Capítulo 87: The Way of the Eagle
3rd Captain Henry Cavill POV:
I stand before the Gate of Liberty, its massive circular frame dominating the assembly zone of the Etna. Even after months of seeing it, the sheer scale still impresses me – an Imperator Titan could walk through it with room to spare. The deck beneath my boots vibrates with as the Void Battle Begun.
Holo-vids flicker around us, showing real-time footage of our battlefleet dismantling the Ork wreckage. Nine months. Just nine months since I brought that dataslate from the future, and look what we've accomplished. Sometimes I have to remind myself that this isn't my time – ten thousand years later I was born in Nova Libertas. Yet here we are, implementing technology that shouldn't exist for the next ten millennia.
My hand rests on the familiar weight of my Disintegration Rifle, the hum of its Zero Point Power Core a quiet promise of boundless power. This isn't the Nova Libertas of my birth, ten thousand years hence; this is its genesis, the crucible moment that will define everything to come.
Around me, my battle-brothers stand ready in their Exo-Armor, each suit pulsing with the same Zero Point technology that once felt like magic to me. Now, watching it come to life before my eyes, pride wells within me – for both my future homeland and this one, born anew. The Independence Sector needed only data to rebuild humanity's greatest feats – and to take them even further.
And here it is: the Eternity Gate – or Dark Portal, as the Necrons would call it – a tangible symbol of that relentless innovation. To have captured and harnessed a stable wormhole for military purposes is a triumph. Knowing it was possible was one thing; witnessing it come to fruition so swiftly is staggering.
My thoughts drift to Erebus, that vile serpent whose scheming would poison everything. My original mission was brutally simple: eliminate him. But Lord Valorian – has tempered my hand, alluding to the Emperor's intentions for the Word Bearer. It galls me to sit back, knowing what havoc that creature will soon attempt, but I trust my Primarch's wisdom. For now, we surveil and wait.
Etna shudders around us, the massive forge ship responding to some distant command. I turn to my brothers – men who accepted me without question, despite the impossible truth of my origin. Their armor gleams under the artificial light, each suit a masterwork bridging past and future.
"Ready?" I ask, though I already know their answer. The Minutemen are always ready.
Through the viewing ports, I watch our fleet maneuver above Ork-infested worlds below. Drop pods rain down like falling stars, each one carrying warriors keen for battle. But it's the Monolith that commands all eyes – our answer to Necron Monoliths, we too could send endless army of men to drown our foes in blood and iron, Necron tech, reimagined through human innovation. Its sharp form bristles with energy conduits, etched in proud symbols of the Independence Sector.
The first wave of pods lands, and the battle begins in earnest. Our Monolith descends like an avenging angel, its central portal pulsing with contained power. My brothers open fire with their Disintegration Rifles, turning Ork hordes to ash on the wind. The Monolith itself is teeming of devastation – disintegration cannons, smart missiles, plasma fire, all weaving a precise and destructive cacophony. It's transport; it's a fortress, a weapons platform that would give even the foulest of Xenos pause.
The portal at its heart flares to life, a gateway across space. I gesture to my brothers, the motion sharp and assured. This is what we've trained for, what we've become. As one, we charge toward the portal.
Just before I cross the threshold, time seems to slow. In this moment, I'm acutely aware of the divergence we're forging. This isn't the future I came from anymore; it's something new, something stronger. The Imperium will not descend into darkness – not while the Liberty Eagles stand watch, not while I stand watch.
The portal beckons, and I lead my brothers through, toward whatever challenges await on the other side. The future – my past – shifts with each step, each breath, each act. And for the first time, I'm glad for it.
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The Emperor's Children and their Primarch Emerged from a Monolith portal. Fulgrim stood motionless, his perfect features arranged in an expression of fascinated horror as he watched the Liberty Eagles at work. The battlefield before him was less a contest of arms and more an exercise in absolute annihilation. Every five seconds, clockwork-precise, another explosion would tear through Ork architecture. The sky itself seemed to burn with promethium rain, while sleek fighters danced through the clouds with devastating grace.
"By the Emperor's grace," Julius Kaesoron breathed, his usual composure slipping as he watched a single Liberty Eagle fighter take on an entire squadron of Ork aircraft. "They fight as if ammunition is infinite and collateral damage is a foreign concept."
"That's precisely it, isn't it?" Fabius Bile's clinical tone cut through the constant thunder of explosions. The Chief Apothecary's eyes gleamed with intellectual hunger as he tracked the movements of Liberty Eagle formations. "Look at their weapon systems – no reload cycles - A brief period of cooling - It fires once again. Whatever powers their arsenal appears to be self-sustaining."
Fulgrim's perfect lips curved into a slight frown. "They fight like Orks."
Both his officers turned to him, surprise evident even through their helmets.
"My lord?" Kaesoron ventured.
"Observe," Fulgrim gestured with one elegant hand toward the battlefield. "The overwhelming firepower, the seemingly endless ammunition, the complete disregard for subtlety or finesse. They've taken Orkish warfare and elevated it to an art form through superior technology."
Liberty Eagle fighters moved with ruthless efficiency, each one taking dozens of Ork aircraft with them before even considering evasive maneuvers. When one finally fell, it did so only after claiming a hundred greenskin aircraft – and even then, it went down fighting, its weapons still firing.
The wreckage hadn't even hit the ground before automated defense turrets adjusted their firing solutions, maintaining the wall of death that kept the Orks at bay.
"Fascinating hypothesis, my Primarch," Fabius moved closer, his analytical mind clearly racing. "The Orks believe that more dakka is always better. The Liberty Eagles appear to have taken that concept and applied actual scientific principles to achieve it. Maximum firepower sustained indefinitely."
"There's a certain beauty in it," Fulgrim admitted, his voice carrying a mix of admiration and disapproval. "Like watching a natural disaster carefully contained and directed. But where is the skill? The personal excellence?"
Kaesoron shifted slightly. "With respect, my lord, perhaps this is their form of excellence? To create and maintain such overwhelming superiority..."
"Their targeting systems are remarkable," Fabius interjected, his tongue darting out to wet his lips in excitement. "Look how they predict Ork movement patterns, adjusting fire zones to herd the greenskins into killing grounds. This isn't mere brute force – it's calculated brutality."
Another explosion rocked the battlefield, right on schedule. The automated turrets continued their relentless barrage, each shot finding its mark with mechanical precision. In the sky, Liberty Eagle aircraft executed maneuvers that should have been impossible, their technology compensating for physical limitations that would have torn lesser craft apart.
"They've industrialized warfare itself," Fulgrim mused, his perfect features reflecting the constant explosions. "Turned it from an art form into a science. There's sophistication in their methods, but it lacks... humanity."
"My lord," Fabius's voice took on the eager tone it always did when he spotted something particularly interesting. "Perhaps that's their greatest achievement. They've removed human error from the equation while maintaining human control. Look at their formation movements – those aren't automated responses, but they're supported by automated systems."
Kaesoron nodded slowly. "Like a perfect instrument in the hands of a master musician. The technology doesn't replace skill, it amplifies it."
Fulgrim watched as another wave of Orks dissolved under the sustained firepower. "Perhaps. But there's something almost obscene about such efficiency. War should have rhythm, poetry. This is..." he gestured at the mechanical slaughter before them, "...this is a production line of death."
"An effective one," Fabius noted, already making notations in his data-slate. "The psychological impact alone must be devastating. Even Orks might think twice about charging into such firepower."
"Since when do Orks think twice about anything?" Kaesoron asked, a rare note of humor in his voice.
"Precisely my point," Fulgrim said. "We've become witness to an army that fights more Orkish than the Orks themselves, yet with precision that would make a Tech-Priest weep with envy. The question is, brother Julius – is this evolution or devolution of warfare?"
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Standing atop the largest Monolith, Franklin studied the holographic battlefield spread before him. The table's display showed troop movements in crystal clarity, each unit represented with perfect fidelity. A transmission crackled through his command net: "We have eyes on Fulgrim. Just as simulation predicted, he split the Emperor's Children in two. The Primarch is making a beeline to the Warboss, the other half is searching for the STC, Orders to begin?"
Franklin's lips curved into a slight smile. "Proceed," he commanded, then added with a touch of brotherly mischief, "Let's teach Mr. Perfect some humility."
As he issued orders across multiple fronts, Franklin felt Khaine's presence intensify in his mind. The Aeldari God of War's knowledge flowed through their connection like a river of molten metal – ancient, powerful, and dangerous. Though Franklin processed the tactical information slower than Khaine would have, his transhuman mind absorbed the lessons with remarkable speed.
The presence of Khaine manifested in his mind, not as an intrusion but as an expansion of awareness. The God of War's ancient knowledge flowed through Franklin's consciousness like molten metal being poured into a mold, burning but strengthening. Eons of warfare, countless battles across time and space, all filtered through the divine perspective of a being who had made war into an art form long before humanity had learned to make fire.
"Your positioning here," Khaine's presence indicated a section of the battlefield where Liberty Eagles had established overlapping fields of fire, "why the redundancy?"
Franklin directed his attention to a sudden cave-in on the battlefield's eastern sector. Right on cue, an Ork horde burst from the ground, only to be shredded by precisely placed defensive positions. "Orkz are unpredictable. You plan for chaos by creating order in layers."
"Good," Khaine's approval rippled through their shared consciousness. "And there?" A purple-clad Ork assassin materialized behind Legion lines, stabbing at Guardsmen and Astartes before being obliterated by the prepared personnel.
"Same principle. The Orkz think they're being cunning, but our redundancy turns their unpredictability into a weakness. We account for everything and then some although it's resource extensive."
Franklin felt Khaine's ancient mind processing his strategies, measuring them against millennia of warfare. The god's presence was like a forge fire, tempering Franklin's tactical acumen with divine insight. Multiple frontiers required multiple commands, and Franklin issued them with growing confidence, each order enhanced by Khaine's subtle guidance.
"Tell me, Primarch," Khaine's voice held a note of curiosity, "why do you think I charge directly into battle?"
Franklin paused in the middle of redirecting a company of Liberty Eagles. "Well, you're the God of War and Murder. Direct combat is your domain."
A ripple of amusement colored their mental connection. "True, but incomplete. Watch."
Through their shared consciousness, Franklin witnessed ancient battles where Khaine himself had led the charge. Each memory was crystal clear – the god's direct assaults had been like a spear thrust into the heart of enemy formations.
"I charge," Khaine explained, "because I see the entire battlefield. Every movement, every position, every possibility. When I attack, I strike at the weakest point – not just the physical weak point, but the tactical one. It forces the enemy to react rather than act. They must respond to my presence, and in doing so, they reveal their plans, their fears, their limits."
Franklin absorbed this insight, applying it to the current battlefield. "Like how Fulgrim is reacting now. He sees the Warboss as the weak point, but..."
"But you've made him reveal his own weakness," Khaine finished. "Pride. The need to prove himself through direct combat. You've turned his strength into vulnerability."
The tactical display showed Fulgrim's advance, his perfect formations moving exactly as Franklin had predicted. Around him, the Liberty Eagles' positions shifted subtly, an intricate movement of firepower and positioning that allowed Fulgrim to make a beeline to the Warboss without attracting suspicion.
"Your Legion," Khaine observed, "fights differently than the others. They embrace technology not as a tool, but as an extension of human potential. Tell me why."
Franklin gestured to the battlefield, where his forces were systematically processing sectors of Ork resistance. "Because warfare isn't about individual glory. It's about victory. Survival. The advancement of humanity. We use everything at our disposal because that's what survival demands."
"And your redundancies? Your overlapping fields of fire? The seeming waste of resources?"
"Against Orkz?" Franklin laughed. "There's no such thing as overkill. They multiply faster than we can kill them even with the Nanomachines being deployed, so we have to change the equation. Make each engagement so overwhelmingly one-sided that they can't build momentum. Can't gather WAAAGH! energy. Can't turn the battle into the kind of chaos they thrive in."
A new alert flashed across the tactical display – another Ork tunneling attempt, this time met with pre-positioned sonic weaponry that collapsed the tunnel network before it could be used.
"You're learning," Khaine's presence radiated approval. "Not just my knowledge of warfare, but how to adapt it. How to make it your own."
"I'm slower than you," Franklin admitted, processing another series of battlefield updates. "A Primarch's mind is vast, but it's still human at its core."
"Speed isn't everything," Khaine countered. "What matters is understanding. Integration. You take each lesson and make it part of yourself, part of your Legion's doctrine. – you're learning to wage war on a fundamental level how I would wage War, but I would prefer if you charge into battle still"
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The Emperor's Children carved through the Ork horde like a master sculptor's chisel through marble, each movement precise and deadly. At their head, Fulgrim moved with inhuman grace, his blade describing perfect arcs through the air as it separated Ork heads from shoulders.
Then he saw it – a monster among monsters. Gorblasta stood seven meters tall, his massive frame encased in black and white checkered power armor that somehow managed to look both crude and intimidating. Twenty-three feet of pure Orkish might, yet something was different about this one.
"Well well well," Gorblasta's voice rang out in perfect Gothic, each word precisely enunciated in a way that made Fulgrim's perfect features twist in surprise. "If it ain't another one of dem pretty boys. But you ain't Da Dakkabringer, is you?"
Fulgrim raised his blade, his movements a study in lethal elegance. "I am Fulgrim, Primarch of the Emperor's Children, and I've come for your head, beast."
Gorblasta's laughter boomed across the battlefield, deep and knowing. "Gorblasta da Mightee, dat's me. Prophet of Gork and Mork." He tapped his armor with a massive power klaw. "And you ain't da first of your kind I've fought, pretty boy."
"You dare claim to have faced a Primarch?" Fulgrim's voice carried a deadly edge.
"You ain't da one I'm waitin' for. You ain't Da Dakkabringer."
Fulgrim's perfect features creased in confusion. "The what?"
Gorblasta's booming laugh echoed across the battlefield. "You don't even know da legend of your own kind? Of Franklin da Dakkabringer?" The massive Ork's eyes took on a distant look, as if recalling a religious experience. "I was there, I was. On da space hulk 'Da Skrapyard.' Saw it with me own eyes."
The Ork's voice took on the cadence of a storyteller, even as battle raged around them. "We'z was led by Groknik da Teksmasha then. Best mekboss in fifty sectors. Had ourselves a right proper WAAAGH! going. Even got ourselves a working Titan, we did. Proper orky, all covered in spikes and extra bits, I was still one of the Boys then."
Gorblasta's power armor whirred as he gestured expansively. "Then 'e came. Da Dakkabringer. Your brother Franklin. But 'e weren't like you, all fancy moves and pretty armor. No, 'e was... beautiful." The last word was spoken with religious reverence.
"Da dakka... oh, da dakka! Never seen anything like it. Walls of fire that never stopped. Guns that didn't need reloading. Every time we thought we'd found a weak spot, there was another layer of dakka waiting. It was..." Gorblasta actually shuddered with pleasure at the memory. "It was perfection."
"But da true miracle," the Ork continued, his voice dropping to what passed for a whisper in his massive frame, "was when 'e faced our Titan. Groknik was so proud of that Titan. Called it da 'Da-Mega-Gargant-Stompa-Titan.' Your brother..." Gorblasta's eyes gleamed. "Your brother didn't even break stride. Just pointed at it, and da sky opened up. More dakka than I'd ever seen. Turned dat Titan into scrap faster than you could say 'WAAAGH!'"
The Emperor's Children around Fulgrim shifted uncomfortably as Gorblasta continued his tale. "That's when I knew. That's when Gork and Mork spoke to me. They showed me da truth – Da Dakkabringer, 'e understands. 'E knows that there's never enough dakka, but 'e keeps trying anyway. That's what makes 'im special."
Gorblasta's power klaw whirred to life. "I've spent every day since then preparing. Building. Learning. Gork and Mork promised me – promised all of us – that if we could match Da Dakkabringer's dakka, if we could beat 'im in proper combat, we'd be blessed with understanding like 'is."
The massive Ork's stance widened. "But you ain't 'im. You're just another pretty umie who thinks 'e knows war. Da Dakkabringer, 'e doesn't just know war – 'e is war. 'E's what every Ork dreams of being but can't quite manage. Perfect dakka. Endless dakka. Dakka that follows da rules of da universe itself."
Fulgrim's grip tightened on his sword. "You speak of my brother like he's some kind of... Ork deity."
"Deity?" Gorblasta laughed again. "Nah, 'e's better than that. 'E's da living proof that there's always more dakka to be had. 'E's da one who showed us that even umies can understand da true path of Gork and Mork – if they're willing to embrace da beauty of overwhelming firepower."
The Ork Prophet raised his weapons. "So come on then, pretty Primarch. Show me what you got. But know this – you ain't da one prophesied. You ain't da one who'll test if I'm worthy of Gork and Mork's blessing. That'll be Da Dakkabringer himself, when 'e finally shows up."
Around them, the battle raged on, but now Fulgrim saw it with new eyes. Every explosion, every barrage of Liberty Eagles firepower, seemed to validate Gorblasta's words. His brother had unknowingly become a figure of religious significance to these Orks, an avatar of their most fundamental belief: that there is never enough dakka.
Franklin was probably still completely unaware that to an entire subset of Ork culture, he was known as Da Dakkabringer, the human who had come closest to achieving the impossible dream of 'enuff dakka.'
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