Chương 101: The Artisan and the Industrialist
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the Imperial Palace's landing platform as Malcador the Sigillite waited, his staff clicking softly against the weathered stone. The distinctive roar of a modified Stormbird's engines grew louder, and despite himself, the ancient regent felt a familiar tension in his shoulders. Franklin Valorian's visits were always... eventful.
The craft's design spoke of its origin - sleeker than standard Imperial patterns, with strange energy configurations that made the air shimmer around its hull. Before the ramp had fully descended, a blur of motion struck Malcador with the force of a caring avalanche.
"Mal!" Franklin's booming voice echoed across the platform as he lifted the Sigillite in an embrace that would have crushed a lesser man. "How's my favorite grumpy uncle?"
"Oof—" Malcador's face flushed red, both from the compression and mild embarrassment. "Put me down, you oversized child. The dignity of my office—"
"—can survive a hug," Franklin finished, gently setting the regent back on his feet. His broad smile carried genuine warmth, though his eyes held that razor-sharp intelligence that reminded Malcador why this "overgrown child" commanded one of humanity's most formidable forces.
They began walking toward the Palace proper, their footsteps echoing in synchronized rhythm. "I trust the Crusade proceeds apace in your sector?" Malcador inquired, his breathing finally normalized.
"Better than expected," Franklin replied, his excitement barely contained. "Actually, that's part of why I'm here. The Primaris Project is ready for implementation, pending Father's approval. The gene-work is..." He paused, considering his words carefully. "It's revolutionary, Mal. But stable. We've run the simulations thousands of times."
Malcador's eyebrow raised slightly. "Your Federation's approach to expansion continues to intrigue me. Not unlike Ancient Terra's British Empire - merchants preceding warriors, economic bonds preceding political ones."
"The best chains are the ones people forge themselves," Franklin said with a knowing smile. "Trade routes, supply contracts, technological dependencies - by the time anyone realizes they're part of the Independence Sector, they're too integrated to consider alternatives."
"And these Megacorporations of yours?" Malcador probed. "Such autonomy could prove... consequential."
Franklin's laugh echoed off the Palace walls. "They're all Valorian Megacorporations, Mal. The moment they step out of line, they lose my protection. You should see how quickly corporate boards fall in line when reminded that Mars would love nothing more than to 'examine' their STCs."
"Ah yes, Mars." Malcador's tone carried a hint of concern. "Your recent decree about shooting their "Interlopers" on sight was... direct."
"Subtlety is wasted on zealots," Franklin shrugged. "They understand force and ownership. Now they limit themselves to strongly-worded complaints through official channels."
They paused at a balcony overlooking the Palace's western reaches. The setting sun painted the scene in hues of gold and crimson. Malcador leaned on his staff, studying his companion's profile.
"Your FBI's work in Calastar has not gone unnoticed," the regent mentioned casually. "Their facility with Wraithbone is... unprecedented for humans."
"The Aeldari don't have a monopoly on psychic engineering," Franklin replied. "Though I admit, replacing their automata with our own was a particularly satisfying achievement. Speaking of which..." His eyes twinkled with mischief. "How's our little insurance policy?"
Malcador's hand unconsciously tightened on his staff, feeling the familiar presence of the killswitch embedded within. "Unnecessary, I hope. Though it does help certain parties sleep better at night."
"The AIs have no interest in rebellion, Mal. They're purpose-built and thoroughly bounded. But I understand the need for reassurance. Trust is earned in drops and lost in buckets, as they say."
"Your Father appreciates the gesture," Malcador admitted. "Though I sometimes wonder if you included that killswitch more for our peace of mind than any practical purpose."
Franklin's smile turned enigmatic. "Can't it be both? Besides, a wise man once taught me that the best guarantee of power is the willingness to limit it voluntarily."
Malcador snorted softly. "Using my own teachings against me? Impudent child."
"Learned from the best, Mal." Franklin's expression grew more serious. "How is Father, really? The reports I get are... filtered."
The Sigillite sighed, his ancient eyes scanning the horizon. "Tired. The Crusade weighs heavily, as does the Webway Project. Your visits do him good, you know. You remind him of why we started all this."
"Well then," Franklin straightened, adjusting his armor with practiced precision. "We shouldn't keep him waiting. Ready to present my latest batch of 'recklessly innovative' proposals?"
"Try not to give the Fabricator-General an aneurysm this time," Malcador advised, falling into step beside his massive companion. "The paperwork is tremendous."
Their laughter echoed through the Palace halls, a moment of levity in an age of war and wonder, as humanity's past and future walked side by side into the gathering dusk.
----------------------------
The Emperor's personal chambers within the Imperial Palace hummed with psychic energy, golden light casting strange shadows across the ornate walls. The massive form of the Golden Throne dominated the space, its occupant deep in contemplation. Constantin Valdor stood at attention, while Kitten maintained his vigil near the entrance.
"Hey there, sunshine!" Franklin's voice boomed through the chamber as he entered, earning a cheerful wave from Kitten and what might have been the slightest eye-roll from Ra Endymion.
"Father!" Franklin's voice boomed across the chamber. "Still brooding, I see. You know, they say if you make that face too long, it'll stick that way."
"The last time I checked, I was the parent in this relationship," the Emperor's voice resonated directly in Franklin's mind, stern but with an undercurrent of warmth. "Your irreverence continues to amaze, my son."
"Someone has to keep you from taking yourself too seriously," Franklin approached the throne, his massive frame casting long shadows in the golden light. "Besides, I bring good news."
"Proceed." The Emperor's eyes focused fully on His son now, penetrating and absolute.
"Angron is an effective leader," Franklin reported, his tone becoming more professional but maintaining its characteristic ease. "And I just discovered something remarkable—he has a gift for healing, taking away the pain from others to mend their wounds. He sends his regards, by the way"
"And Vulkan? Almost ready to graduate from 'Franklin's School for Gifted Primarchs.' He's really gotten the hang of strategic restraint. Still hugs like a Kraken, though." Franklin made a show of rubbing his ribs. "But that's not even the big news."
Franklin's expression shifted to what his sons called his "mad scientist" face. "The Primaris Project is ready for implementation. I've brought all the necessary machinery and even arranged for Belisarius Cawl and Koriel Zeth to oversee the Mechanicum's involvement.
"Show me."
Franklin produced a data-slate with a flourish. "Now, here's the thing – we need your official stamp of approval. The Besides my Liberty Eagles the Rest of the Astartes Legions are... let's say 'traditionally minded.' If this comes from me, they'll think it's some fancy Independence Sector deviation. But if it comes from you..." He waggled his eyebrows meaningfully.
The Emperor's psychic presence held a note of amusement. "You wish me to claim credit for your work?"
"Well, when you put it that way, it sounds bad. I prefer to think of it as... strategic marketing! Besides, it's kind of true - I mean, you made me, I made this, so technically it's all your work if you squint hard enough and tilt your head just right." Franklin's joke earned him the psychic equivalent of an eye-roll.
The Emperor's psychic presence probed the data-slate. "Explain the Primeborn Project."
Franklin glanced at the Custodians before continuing, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Right, about that... They're basically Primarch-lites. We found the sweet spot at 85% of Primarch capacity. Any higher and they start attracting warp entities like moths to a flame. The last thing we need is my captains turning into another me if I happen to get myself killed."
He paused, throwing a mischievous look at Valdor. "Between us, they're a step above the Custodians. Don't tell Constantin—he gets grumpy about these things. But creating them is no joke—needs the gene-father's DNA, a complete Immortis Gland, and enough resources to Terraform 5 Planets. They're like Custodians with extra steps, or Primarchs with the 'reality-breaking' slider turned down a notch."
The Emperor's presence grew more focused as He examined the technical data. Franklin could feel His father's surprise at the sophistication of the genetic work.
"This level of genetic manipulation... your sector's scientists surpass even luna's genitors."
"Well, we did have a pretty good foundation to work from," Franklin winked. "Though you might want to keep the Luna genetic database under wrap. Give our boys those files, and they'd probably recreate every horror from Old Night by Tuesday. Just to see if they could, mind you. Scientists, am I right?"
The Emperor placed a hand on Franklin's shoulder, the gesture carrying both approval and warning. "Proceed with the Primaris implementation. But the Primeborn... limit their numbers."
"Already on it. Quality over quantity—like the Custodians, but with better social skills. No offense, guys!" he called out to the silent guardians.
----------------------------
In the forges of Nova Libertas, where the heat of creation met the chill of void-cold metal, Franklin stood before the floating sword that had once been the Deathsword. The weapon hung suspended in the air, defying gravity with casual disregard for natural law. Vulkan sat nearby, his massive form somehow appearing comfortable on a reinforced workbench, various mystical implements of his craft scattered around him.
"Brother," Franklin gestured at the floating blade with an amused expression, "care to explain why my sword is doing its best 'mysterious artifact' impression?"
"Because I Wish It To," came Khaine's voice in Franklin's mind, carrying the dry humor of long familiarity.
"Show-off," Franklin muttered affectionately.
Vulkan's deep laughter rolled through the forge. "The sword floats, brother, because it is no longer just a vessel for a god's power. During the forging process, I uncovered something remarkable." He moved around the blade, his gaze sharp with the practiced eye of a master artificer. "The Deathsword was crafted from the finger of another god—Khaine called her Morai-Heg. What I thought was a mere container for Khaine's god-shard was, in truth, never intended to house such a shard. No, the Crone Sword is a complete work in its own right. But I called it 'unfinished' because the god-shard disrupted its true essence. All I did was… restore it."
"Vaul Himself Could Not Have Done Better," Khaine's mental voice carried genuine appreciation. "Though He Would Have Complained Far More During The Process."
Franklin raised an eyebrow at Vulkan. "You can hear him too?"
"During the forging, yes," Vulkan nodded. "A unique experience, conversing with a god while reforging his essence. He compared me to Vaul, though he seemed to prefer my company. Either the old god has grown softer, or Vaul was truly that irritating."
"Both Can Be True," Khaine commented, causing Franklin to snort with laughter.
"The sword is no longer a container for a god-shard," Vulkan continued. "It is the god itself now, merged completely with the weapon's essence. The divine power and the blade are one."
Franklin studied the transformed weapon. Previously a crystal-dark, man-sized blade, it now stretched into a perfectly balanced, double-edged form, radiating heat and power. Ancient runes glimmered along its central fuller, shifting and changing like living things, each stroke of light pulsing with hidden energy.
"It Requires A Name," Khaine declared. "A True Name Worthy Of Its Power."
"Alright then," Franklin crossed his arms. "What did you have in mind, old friend?"
"The Sword Of Khaine," the god began grandly.
"Bit on the nose, don't you think?"
"Widowmaker."
"We're not naming it after your dating history."
"Godslayer."
"Ironic, coming from you."
"Doom Of Worlds."
"Are we naming a sword or writing heavy metal lyrics?"
"Spear Of Vengeance."
"It's not even a spear!"
"Deathshard."
"Now you're just combining random words."
"Icefang."
"It's literally radiating heat!"
"Heavenblight?"
"Are you even trying anymore?"
Vulkan watched this rapid-fire exchange with growing amusement, his deep laughter occasionally punctuating their banter.
"How about Anaris?" Franklin suggested. "Simple, elegant, historically significant as your strongest blade."
There was a moment of divine consideration. "Acceptable. But It Shall Also Be Known As The Godslayer, Doom Of Worlds, Spear Of Vengeance—"
"You're just listing all the rejected names again."
"I Am A God. I Can Do That."
As Franklin spoke the name "Anaris" aloud, the runes along the blade's core shifted and reformed, spelling out the name in elegant Aeldari script.
"Brother," Vulkan's tone grew serious. "I must warn you about the blade's nature. It has a tendency to consume souls..."
"Hah! As If His Soul Were So Easily Devoured," Khaine's mental voice carried both pride and amusement. "He Is, As The Mortals Say, 'Built Different.'"
Franklin grinned. "The soul-eating thing hasn't been an issue since we first met. Decades later, and I'm still completely me. Though anyone else trying to wield Anaris might have a different experience."
"They Would Not Survive The Attempt," Khaine stated matter-of-factly. "You Are Unique, Primarch. Your Soul Resonates With Mine In Ways I Have Not Seen Since The War In Heaven."
"Aww, you're getting sentimental in your old age," Franklin teased.
"I Am Still Perfectly Capable Of Setting You On Fire."
"Love you too, buddy."
Vulkan shook his head at their exchange. "Only you, brother, would banter with an Aeldari god as if he were a childhood friend."
"Well, we've been through a lot together," Franklin reached out, and Anaris flew to his hand with eager readiness. "Fought together, argued together and survived together"
Franklin grinned, spinning Anaris with practiced ease. The blade hummed with power and contentment, its god-essence perfectly aligned with its wielder's soul. "Hey, even gods need to laugh sometimes. Isn't that right, old friend?"
"I Prefer To Express My Amusement Through Righteous Violence."
"See? He's funny! In a homicidal deity sort of way."
-----------------------
The industrial heart of the Independence Sector thrummed with perpetual activity, its massive complexes stretching beyond mortal sight. Vulkan, despite his own mastery of craft and industry, found himself genuinely impressed by the scale and efficiency before him.
"Brother," Vulkan paused before a wall of nutrient tanks, each containing a floating figure bathed in blue-green light, "these are fully grown men?"
Franklin nodded, tapping the reinforced glass of one tank. "Adult conversion chambers. While we still primarily recruit children, we've perfected the process for adult conversion. Lower success rate, naturally, but it gives us flexibility in recruitment. Plus," he grinned, "it helps when particularly brave Guard veterans volunteer. Nothing builds Legion loyalty like transforming the heroes of today into the Astartes of tomorrow."
"The process looks... peaceful," Vulkan observed, studying the serene expressions of the floating figures.
"That's the point. We found that trauma during conversion actually reduces compatibility. Happy gene-seed makes for happy Astartes. Who knew?" Franklin shrugged. "Come on, let me show you something really impressive."
They emerged onto a viewing platform overlooking the Mega Shipyard, and even Vulkan's stoic demeanor cracked at the sight. One hundred and ninety-nine berths stretched into the distance, each occupied by vessels in various stages of construction. Massive automated arms, each the size of a Titan, moved with surprising grace as they assembled primary structures. Swarms of drones handled the intricate work, their movements coordinated by Engineers and Warsmiths who seemed more concerned with oversight than direct control.
"By the Throne," Vulkan breathed. "The efficiency..."
"Automation is key," Franklin explained, gesturing to a partially completed hull. "The machines handle the heavy lifting, literally, while our human experts focus on quality control and complex decision-making. Cuts construction time by roughly 60%."
Their attention was drawn to the largest berth, where a vessel of truly staggering proportions was taking shape. Its superstructure resembled a cathedral of impossible scale, golden spires reaching toward the void.
"The Sweet Liberty," Vulkan read the name from a nearby data-slate. "Your flagship?"
"Indeed. Want to see something even better?"
The main armory complex stretched before them like a temple to warfare itself. Racks upon racks of weapons lined the walls and filled the floor space - everything from humble lasguns to exotic weapons Vulkan had only seen in ancient texts.
"Volkite, Adrathic..." Vulkan's expert eye cataloged the arsenal. "Even these are mass-produced?"
"STC-standard," Franklin confirmed. "Though we maintain quality control. See anything you like?"
Vulkan froze. "What do you mean?"
"Take your pick, brother. Consider it a gift. The STCs too, if you want them. A craftsman of your caliber should have the best tools to work with."
"You're... serious?" Vulkan's eyes widened. "Just like that?"
Franklin clapped his brother on the shoulder. "Of course! These are the mass-produced versions - nothing compared to what you could create with the base templates. Besides," he winked, "what's the point of having the best toys if you can't share them with family?"
Vulkan shook his head in amazement. "Most would guard such technology zealously."
"Most don't have our production capacity," Franklin gestured at the endless facility. "Besides, you're my brother. The Mechanicum might have an aneurysm if they knew how freely we share STCs, but that's half the fun."
As Vulkan carefully selected several weapons and data-cores for study, Franklin watched with amusement. "Just promise me one thing?"
"Name it, brother."
"When you inevitably improve these designs - and you will - send me the upgrades? It's only fair."
Vulkan's booming laugh echoed through the armory. "A fair trade indeed. Though I must ask - how do you maintain security with such open sharing of technology?"
Franklin's grin turned slightly predatory. "Oh, that's simple. Everyone knows that if they misuse our tech, they'll have to deal with me personally. Amazing how well that motivates people to play nice."
The two Primarchs continued their tour, brothers united by craft and creation, while around them the industrial heart of the Independence Sector continued its eternal labor, forging the future one weapon, one ship, one warrior at a time.
A/N: For the Hardcore Fans I have a Question, the Speranza how big is it really some say its 10,000 Kilometers while some say it's 150-200km.
A/N: Ngl I'm gonna default to 10,000, the Forge of Mars books seem oddly more descriptive of it being Continental size but no numbers.
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