บท 122: Events
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.
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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.
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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.
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