?"
"The Liberator has convinced him that some degree of internal conflict is an acceptable cost for Mars' eventual full integration." Cawl's voice carried a note of genuine respect. "A fascinating example of human political calculus. The Emperor gains a more compliant Mechanicum, while maintaining plausible deniability regarding the process."
"And we gain the freedom to modernize the Mechanicum's philosophy," Zeth added. "Though I suspect your future knowledge gives you additional motivation,Cawl."
"The future is mutable, Koriel Zeth. Each calculation, each probability, shapes new potential outcomes." Cawl's mechadendrites gestured at the surrounding data streams. "What matters is that we understand the optimal path forward. The Mechanicum must evolve, must integrate, must innovate - or it will stagnate and decay. This is not theoretical. It is mathematical certainty."
"And Kelbor Hal?"
"Will make his choice soon. The probability engines suggest we'll know within 37 hours which branch we're following." Cawl's optical sensors brightened again. "I've already prepared response protocols for both scenarios. The beauty of the Liberator's strategy is that either path leads to our desired outcome. The only variable is the level of mechanical trauma required to achieve it."
Zeth allowed herself a rare moment of humor. "You almost sound like you prefer the Schism scenario, Belisarius"
"From a purely scientific perspective, it would provide fascinating data on mechanized civil conflict resolution." Cawl's voice carried that clinical amusement again. "But efficiency metrics favor the peaceful transition. We shall see which probability manifests."
"And afterward?"
"Afterward, we begin the real work. The integration of Mars with the broader Imperium, the synthesis of machine doctrine with human innovation. The future I've seen, Archmagos Koriel Zeth..." Cawl's mechadendrites weaved complex patterns in the air. "It can be improved upon. The variables can be optimized. The Liberator understands this. The Emperor permits it. We need only execute the calculations with appropriate precision."
The hololithic display shifted one final time, showing Mars transformed - a future where the red planet's technology and humanity's ambition had achieved a new synthesis. Whether that transformation would come through peaceful evolution or mechanized conflict remained to be calculated.
The crimson dust of Mars swirled around the spires of Olympus Mons as the parliament session approached. Within the vast chamber of the Forge Temple, thousands of mechadendrites swayed like metallic kelp in an digital ocean, their owners - the Archmagos representatives of countless forgeworlds - exchanging data-bursts and binharic whispers. The air was thick with incense from countless censers, their holy smoke designed to appease machine spirits and purify the recycled atmosphere.
Archmagos Koriel Zeth stood beside Belisarius Cawl, their augmented forms casting long shadows in the ruddy light filtering through the crystaline dome above. Their internal chronometers counted down to the moment that would change the face of Mars forever.
"The probability matrices favor us," Zeth transmitted via encrypted vox, her voice a carefully modulated whisper of static and code. "64.2% of the neutral forgeworlds are represented here today, and our preliminary calculations suggest 40% are already aligned with our cause."
Cawl's optical sensors whirred as they adjusted, focusing on the ancient throne of the Fabricator-General - empty now, but not for long. "Numbers are but one variable in this equation, Koriel. The human element remains... unpredictable."
The parliament chamber itself was a testament to the Mechanicum's grandeur - a perfect hemisphere carved from the living rock of Olympus Mons, with concentric rings of seats descending like the circles of an inverted crater. Each seat was a masterwork of engineering, featuring direct neural interfaces and holocast projectors that allowed the occupant to participate in the proceedings with maximum efficiency.
"Honored representatives of the Omnissiah's domains," Cawl began, his mechadendrites moving in precise, measured patterns that matched his words. "We stand at a crossroads. Before us lies a choice between stagnation and progression, between isolation and unity, between fear and understanding."
The assembled Tech-priests processed his words through countless cognitive engines, analyzing every nuance. Many had already made their decisions, their votes secured through careful negotiation and the promise of lost knowledge. But ceremony demanded their attention, and Cawl's presence commanded it.
"My achievements speak not of personal glory, but of potential realized," he continued. "The recovered STC patterns I have shared demonstrate but a fraction of what we might achieve together. Each forge world that has received these gifts has already begun to see increased production efficiency by an average of 47.3%."
A ripple of binary cant flowed through the chamber as Tech-priests communicated their approval. The STCs had been carefully chosen – each one valuable enough to secure loyalty, but not so powerful as to upset the balance of power between forge worlds.
"But this is merely the beginning," Cawl's voice grew stronger. "As Forge Master of Olympus Mons, I propose a new era of cooperation between our domains. No more shall we hide knowledge from each other, no more shall we play politics with the advancement of technology. The Omnissiah's gifts are meant for all who serve Him faithfully."
From her position among the senior Archmagos, Koriel Zeth watched the proceedings with careful attention. Their preparations had been meticulous, every detail calculated. The voting protocols were already being initialized, streams of data flowing through the ancient systems of the Amphitheatrum.
The voting began with the closest forge worlds to Mars. One by one, representatives signaled their choices through the noosphere, each vote recorded in unbreakable encryption. The pattern became clear almost immediately – Cawl's support was overwhelming.
APPROVE: ██████████████████████ 71.3%
REJECT: ███ 12.4%
ABSTAIN: ████ 16.3%
Victory was assured. The Radicals had won, and with them, the future of Mars would—
The final tallies were still being processed when the grand doors of the chamber burst open. Kelbor Hal strode in, his crimson robes billowing, surrounded by his inner circle. His mechanical voice crackled with barely contained rage.
"HERESY! This gathering is a mockery of our traditions! Belisarius Cawl is a puppet of outside forces, seeking to corrupt the pure doctrine of the Machine God!"
The chamber erupted in binary cant and mechanically enhanced voices. Cawl remained motionless at the podium, his optical sensors fixed on Hal.
"Curious," Cawl's voice cut through the chaos, "that you speak of heresy, Archmagos Hal." His mechadendrites activated a new hololithic display. "Perhaps we should examine the meaning of that word."
The projection filled the chamber – a recording of Hal in his private sanctum, surrounded by his inner circle. His voice, unmistakable, rang out: "The False Omnissiah and his lies... We shall show the Imperium that Mars bows to no one, least of all a fraudulent deity..."
Silence fell, broken only by the soft whirring of cooling fans and servo-motors. Hal's optical sensors flared with rage and disbelief.
"Impossible," he whispered. "How did you—"
"The Omnissiah's sight reaches far," Cawl replied calmly. "Your true beliefs are now known to all."
"Interesting words, Archmagos Hal," Cawl's voice cut through the silence. "Perhaps you'd care to explain to this assembly why you refer to our Emperor, the living vessel of the Omnissiah's will, as false?"
Hal's mechadendrites writhed in fury as he realized the depth of his predicament. His support base was crumbling, his credibility destroyed, and now he stood exposed as a heretic before the entire Parliament.
In that moment, Kelbor Hal made his choice. A choice that would write itself in fire across the face of Mars.
"Initiate Protocol Omega," he transmitted on a encrypted frequency. His Skitarii raised their weapons, and reality itself seemed to bend as teleportation fields enveloped them.
For three seconds, the chamber remained silent. Then all hell broke loose.
Emergency alerts screamed through Mars's noosphere. Orbital defense platforms suddenly turned their weapons planetward. Forge-temples sealed their blast doors. Ancient weapons, long dormant, hummed to life in hidden chambers.
In the Parliament chamber, Cawl's voice cut through the chaos: "All loyal forces, implement Protocol Omega. This is not an exercise."
Across Mars, prepared loyalist forces moved to secure critical infrastructure. But Hal had prepared as well. Sleeper agents activated, weapon caches were unsealed, and hidden armies of battle-automata emerged from secret forges.
In orbit, Kelbor Hal's Battlefleet moved into blocking positions, their ancient weapons arrays powering up. Hal's forces had effectively quarantined the Solar System, but carefully avoided any provocative moves toward Terra. This was to be a purely Martian civil war.
----------------------------
The command sanctum's air was thick with incense and binary cant, ancient cogitators humming their eternal hymns to the Omnissiah. Zagreus Kane's augmented form cast long shadows across monitoring stations displaying the escalating civil war. His mechadendrites coiled and uncoiled like serpents of brass and steel, betraying an agitation that his carefully modulated voice did not.
"Blood flows in the forges," Kane's voice resonated through augmetic enhancement, each word falling like a hammer strike. "Mars burns while her children wage war in her sacred halls. Explain yourselves, Archmagos Cawl, Archmagos Zeth."
Belisarius Cawl's towering frame stood unmoved, his own mechadendrites weaving patterns of calculated precision through the air. "The explanation, Fabricator Locum, echoed through the Parliamentarium mere hours ago. Or did your cognitive engines fail to process Kelbor Hal's heresy?"
"You were there, Kane," Koriel Zeth added, her tone modulated for perfect diplomatic resonance. "You witnessed his declaration of the Emperor as the 'False Omnissiah.' Such thoughts are cancer in the Mechanicum's body."
Kane's optical sensors flared. "I witnessed a carefully orchestrated performance. A political masterstroke that has plunged Mars into civil war. Do not pretend this is mere happenstance, Cawl. Your rise has been... unprecedented."
"As was Hal's fall," Cawl countered smoothly. "His ambitions for the position of Fabricator General were well known. That he would resort to violence when thwarted should surprise none who knew him. The mathematics of his character were always clear."
"Mathematics," Kane's laugh was harsh, mechanical. "You speak of calculations while forge-temples burn. While brother turns against brother in halls consecrated to the Omnissiah's wisdom. And now you stand here, master of Olympus Mons itself, positioned for the very role Hal coveted."
Zeth stepped forward, her own augmetics humming with barely contained energy. "Would you prefer Hal's vision, Fabricator Locum? A Mechanicum turned against the Imperium? Against the Omnissiah's chosen?"
"I prefer Mars whole," Kane's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "This conflict must remain internal. Terra must not be drawn in. And..." he paused, optical sensors fixing on both of them with laser intensity, "neither must other... interested parties."
The unspoken hung in the air between them like a sword - the Independence Sector's shadow over all these events. Cawl and Zeth exchanged microsecond bursts of data, acknowledging the warning's weight.
"The Radicals' connections are well known," Kane continued. "But this is Martian soil. Martian politics. Outside forces have no place here, regardless of their... technological gifts."
"Our focus is survival," Cawl responded carefully. "Hal's forces control the orbitals. Communications are cut. Even if we wished external intervention, it is currently impossible."
Kane's mechadendrites writhed with something approaching satisfaction. "Good. The Parliament will assist in defense, of course. Hal's madness leaves us little choice. But remember, Archmagos Cawl - your position at Olympus Mons, while impressive, is not yet Fabricator General."
"Of course, Fabricator Locum," Cawl bowed slightly, the gesture precise to the millisecond of appropriate deference. "Your authority in this crisis is unquestioned. We seek only to preserve Mars's future."
"As do we all," Kane's tone carried infinite layers of meaning. "I congratulate you on your appointment to Olympus Mons, Cawl. May your service honor its traditions. But know that until a new Fabricator General is chosen, my influence remains... significant."
"Logic dictates acknowledgment of hierarchical authority," Zeth interjected smoothly. "The Mechanicum's structure must be preserved, especially in times of crisis."
"Indeed," Kane's massive form turned toward the chamber's exit. "Remember that wisdom. Mars will survive this conflict, but its scars will run deep. Ensure your actions do not deepen them unnecessarily."
As the Fabricator Locum's footsteps echoed away, Cawl and Zeth stood in momentary silence, their cogitators processing the layers of threat and promise contained in the exchange.
"He knows more than he reveals," Zeth observed quietly.
"As do we all," Cawl responded, his mechadendrites resuming their fluid motion. "But his warning is logical. This conflict must maintain its proper form, even as its music changes. The gears of revolution turn best when properly aligned with tradition's teeth."
In the distance, the sounds of battle echoed through Mars's ancient halls, while above, Hal's blockade maintained its stranglehold on the red planet. The game continued, its players moving with precision across a board marked in blood and binary.
The future of Mars hung in the balance, watched over by eyes both mechanical and divine.
-----------------------
From the Master of Mankind's private sanctum in the Imperial Palace, Terra's sister planet burned like a second sun. The Emperor stood before a window that spanned the height of the chamber, His superhuman eyes discerning the microscopic flashes of weapon batteries and the precise geometries of ships locked in orbital combat. His presence filled the room with an almost tangible weight, golden light pooling around His feet like liquid divinity.
"So it begins."
Malcador the Sigillite approached, his ancient staff tapping a steady rhythm on the marble floor, a counterpoint to the silent symphony of destruction above Mars. Beside the Emperor's radiance, the First Lord of Terra appeared as a shadow, his cowled form absorbing the ambient light.
"Another of Franklin's... initiatives?" Malcador's tone carried a mixture of exasperation and grudging admiration. "Your son seems to have inherited your taste for grand designs, though his methods are uniquely his own."
"Franklin has been positioning his pieces for some time now." The Emperor's voice, deep and resonant, seemed to reverberate through the air itself. "This is not mere spectacle. It is transformation—violence as the catalyst for inevitability."
"I had envisioned a more gradual approach," the Emperor continued, golden eyes reflecting the light of distant carnage. "Centuries of careful integration, subtle manipulation, binding Mars to Terra through threads of logic and loyalty. Franklin..." He paused, and for the briefest moment, a smile touched His perfect features. "Franklin has seen fit to accelerate the process. Where I would weave, he forges."
Malcador leaned slightly on his staff, the faint crackle of energy betraying the boundless power within. "And yet you permit this? Such escalation risks destabilizing the very foundations of our alliance with the Mechanicum."
The Emperor's expression remained impassive. "The Mechanicum's independence was always a convenient fiction, one I allowed for a time. But fiction cannot be the foundation of empire. My son sees what must be done, as do I. Half-measures would only prolong the inevitable. Mars must be reforged, or it will fracture beyond repair."
"Cawl," Malcador said, his tone thoughtful. "The instrument of your son's vision. A fascinating paradox—a future's hand reshaping its own past."
"A weapon of knowledge," the Emperor said, His gaze never wavering from the hololithic displays now shimmering into existence. Tactical overlays illuminated the civil war raging across Mars. "Cawl provides clarity where time obscures. Franklin wields him as deftly as a master swordsman wields his blade. Every move calculated, every outcome anticipated."
The silence deepened, broken only by the faint hum of distant machinery and the occasional tremor of unseen energies. Through their heightened senses, they could almost hear the prayers of the tech-priests, the binary screams of ancient machines as Martian forges became battlegrounds.
"And what future does he craft?" Malcador's question hung in the air, rhetorical yet expectant.
"A Mars inseparably bound to Terra," the Emperor replied. "Not through conquest or coercion, but through necessity and transformation. The Mechanicum will emerge from this crucible as something greater—its fractures healed, its potential fully realized."
"And the cost?"
"Acceptable." The Emperor's tone hardened, a stark declaration. "The alternatives lead to ruin. I have seen the futures where Mars remains divided, Adeptus Mechanicus and the Dark Mechanicum. Those paths lead to collapse, to wars that bleed the Imperium dry. This..." He gestured to the chaos above Mars. "This is precision. This is inevitability."
Malcador inclined his head slightly, his ancient mind processing the layers of strategy at play. "Shall we intervene, then? Or do we continue to let Franklin's plan play itself out?"
"We watch." The Emperor's voice carried absolute certainty. "We let the operation proceed as planned. Franklin has positioned every piece with perfect precision. Battlefleet Solar holds the line, preventing outside interference while appearing to maintain Imperial authority. Cawl and his allies fight for survival, their desperation masking the true nature of their transformation. And Kelbor Hal..." A trace of dark amusement colored His words. "Hal plays his part perfectly, burning away the old order so the new may rise from its ashes."
"A masterstroke," Malcador mused, "to orchestrate chaos itself. A dangerous game, even for one so adept."
"Not chaos," the Emperor corrected, His tone measured and unyielding. "It is a grand design, one where each player follows the path dictated by their own nature, yet all converge toward a singular purpose. That is Franklin's true genius. He does not command with overt force or impose rigid control; instead, he aligns outcomes through subtle influence, shaping the natural inclinations of others to serve his vision. He understands that the most enduring results arise not from domination, but from enabling inevitability to unfold according to his design."
"Quite the puppeteer indeed," Malcador noted dryly, "for one who preaches liberty above all."
"The greatest freedom is the freedom to choose one's own chains," the Emperor replied. "
They stood in contemplative silence, watching as the gears of revolution turned exactly as planned. Somewhere in the void, Franklin's forces waited, ready to intervene at the perfect moment - not too soon to rob Mars of its agency, not too late to risk true catastrophe.
------------------------------
The strategium aboard the Sweet Liberty was a cathedral to warfare's art, its vast dome pierced by hololithic projections that transformed the chamber into a miniature galaxy. At its heart stood Franklin Valorian, the Liberator, his massive form casting long shadows across tactical displays showing Mars burning in the void. The red planet's suffering reflected in his eyes as he studied the spreading conflagration, watching forge-cities ignite like funeral pyres across its ancient surface.
Above them, the vessel's quantum cogitators hummed with crystalline precision, processing battle-data from a thousand sources. The Sweet Liberty's ten-thousand-kilometer bulk hung in the void at the door step of the Solar System.
Franklin's gaze swept across his gathered sons, each a legend in their own right, each carrying a piece of his vision for humanity's future. The perpetual Damon Prytanis in their holding cells below screamed secrets into the void, while Dr. Chen's laboratories echoed with the sound of progress.
"Was there another way?" Franklin's voice filled the chamber, not with volume but with weight. "Could we have achieved our aims without setting the forges of Mars ablaze?"
First Captain Denzel Washington stepped forward. His voice carried the measured tones of centuries of diplomatic experience.
"My lord, revolution need not always wear the face of violence. Yet Mars's transformation was inevitable - the only choice was whether to guide it or let it occur naturally, potentially with far greater bloodshed. We've chosen the surgeon's knife over the executioner's axe."
Second Captain Steven Armstrong's augmetic fist crashed against his chest plate, his face twisted in a fierce grin. "Guide it? We're purging the rot, lord! Every drop of blood shed today prevents oceans of it tomorrow. Kelbor Hal and his tech-heretics would have eventually turned Mars against the Imperium. Better to lance the boil now, under controlled conditions, than wait for it to burst!"
The chamber's temperature seemed to drop as Third Captain Henry Cavill spoke, his eyes carrying the weight of futures yet to come. "I've seen the alternatives, father. I've walked the timeline where we didn't act. If the Dropsite Massacre was Horus's opening move, The Schism of Mars is Kelbor Hal's. Billions die. Entire forge worlds fall to Chaos. What we do today..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "...this is mercy, compared to what could be."
John Ezra, his Secret Service regalia stark against his power armor, analyzed the tactical displays with professional detachment. "The numbers support our action, lord. Calculated risks, measured responses. We've contained the conflict to manageable parameters while achieving our strategic objectives. The human cost is... regrettable, but within acceptable margins."
Vladimir Mendelev's psychic hood crackled with restrained energy, arcs of blue lightning playing around its edges as the Chief Librarian stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Da, the warp, she is fickle mistress," he said, his voice deep and heavily accented, each word carrying a weight of ancient wisdom and vodka-soaked pragmatism. "I see currents of destiny, shifting, turning like great river under ice. What we do today, eh? This sends ripples through time, making futures twist and bend. But..." He paused, his eyes narrowing, staring into a void only he could see. "The alternatives? Bah. Is worse. Much worse. Like winter storm with no end."
Director Samuel L. Jaxsen's scarred face twisted into a predatory smile, his eyes glowing with fierce intensity. "With respect, lord, you're asking the wrong question. It's not about whether this was right - it's about whether we're willing to go far enough. The Cabal's perpetual gave us invaluable intelligence, but there are still threats out there. Mars is just the beginning. We need to be ready to do what's necessary, when it's necessary, without hesitation."
Franklin stood silent for a moment, the weight of their words settling over him like a mantle of iron. His gaze swept across his gathered sons, each one embodying the ideals he had cultivated in them. The glow of the hololithic displays painted his face in shifting shades of red and gold, a reflection of Mars burning in the void.
When he finally spoke, his voice carried the gravity of a leader who bore the weight of an entire galaxy on his shoulders.
"Your words reflect the wisdom I hoped to see in you. Each of you holds a piece of the truth, and together, you've shaped the answer I sought."
He gestured to the projections of Mars, the forges burning, the fractured lines of the Mechanicum splitting apart. "This… this was always going to happen. Whether by our hand or by theirs, the old order was doomed. Kelbor-Hal and his ilk could not abide a future where humanity held the reins of its destiny. Their gods are chains, their traditions a cage. We didn't create this conflict—we revealed it. We made it inevitable. And in doing so, we took control of it, and now we need only wait for the conclusion"
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