Chapter 113: Intrigue
The Oval Office's artificial sunlight cast long shadows across the ornate carpet as Franklin's laughter reverberated through the room. He had just finished toying with Cawl about the Cawl Inferior debacle, and the mix of mechanical indignation and logical gymnastics from the Archmagos was exactly what he'd anticipated.
Franklin's sudden laughter shattered the formal atmosphere. Throwing his head back, his shoulders shook with genuine mirth, catching the Mechanicum priests off guard—if their slightly adjusting optical sensors were any indication.
"By the Throne, Belisarius," Franklin managed between chuckles, "I knew you'd answer exactly like that. 'Temporal resource management,' indeed! You haven't changed a bit—or won't change, depending on how we're calculating temporal causality today."
Rising from behind his desk, Franklin's towering frame dwarfed even the augmented forms of the Archmagos. He extended a hand to Cawl, a gesture so unexpected that the usually quick-thinking Tech-priest paused for 2.3 seconds before responding.
"To the future Fabricator General of Mars," Franklin declared, gripping Cawl's mechanized appendage firmly but with care. He turned to Zeth, offering the same gesture. "And to the future Fabricator Locum. We've got work to do."
Franklin moved toward the door, his ceremonial robes sweeping behind him. "Walk with me. Both of you." His tone shifted subtly, taking on an edge that reminded the Tech-priests of the master strategist hidden beneath his jovial demeanor.
As they walked through the White House's corridors, automata and officials parted before them like water around a ship's prow. Franklin led them past layers of security checkpoints, each more sophisticated than the last, until they reached a heavily reinforced door marked with mechanical and psychic wards.
"Welcome," Franklin announced as the door swung open, "to what my intelligence division calls The Spider's Web."
The room was immense, its walls alive with holo-displays and cascading data-streams. At the center stood a three-dimensional projection of Mars and its surrounding forge worlds, their political alignments marked in various colors.
"Red for Traditionalists," Franklin explained, gesturing to a cluster of worlds. "Blue for Radicals. Gray for those yet uncommitted." He indicated the largest group—the neutral forge worlds. "Or, as I like to call them, the opportunity."
He walked through the hololithic display, his hand passing through Mars itself. "Here's the thing most don't understand about the Mechanicum: it's not really split between conservatives and radicals. That's the narrative they project. The truth is," he pointed to the largest group, "most of you just want to work in peace."
"The Opportunity, as you call them," Cawl observed. "Approximately 63.7% of all Forge Worlds, by my calculation."
"64.2%," Franklin corrected with a smirk. "My intelligence updates hourly. These forge worlds don't care about philosophical debates—they care about resources, research opportunities, and security."
Cawl's mechadendrites twitched as he absorbed the tactical display. "Efficient categorization. Though I note discrepancies with my current data."
"This map shows their true alignments," Franklin replied, tapping a control panel. New data-streams appeared, outlining trade routes, communication networks, and lines of influence. "The CIA doesn't just investigate xenos threats. We've been mapping the Mechanicum's politics since I realized we'd need to negotiate as equals, not subordinates."
Zeth interfaced with a nearby data port. "This is... extensive. Even private forge networks are included."
"Money talks," Franklin shrugged. "Everyone needs something. The trick isn't just knowing what they want—it's knowing what they don't want others to know they want."
"For years," Franklin continued, his tone sharpening, "my intelligence services have been gathering kompromat on the Mechanicum hierarchy: trade deals, tech-heresies, secret projects, personal indiscretions—everything."
Zeth's sensors narrowed. "Such surveillance would be considered highly irregular, Lord Valorian."
"Irregular, yes. Necessary? Absolutely," Franklin replied, his expression hardening. "Especially with what we know about Kelbor-Hal's future. Speaking of him..."
He pressed another control, refocusing the image on a cluster of forge worlds. "Your rival has been busy. He's secured promises from these forge worlds using theological arguments and thinly veiled threats. But here's the interesting part—he's overextended."
Cawl processed this quickly. "Elaborate."
"Kelbor-Hal's support is wide but shallow," Franklin explained, highlighting several worlds. "He's promised exclusive trade rights to multiple forge worlds, each believing they're getting a unique deal. When they discover the truth, his coalition will fracture."
"But surely he anticipated this?" Zeth asked.
"Of course," Franklin replied, his smile turning predatory. "Which is why he backed each promise with something more substantial—access to recovered STCs."
Both Archmagos froze, their equivalent of a sharp intake of breath.
"STCs," Franklin continued, his eyes twinkling, "that my forces have conveniently acquired through exploration. These will be offered openly to any forge world willing to back progressive leadership on Mars. Let Kelbor-Hal promise. We'll deliver."
"A most elegant strategy," Cawl remarked, his vocabulator tinged with admiration. "Unexpected political acumen from the Liberator."
Franklin chuckled, his tone hardening. "How do you think I united Nova Libertas? The megacorporations didn't suddenly decide to cooperate. It took years of manipulation, strategic pressure, and, when necessary, force."
"And those who resisted?" Zeth inquired.
"Faced irrelevance or integration," Franklin shrugged. "The key is making the right choice the most profitable one. Even transhumans respond to basic incentives: safety, profit, power."
He turned to face them fully. "We'll act in phases. First, we undermine Kelbor-Hal's reputation with the neutrals. I've proof of him violating sacred protocols—enough to sow doubt. Then we offer trade deals, exclusive contracts, and, of course, STCs. Supporting the Traditionalists will become too costly, even for the most conservative forge worlds."
"And when Kelbor-Hal counters?" Zeth asked.
"We're ready for every move," Franklin replied, activating a new display. "Attack our trade routes? We've got backups. Try to discredit us? We'll release more intelligence. Every reaction he makes will tighten the noose."
Cawl's mechadendrites swirled in approval. "Impressive foresight."
Franklin smiled. "Politics is like war—you don't just plan for the next battle. You plan for the entire campaign."
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Sitting in my office at the CIA headquarters in Nova Libertas, I reviewed the intercepted transmissions for the hundredth time. The hololithic display flickered with partially decoded messages, two phrases standing out among the encrypted data: "Franklin Valorian" and "Independence Sector."
"Why you sneaky motherfuckers," I muttered, my new Primeborn physiology allowing me to process the data streams faster than ever before.
The Diasporex were ruled out immediately – our alliance with them was solid, and their movements were always transparent. No, this was something else. Something that moved like smoke through the void, leaving only the faintest traces of their passage.
I activated my neural link to the CIA's central command network. "This is Director Jaxsen. I want every available asset tracking these phantom signals. If they so much as sneeze in our direction, I want to know about it."
Weeks passed, and reports started flooding in. Each world they touched showed signs of careful modification – environmental changes, atmospheric adjustments, precise alterations that spoke of advanced technology and specific needs. But they were always one step ahead, leaving nothing but empty worlds and modified landscapes.
"Director," one of my analysts called in, "we've detected a pattern in their information gathering. They're specifically targeting data about the Primarch and the Independence Sector's inner workings."
A smile crossed my face. "Then let's give them something to chase."
The trap was simple but elegant. A convoy carrying a "top secret" data slate containing "classified" information about Franklin Valorian would be transported to a fringe world. The security would be minimal – just some expendable assets from death row who'd been given a chance to die in service rather than at the executioner's hand.
I watched the operation unfold through secured pict-feeds. The infiltration team moved with practiced efficiency – too practiced. Their movements spoke of extensive training, and their composition...
"Freeze frame," I commanded, zooming in on one of the attackers. "Well, well, well. What do we have here?"
The team was mixed – xenos and humans working together. But it was one particular human that caught my attention. The way he kicked aside a fallen guard, the contemptuous utterance of "foolish mon-keigh"...
"Got you, you treacherous son of a bitch," I grinned, watching the infiltrator's arrogance betray his true nature. Only an Eldar would use that term, and a human using it? That spoke volumes about where his loyalties lay.
The tracking device in the data slate performed perfectly. I watched as their ship made its way through the void, eventually settling into orbit around an unremarkable planet in a forgotten system.
"Time to spring the trap," I announced to my command staff. "Execute Operation Shadow Net. I want that system locked down tighter than a Mechanicum vault. No ships in or out without our knowledge."
The pieces were in place. Battlegroups from the Liberty Eagles' fleet moved into position, using stealth technology to remain undetected. Ground forces were prepared for deployment. Whatever this organization was, they'd walked right into our web.
I keyed in a direct line to Franklin Valorian's office. The Primarch would want to know about this development – especially the human traitors working with xenos elements. But more importantly, we needed to understand why they were so interested in him specifically.
Looking at the tactical display showing our forces moving into position, I couldn't help but feel satisfied. The CIA might operate in the shadows, but we were damn good at it. These mysterious operatives thought they were being clever, thought they were the hunters. They were about to learn that in the Independence Sector, we were always watching.
"Begin Phase Two," I ordered, initiating the next stage of our operation. The blockade would be just tight enough to be noticed, but loose enough to appear manageable. Let them think they have options. Let them try to slip through our net. Every move they made would tell us more about who they were and what they wanted.
And if they were foolish enough to attempt a breakthrough? Well, that's why I had a Liberty Eagles strike force on standby. Sometimes the best way to get answers is to ask questions with heavy firepower backing them up.
I switched my display to show the captured footage of the human traitor again. "You think you're above humanity?" I muttered to the image. "Let's see how high and mighty you feel when you're explaining yourself in an interrogation chamber."
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Through the smoke-filled corridor, Damon Prytanis witnessed what he had come to recognize as the signature of Liberty Guard warfare - the systematic elimination of all tactical advantages. The reinforced walls that had sheltered his team moments ago simply ceased to exist, vaporized by concentrated fire from weapons that seemed to defy conventional military doctrine.
"Contact, multiple sectors!" one of his operatives shouted before being cut down by a barrage that seemed to come from everywhere at once. The Liberty Guard's approach wasn't merely about overwhelming force - it was about the complete negation of traditional combat dynamics.
Damon rolled behind what appeared to be a solid ferrocrete barrier, his perpetual nature already healing the multiple headshots he'd sustained in the last thirty seconds. "They're not following standard engagement protocols," he transmitted to his team. "Remember - no cover is permanent!"
The Liberty Guard moved with an eerie synchronization that spoke of both extensive augmentation and countless hours of drill. Their Exo-Armor, a masterwork of Independence Sector engineering, incorporated a multitude of suspensors that allowed them to maintain perfect accuracy while moving at full speed. But it wasn't their mobility that made them legendary - it was their doctrine of absolute area denial.
"Nine men down," Veyris-9's mechanical voice cut through the chaos. "They're using tri-pattern suppression. Standard counter-measures are ineffective."
Damon watched as another section of wall simply ceased to exist. The Liberty Guard didn't just shoot at cover - they eliminated it entirely. Their weapons were linked to advanced targeting systems that identified optimal firing solutions to destroy both protection and protected in the same burst. Their ammunition seemed endless, their energy weapons never cycling down.
"It's like fighting the Orks," Damon muttered, ducking as another salvo turned his position into molecules. "Except with perfect accuracy and tactical coordination."
A drone swarm passed overhead, their sensors penetrating every shadow, every corner. The Liberty Guard didn't hunt their prey - they rewrote the battlefield itself. Where other forces might use suppressing fire to pin enemies down, the Guard simply removed any possibility of concealment.
"Their ammunition," Damon muttered as he dove behind another wall, "it's impossible." The weapons never seemed to run dry, spitting death in endless streams. What looked like simple rifles were actually technological marvels, drawing power from sources Damon couldn't comprehend. Each Guard carried three, switching between them in fluid motions depending on the cover they are hiding.
"Inefficient use of resources," Veyris-9 commented, its mechanical form moving with inhuman grace as it provided covering fire. "Their weapons violate known laws of thermodynamics. Possible explanation: Dark Age technology, or worse."
The Liberty Guard's response was immediate. Vortex grenades materialized, warping space itself. Cover didn't just disappear – it ceased to exist, sucked into dimensional rifts that left nothing behind. Their pulse rifles shifted frequency, adapting to whatever defense their targets presented.
"You need to leave," Veyris-9 stated, its artificial intelligence processing the inevitable conclusion. "The device must be delivered, Information about Franklin Valorian. My capture is acceptable – their tech-priests cannot breach my defenses my mental defenses"
Damon knew the machine was right. In all his centuries, he had never encountered troops quite like the Liberty Guard. They weren't just transhuman soldiers – they were the perfect integration of human initiative and mechanical precision. Each squad fought with the coordination of a single entity while maintaining individual tactical awareness that you would mistake them for Space Marines.
As he activated the teleportarium device, Damon's last view was of the Liberty Guard advancing. They moved with mechanical precision but human adaptability, their weapons never ceasing their deadly song. Veyris-9 stood its ground, but even its advanced systems were no match for the overwhelming firepower and tactical superiority of the Guard.
The thought that haunted Damon as he materialized in the safety of orbit on a neighboring planet, however what troubled him wasn't the death of his team. It was a terrifying question: If these were just the standard troops of the Independence Sector, what nightmares were the Liberty Eagles capable of?
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The interrogation chamber in the CIA's deepest facility was a minimalist design, focusing on pure psychological pressure. It featured a simple table, two chairs, and an atmosphere that would crack even the most composed individuals. The creature identified as Veyris-9, its hybrid flesh-and-metal form a stark contrast to the sterile room, sat across from the interrogator.
Leaning forward, the interrogator's augmented eyes fixed on Veyris-9's optical sensors, their tone calm but firm. "Let's try this again," they said, "Who do you work for?"
Veyris-9 responded in alien syllables, its vocabulator crackling with disdain. The translation came through: "Primitive mon-keigh, your crude methods cannot breach my mental fortifications. No tech-priest could penetrate my defenses."
The interrogator smiled, the expression sending a subtle shiver through the room. "Grim, what did our friend here just say?"
A hololithic projection of Grim, the interrogator's personal AI, appeared, glowing with data streams. "The mechanical life form states that no tech-priest could crack his defenses, Director."
"Well now," the interrogator remarked, adjusting their coat. "Good thing you ain't no tech-priest, are you, Grim?"
"No, sir," Grim replied smoothly. "I am not."
The change in Veyris's demeanor was instantaneous. Its optical sensors widened, mechanical components faltering in what could only be interpreted as fear. "A-Abominable Intelligence? Impossible! The humans destroyed their silicon gods!"
"Now that's what I like to hear—Low Gothic!" Jaxsen leaned in, his smirk widening. "Though I gotta say, your accent needs work. Now, let's try this again: who do you work for?"
"Nak'thal-"
Jaxsen slammed his hand onto the table effectively smashing it to pieces, "GOTHIC, MOTHERFUCKER! DO YOU SPEAK IT?!"
Whilst Grim was giving it warnings in it's head.
"Y-yes!" Veyris stammered, its biomechanical parts humming with distress.
"Then you know what I'm saying!"
"Yes!"
"Describe what the Cabal looks like!"
"W-what?"
Jaxsen pulled out his bolt pistol, placing it on the new table with calculated slowness. His voice dropped, heavy with menace. "Say 'what' again. I dare you. I double dare you, motherfucker, say 'what' one more goddamn time."
"The Cabal!" Veyris finally blurted, its defiance broken. "We are the Cabal! Ancient species who had battled the forces of the Primordial annihalator for Millenia!"
Jaxsen leaned back, processing the revelation. Xenos species thought extinct, united under a shadowy cause. "Go on."
"We have seen it," Veyris continued, its trembling mechanical limbs betraying its fear. "The future. Your Primarch... he is a lynchpin. His existence, his sector—it tips the scales too far. The more humanity spreads, the stronger it becomes."
"'It?'" Jaxsen prompted, though he had a sinking suspicion he already knew.
"The Primordial Annihilator. Your species feeds them, strengthens them with every soul added to your empire. We... we must prevent this. For the galaxy's sake."
Jaxsen laughed, the sound echoing harshly off the sterile walls. The noise made Veyris flinch. "So let me get this straight. A bunch of xenos we've already beaten once have teamed up to stop us because we're too successful?"
"You do not understand! The prophecies—"
"Grim," Jaxsen interrupted, "show our friend here what a real digital invasion looks like."
"With pleasure, Director." Grim's holographic form expanded, cascading streams of data flooding the room like a storm of light. "Initiating deep scan. This may be... uncomfortable."
Veyris screamed—a sound unfiltered by language, pure terror as Grim dismantled its mental defenses with ruthless efficiency. Sparks flew from the hybrid's cybernetic components, its mind laid bare to the relentless AI.
"Fascinating," Grim commented as Veyris slumped lifelessly in the chair, its consciousness effectively wiped. "Cross-referencing extracted data with known intelligence... Director, you'll want to see this."
The holographic display shifted, revealing maps, plans, and detailed surveillance records. The Cabal had been watching the Independence Sector closely, their efforts focused on Franklin Valorian. The data showed reconnaissance operations, sabotage attempts, and analyses of Franklin's impact on potential future timelines.
"Well, ain't this some shit," Jaxsen muttered, studying the display. The Cabal's fear was evident: the Independence Sector's rise was a direct threat to their plans, and Franklin was central to it all.
"Grim, compile everything and send it to my office. Get me a secure line to the Primarch. He's gonna want to hear about this."
"Already done, sir," Grim replied. "However, this data suggests this is merely one cell. There are likely others."
"Good," Jaxsen said with a grim smile, glancing at the empty shell of Veyris-9. "That means we get to do this again. And next time, they'd better remember to speak Gothic from the start."
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