Kapitel 135: A Meeting of Cunning
The vast command bridge of the Sweet Liberty hummed with subdued energy as hololithic displays cast a pale blue glow across the gathered officers' faces. Primarch Franklin Valorian sat at the head of the ornate obsidian table, his massive frame dwarfing the command throne specifically constructed for his use. Before him, a series of detailed after-action reports scrolled through the air, each casualty figure adding weight to his already grim expression.
The losses were substantial: several million dead, with half the escort fleet reduced to twisted debris floating in the void. Each number represented not just a statistic, but sons and daughters of Liberty who would never return home. Franklin's fingers drummed against the table's surface, the sound echoing through the chamber like distant thunder.
"What have we learned from this operation?" his voice carried across the bridge, firm but tinged with the determination to prevent such losses in future engagements. Fleet Admiral Elena Koshka rose first. Despite the fatigue evident in her eyes, her voice remained steady as she began her analysis.
"My lord, the combat data reveals significant tactical oversights in our fleet composition when engaging Drukhari forces within the Webway," she began, gesturing to a hololithic display showing various ship formations. "Our reliance on capital ships – particularly battleships and battlecruisers – proved more detrimental than beneficial. Their superior batteries, while devastating in conventional void warfare, became liabilities against such agile opponents."
The display shifted, showing recordings of Dark Eldar raiders weaving between the massive Imperial vessels like fish through coral reefs. "The Drukhari's speed and maneuverability allowed them to exploit gaps in our formation that wouldn't exist with a more compact fleet structure. They turned our own size against us, using our larger vessels as cover while picking apart our escort ships."
Koshka manipulated the display, bringing up a proposed new fleet configuration. "I recommend a substantial shift in our approach when engaging these xenos in their own territory. Speed versus speed, closer-range engagements rather than long-range exchanges. We should increase our focus on cruiser and destroyer operations, supported by the Sweet Liberty as our primary carrier and command vessel."
Franklin nodded thoughtfully, studying the proposed formations. "Begin implementing these configurations for future operations. We'll need extensive drills to adapt our crews to these new tactics. What's the estimated timeframe for full implementation?"
"Three to four months for preliminary adaptation, sir. Full integration and crew familiarization would take approximately eight months."
As Koshka resumed her seat, Yamato Nakajima, Chief of Staff of the Air Force, stood next. His uniform bore the distinctive insignia of the Armored Core division, a relatively new addition to Liberty Eagles military.
"Sir, the Armored Core trials exceeded all expectations," Nakajima began, bringing up combat footage. Massive humanoid machines danced through the void, landing on enemy vessels to neutralize weapons and command centers.
"These units demonstrated remarkable effectiveness against enemy ships," Nakajima explained, showing an Armored Core tearing through a Drukhari vessel's hull. "While larger than conventional fighters, their performance surpasses torpedo attacks and bomber squadrons in key scenarios. Armored Cores working with fighters created devastating results."
Franklin leaned forward, clearly intrigued. "Show me the production requirements and timeline for mass implementation."
Nakajima quickly brought up the relevant data. "With our current industrial capacity, we could begin full-scale production within two months. The Pilots would have to be specially tailored from the Liberty Guard Template"
"Approved," Franklin declared. "Begin immediate production and establish a dedicated training program, contact Either Dr. Chen or Magos Biceps for the genetic Tailoring. I want regular progress reports on pilot certification rates."
Finally, General Marcus Graves of the Army rose to speak, his scarred face testament to decades of ground combat experience. "My lord, regarding ground operations against the Drukhari, our forces demonstrated overwhelming superiority in most engagements. The combination of Astartes and Liberty Guard proved particularly effective against Kabalite Warriors and other Haemonculi abberations" Graves activated a tactical display showing various ground battles. "Our losses were primarily concentrated around Mandrake attacks. These shadow-wielding assassins proved particularly troublesome, exploiting gaps in our detection systems to strike at command and control elements."
The display showed several instances where Mandrakes emerged from seemingly nowhere, causing chaos before disappearing again. "I recommend prioritizing research into counter-Mandrake detection and engagement systems. Our current auspex technology seems insufficient against their shadow-walking capabilities."
Franklin's expression darkened at the mention of the Mandrakes. "Agreed. I'll have our research divisions prioritize this immediately. In the meantime, what temporary countermeasures can we implement?"
"We've had some success with overlapping fields of fire and modified motion trackers," Graves replied. "It's not perfect, but it's reduced our vulnerability somewhat. The Techno-Seers have also developed some promising psychic detection methods, though they're still in the testing phase."
The Primarch absorbed all this information, his tactical mind already formulating adjustments to their military doctrine. "Very well. I want detailed implementation plans for all these recommendations within forty-eight hours. Elena, work with Yamato to integrate the new fleet compositions with Armored Core deployment patterns. Marcus, coordinate with the Techno-Seers to expedite those detection systems. We'll reconvene in one week to review progress."
As his officers began to rise, Franklin added one final thought. "The Drukhari are formidable opponents, but they've shown us our weaknesses. We'll adapt, we'll improve, and next time, we'll be better prepared. Remember, every casualty figure represents someone's child, parent, or sibling. We owe it to them to learn from this engagement."
The command staff nodded solemnly, each feeling the weight of responsibility on their shoulders. As they filed out to begin implementing their respective tasks, Franklin remained at the table, studying the casualty reports once more. The Liberty Eagles had always prided themselves on achieving victory with minimal losses. This operation had been a harsh reminder that being relaxed and underestimating opponents could result in tragic costs.
------------------------------
The Vintage Chamber aboard the Sweet Liberty carried an atmosphere far removed from the stern military efficiency that dominated the rest of the massive vessel. Rich mahogany panels lined the walls, their surfaces adorned with artifacts from a hundred conquered worlds. The soft glow of ancient Terran Edison bulbs cast a warm light across the gathered warriors, their massive forms somehow managing to look comfortable in custom-crafted chairs that would have dwarfed ordinary men.Franklin reclined in his seat, savoring the complex notes of a Libertan cigar. The smoke curled upward in lazy spirals, creating ethereal patterns in the air. Before him, an ornate table crafted from recovered archaeotech bore a collection of bottles and glasses that would have made even the most dedicated Fenrisian meadhall keeper envious. He took a slow sip of his Libertan whiskey, letting the fiery warmth settle before speaking.
A cigar smoldered between his fingers, the ember glowing like a beacon of relaxation. He exhaled a plume of smoke that curled upward, momentarily forming the shape of an Aquila before it dissipated.
"So," Franklin began, his smirk practically audible. "Lady Malys. The dataslate says she's charming, manipulative, and only slightly less dangerous than giving a bolter to an Ork and telling him to 'figure it out.' What do you think, boys?"
Before anyone could respond, Samuel L. Jaxsen leaned back, feet propped up on the edge of the table. "Tall, brown, and handsome, meeting a tall, pale, and deadly babe?" He gave Franklin an exaggerated once-over. "You better watch out, Frank. With that gene-seed package of yours, you're her type. Hell, you're everybody's type. I mean, if I wasn't already married to my job—"
"Focus, Jaxsen," interrupted Denzel Washington, the First Captain, though his lips twitched in amusement. Ever the calm center of the storm, Denzel exuded the kind of cool that made enemies nervous and allies grateful. "The Poisoned Tongue isn't about charm—it's about strategy. She doesn't flirt unless it serves a purpose."
Jaxsen raised a hand, mock-serious. "And what if her 'purpose' is to get a taste of Liberty's finest, hmm?" He wagged his eyebrows at Franklin, who simply rolled his eyes and took another drag of his cigar.
"Speaking of taste," Steven Armstrong—Second Captain, walking testosterone factory, and all-around madman—slammed his glass on the table with enough force to make the stabilizers groan. "Do we really have to sit around sipping drinks and talking about xenos? If she tries anything funny, we punch her in the face and burn her city down again. Problem solved."
Franklin chuckled, blowing a perfect smoke ring. "I love your subtlety, Steven. Truly, you're a poet."
Henry Cavill, ever the gentleman, swirled his drink thoughtfully. "Lady Malys is no fool. Every move she makes is calculated but the same can be said to every other Archon on her Caliber. But," he added, glancing at Franklin with a raised brow, "you do have a way of disarming even the sharpest minds. Maybe your charisma will prove to be our greatest weapon."
"Ah yes, the weaponized smolder," Franklin quipped, tilting his head to give Henry a mockingly exaggerated 'heroic' pose. "Careful, Henry, or Malys might set her sights on you instead. What's the dataslate say about your type?"
Henry grinned, raising his glass. "Not xenos, that's for sure."
"Boring!" Jaxsen interjected. "You've got to expand your horizons, brother. Aeldari women are like fine wine—sharp, sophisticated, and guaranteed to mess you up if you drink too much." He gestured dramatically, eliciting a few chuckles.
Vladimir, let out a deep laugh that sounded more like distant thunder. "You drink too much of anything, Samuel. Drukhari is snakes, da? Better to watch from distance. If we do not like what we see, we burn their new city too."
"Burn it?" Franklin grinned. "Vova, I've seen you light a campfire with your mind. You're like a walking flamethrower."
"Flamethrower better at parties," Vladimir deadpanned, drawing a round of laughter.
John Ezra, ever silent, continued cleaning his bolt gun with meticulous precision. Jaxsen leaned over, nudging him with an elbow. "What do you think, Johnny boy? Eldar women—hot or not?"
Ezra's lips quirked into a faint smile, but he didn't answer.
"That's a yes," Jaxsen declared triumphantly.
Franklin held up a hand, cutting through the laughter. "Alright, back on topic—Malys is dangerous, yes. Charming, yes. And yes, Jaxsen, I'll be on my best behavior, though I make no promises about resisting her wiles. It's hard being this handsome."
"You're preaching to the choir, Frank," Jaxsen shot back, gesturing to himself. "We're all out here looking like gods among men. Hell, even Ezra's got that mysterious, brooding thing going on. She isn't prepared for this."
Franklin took another draw from his cigar, letting the moment of levity settle before steering the conversation back to strategy. He swirled his whiskey in its glass, watching the liquid catch the warm light. "I'm considering offering her a deal," he revealed, watching his officers' reactions carefully. "We need eyes inside their new power structure, and while she's about as predictable as a Warp storm, that very unpredictability could make her valuable."
He gestured to the hololithic display hovering above the table, showing the current deployment of Men of Iron drones throughout the Webway. "The drones are effective, but they can't catch everything. Sometimes you need an insider's perspective, even if that insider would sell you out for the right price."
The Primeborn exchanged glances, centuries of battlefield brotherhood allowing them to communicate volumes without words. One by one, they nodded – not in enthusiasm, but in understanding of the strategic necessity. Each took a sip from their glasses, the collective gesture reinforcing their shared resolve.
"A unanimous decision then," Franklin declared, reaching for one of the bottles. "Though I notice none of you seem particularly happy about it." He began pouring generous measures into each glass, the liquid catching the light like liquid gold.
"Happiness is overrated, Lord," Denzel offered with a slight smile, taking a measured sip from his refilled glass. "We trust your judgment, even when it involves dealing with xenos who would traditionally be on the business end of our bolters."
"To questionable alliances then," Franklin raised his glass, his eyes twinkling with both humor and calculation. "And to hoping this particular snake bites our enemies more often than she bites us."
"To questionable alliances!" the chamber echoed with the sound of clinking glasses and laughter.
As the gathering continued into the night, the conversation drifted to other topics – battle stories, jokes about particularly stuffy Mechanicum adepts, and the latest modifications to their war gear. Cigars were relit, glasses refilled, and the rich aroma of Libertan tobacco mingled with the tang of fine spirits, creating an atmosphere of camaraderie and shared purpose. Yet underlying it all was the weight of the coming meeting with Lady Malys, and the knowledge that they were embarking on a game of manipulation and counter-manipulation that would make even the most seasoned Imperial politician's head spin.
-----------------------------
840.30M
Libertan Pleasure World: Atlantis
The Stormbirds descended through crystalline skies, their ancient engines singing songs of arrival that echoed across marble spires and golden domes. Atlantis spread before them like a jewel cast upon velvet – a testament to human perseverance and the transformative power of technology. Where once molten rivers had carved valleys of death, now fountains of living water sparkled in sunlight.
Liberty Guard units unfurled with seamless precision, as they secured the perimeter.
Franklin , stood like a titan amid the orchestrated tumult of the deployment. His mere presence seemed to shift the very atmosphere, pulling every gaze while simultaneously forcing them to look away. By his side, standing both proud and visibly unsettled, was the Planetary Governor.
The governor's posture spoke volumes to Franklin's practiced gaze. Here was a man who had worn a uniform far longer than he'd donned the robes of governance. His silvery hair and apparent age of sixty standard years masked what Franklin suspected was a much longer life, preserved by the costly life-extension procedures that were a coveted privilege in the Independence Sector. The unconscious military poise he held was as unmistakable as any ancient record.
"I trust our Drukhari guests have not been disruptive?" Franklin's voice carried a tone that combined authority with genuine curiosity. The governor's instinctive salute – a motion honed through decades of service – prompted a knowing smile from the Primarch.
"Are you a veteran?" Franklin asked, though he had already surmised the answer.
"Yes, by your grace and policies," the governor answered, his voice steady despite the awe he couldn't entirely conceal. "One hundred years of service, after which I claimed my pension in a single payout. It was enough to secure this planet."
The mention of a century's service piqued Franklin's interest. This man had been in service long before the unification of the Independence Sector, surviving through the turbulent years of consolidation. "Deathworld?" Franklin probed, his mind already processing the implications.
"Yes, sir. I was fortunate to acquire outdated terraforming technology through the government's planetary uplift program."
Franklin's memory flickered to the policy he'd enacted – selling obsolete terraforming technology at discounted rates to stimulate the development of hostile worlds. Yet, the paradise before him spoke of results far beyond what such technology alone should have yielded. "What was this world like originally?"
"Desolate and molten, sir. A wasteland."
The realization struck Franklin. A true deathworld – unforgiving yet not entirely beyond transformation. With enough resolve and the right resources, even obsolete terraforming tech could reshape such a world into something livable. This man had seized that opportunity and surpassed all expectations.
The Primarch placed a hand on the governor's shoulder, a gesture both paternal and professional. "Thank you for your service, citizen," he said, the words bearing weight far beyond mere civility – they were a recognition of dedication that spanned centuries.
"No, sir," the governor replied, emotion cracking through his disciplined exterior. "Thank you for uniting the Sector, for shaping it into an egalitarian state." The words were not flattery; they carried the weight of someone who had lived through the before and after, who fully understood what had been achieved.
Franklin's tactical mind never ceased its calculations, even in moments of such recognition. "I trust the Drukhari haven't given you any trouble?"
"No, sir. Surprisingly, they've been well-mannered, even with the majority of the PDF stationed in this city." The governor's words confirmed Franklin's suspicions – Lady Malys was playing a different game, keeping her forces unusually restrained. In some ways, this was more unsettling than the usual Dark Eldar chaos.
"Would you object to using your planet for a particularly sensitive meeting?" Franklin asked, though they both knew the question was little more than formality.
"Not at all, sir," the governor replied smoothly, adding with careful precision, "Though, if I may request your endorsement for this establishment..."
Franklin's smile grew slightly. The governor might have been a career soldier, but he clearly understood the art of opportunity. A Primarch's endorsement could elevate a mere pleasure world into a prestigious destination. It was a clever, ambitious request – bold but not overreaching, opportunistic yet respectful.
"Consider it granted," Franklin replied, appreciating both the timing and audacity of the request. In the game he was about to play with Lady Malys, having a well-appointed neutral ground could prove invaluable. And if that ground profited from the arrangement... well, that was simply smart business.
----------------------------
The crystal spires of Atlantis pierced the amber sky like the teeth of some ancient leviathan, their surfaces refracting the light of twin suns across the pleasure world's pristine gardens. Here, in this sanctuary of marble and myth, the air itself seemed to crackle with unspoken threats and barely contained violence. Franklin's massive form cast long shadows across the intricate floor mosaics, each step of his Tyranimite boots echoing with purpose across the pavilion's open expanse.
The gardens themselves were a masterwork of controlled beauty – savage thorns wrapped in velvet petals, crystalline fountains whose waters ran red in certain lights, and floating lotus flowers that seemed to pulse with their own internal rhythm. Yet it was not the artistry that drew the eye, but rather the lethal tableau being performed by warriors of two realms.
The Kabalite Warriors were phantoms among the exotic blooms, their void-black armor absorbing the light rather than reflecting it. Their weapons, elegant tools of death, remained holstered but carried an aura of readiness, like coiled serpents waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Their masks betrayed no emotion, yet their stances radiated a silent, lethal promise.
In contrast, the Secret Service moved with disciplined precision, each of their towering forms marked by the proud heraldry of liberty. These were not merely Space Marines – they were Primaris, the Emperor's vision perfected. Their Mech-suits gleamed in defiance of the alien shadows, and every step was calculated, every position meticulously chosen to dominate the battlefield. Tactical supremacy was their unspoken language, a warning to any who might misjudge the restrained menace they exuded.
At the center of this tense tableau, First Captain Denzel Washington approached the Klaivex with the deliberate grace of a master duelist. The twin blades at his side – the legendary Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi and Totsuka-no-Tsurugi – radiated latent power, their presence as commanding as the warrior who carried them. Denzel's every movement was precise, an unspoken declaration of absolute confidence as he closed the distance between himself and the Incubi leader, until mere breaths separated them.
The Klaivex's hands hovered near his klaives, weapons stained with the blood of countless foes. Yet something in Denzel's composure – the unshakable certainty in his stance, the poised lethality in his every motion – stayed the alien warrior's hand. It was not fear that halted the Klaivex, but the razor-sharp realization that to draw his weapon would mean certain death. The tension between them was electric, a storm on the verge of breaking, each waiting for the other to flinch.
Meanwhile, Captain Steven Armstrong confronted Dracon Naezir with unsubtle force. His massive frame, encased in armor humming with nanotechnological energy, radiated raw, primal power. The energy fields of his power fists crackled like caged storms, their menace impossible to ignore. Armstrong's voice cut through the charged silence, rough and defiant: "Give peace a chance, xenos. Or don't. Either way, I'm good."
The Dracon's expression remained obscured behind his ornate helm, but the tension in his posture betrayed a careful calculus. His every movement was deliberate, a study in measured grace, yet even his prideful demeanor could not ignore the brutal reality of Armstrong's fists – tools capable of reducing even the finest Dracon armor to smoldering debris.
The pavilion's serenity seemed almost theatrical, a cruel irony against the charged menace that filled the space. Lotus flowers drifted idly across still pools, their languid motion contrasting sharply with the poised aggression of the warriors. Draped curtains swayed gently in a perfumed breeze, as if the very air conspired to heighten the tension, turning the moment into a scene from a dark fable.
Lady Malys watched the unfolding tableau with eyes that had witnessed years of plotting and power. She observed Franklin Valorian's entrance – a deliberate performance of casual dominance. The Primarch's every movement spoke volumes in the ancient language of power. His approach to the ornate chair was itself a statement; where lesser beings might have awkwardly managed the ill-fitting furniture, he simply reached out with ceramite-clad fingers and altered reality to his preferences. The chair grew to accommodate his transhuman frame, a casual display of power that spoke more eloquently than any verbal threat.
He glanced at the drinks laid out before him – another layer of the game. They both knew that as host, she should be offering refreshment. Yet this was his territory, his sector. The unspoken question hung in the air: Who truly plays host here?
Their eyes met across the elaborately set table, and the real duel began. Malys, young yet already a master of the Great Game of Commorragh, found herself measuring this transhuman giant with new appreciation. Most mon-keigh relied on brute force or clumsy attempts at cunning. But in Valorian's eyes she saw layers of calculation that she would've mistaken for a rival Archon.
The tension outside filtered through the pavilion's gossamer curtains like a persistent perfume. Malys found her attention drawn to the deadly tableau, even as she maintained her locked gaze with the Primarch. The positioning was exquisite in its menace – every angle covered, every possible movement accounted for. The First Captain's invasion of the Klaivex's personal space was particularly telling. Such a move required absolute confidence not just in one's own abilities, but in the complete coordination of every warrior on the field.
Would I dare such a gambit? The thought rose unbidden in her mind. The answer came just as swiftly: no. Her warriors were deadly, skilled, and bound to her will through fear and ambition. But that hair-trigger responsiveness, that absolute trust between commander and commanded – such things were foreign to the Dark City's philosophy.
The strategic implications unfolded in her mind like a deadly flower. The Space Marines had positioned themselves within killing range of her officers, yes – but they too were exposed. Yet behind them, at precisely calculated distances, the Liberty Guard waited with their rifles. One wrong move, one dropped blade or twitching trigger finger, and the entire garden would become a charnel house in a matter of heartbeats.
The realization struck her with the force of revelation: this was not merely a show of force, but a demonstration of philosophy. Valorian's warriors moved with such precision, such confidence, because they knew their brothers would die for them – and more importantly, live for them. It was a kind of strength Commorragh could never replicate, bound as it was by the chains of eternal betrayal.
When Valorian rose to leave, the movement carried the same deliberate grace as his entrance. He had not touched the drinks, had not spoken a word, yet had managed to seize complete control of the encounter. The message was clear: I can walk away from this. Can you?
The curse of awareness settled over Malys like a shroud. She had choreographed this meeting, had spent weeks arranging every detail to her advantage. Yet with a few simple moves, he had turned her own staging against her. If she let him leave now, all that preparation would crumble to ash. Worse, she could bet that rumors would spread through the Dark City of how the young Lady Malys had been outmaneuvered by a mon-keigh, brilliant or not.
"Lord Valorian," she found herself saying, the words torn from her throat by necessity, "leaving so soon? please sit let us discuss the future"
"Of course," he said, his voice warm and inviting, as though they were old friends meeting over drinks rather than mortal rivals locked in a battle of wills. He resumed his seat unhurriedly like the embodiment of magnanimity. Yet she knew better. This was not mercy but the predator's patience, the willingness to let the prey exhaust itself before striking.
Malys felt the full weight of her position. In forcing her to speak first, he had claimed victory in this opening round. Yet even in defeat, she found herself analyzing her opponent with growing fascination. That noble bearing, the casual confidence, the disarming smirk – they were masterful camouflage for something far more lethal.
Beneath the civilized veneer lay a mind as sharp as any Archon's, as cunning as any Haemonculus. Every gesture, every step, every moment of silence had been weaponized with devastating precision. He had turned the very act of sitting in a chair into a power play, had transformed his warriors' discipline into a psychological weapon, and had forced her to reveal her hand while never showing his own.
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein