Chapter 494: The Great Insurrection 2.0
"You're going to have to take the fall for this one."
Whenever Ramesses found himself going bald from the stress of calculating Warp-variables, he couldn't help but gripe at Arthur.
Everything they had achieved—the staggering momentum of their crusade—was effectively driven by this man, a warrior with a cold exterior and a heart like a furnace.
When they first landed in the Warp, after the initial skirmishes with Chaos, while everyone else was agonizing over what to do with their new abilities, Arthur had been the first to strike a path. The Third Empire. We were not born to be quiet. Strength is the only truth. The world shouldn't be like this.
He had ignited a fire in them, and they had charged headlong into the dark.
From the bargain with Belisarius Cawl that led them to the Pielde Sector, to the utilization of mass-produced gene-seed to launch the Dawnstar Crusade...
To the contact with the Fallen, the restructuring of the Dark Angels, the seizure of the Astartes high command, and finally, the "divine assist" from Perturabo that secured their legitimacy—Arthur had set the pace for every move.
Romulus was like a hamster in a wheel; if you drew a circle for him, he would run in it until he achieved perfection. In his youth, it was the academy; as a man, it was the office.
Karna was the optimist—filled with a compassion so intense he didn't even want to ask others to follow him. He used to disappear into the slums to help people in secret, fearing that if he spoke of his deeds, he would seem like a braggart. The others called it "Greatness," but Karna just felt he didn't want to look down on anyone.
But Arthur... Arthur was different. He saw a wrong and felt a primal need to set it right. He believed he was correct, so he invited everyone to join his cause.
People called Ramesses the "Idea King," but Ramesses knew the truth. Master Art held the crown.
"We're already here," Arthur replied simply. He offered his partner a rare, faint smile. "No sense looking back now."
"Just don't tell me later you were 'just joking' ten millennia ago," Ramesses muttered.
The group of transmigrators, all understanding the reference, broke into a collective laugh.
Guilliman, still wrestling with the "Emperor Problem," watched the exchange with a bewildered look. He glanced at the somber, silent Corax, then let out a heavy sigh. He felt as if a "Mortal Barrier" had been erected between him and these four. He couldn't grasp the joke, and it made him feel ancient.
They traversed the vaulted corridor, entering a vast, clean hall. Arthur led them to a reinforced viewport broad enough to dock a Stormbird.
He pressed a hand against the freezing glass.
He remembered when they were huddled in a derelict Warp-ship, four men on broken chairs in a Navigator's sanctum filled with the stench of the dead, deciding the fate of a vessel.
Now, they were here, trading counsel on the destiny of the entire galaxy.
They stood before the windows of the Honor of Macragge, staring at the stars.
The Great Rift was a jagged, magnificent wound—a cosmic eye torn open at the heart of the galaxy. Badab below was a scarred ruin, yet its dark side still glittered with the lights of a thousand bastions. In the void, wings of recovery craft moved through the debris like scavenger fish, salvaging the wrecks and clearing shipping lanes for the logistics fleets.
Romulus gazed at the star-sea and felt a surge of emotion.
Make yourself strong. Change what you cannot tolerate.
That had been the Prime Motive of the Dawnbreakers since day one.
And now?
"Now, there's no letting go," Romulus whispered.
To the transmigrators, the saying "With great power comes great responsibility" was a bit too "Noble-Bright." They didn't demand others live by that code. But "With great authority comes great accountability"? That was something they all accepted.
Holding the reins of the galaxy, did they still possess the fire to change it?
They turned to look at one another.
The blades were still sharp. The hunger was still there.
Each man allowed a smile of his own to touch his lips.
Their arrival had been like dropping a Godzilla into a stagnant pond. The tides of the galaxy were churning in their wake.
It was a game with no "Load" button. Ramesses and Romulus were the resource-managers; Karna was the DPS-engine; and Arthur...
Arthur was the Objective. He gave them a reason to keep growing.
With an objective, the path was clear.
Phase One: Build the team.
Phase Two: Change the momentum.
Phase Three: Unify the strengths of the species.
Phase Four: Confront Chaos and enter the stalemate.
Phase Five: Exise the rot from the body of reality.
They needed a plan.
They had spent a century achieving the first four phases. Now, they had the patience to spend another century on the endgame.
And it wasn't just the four of them anymore. The "Native" powers of this universe had to be unified.
"Give me time. I need to process this," the Lion said, his voice tight. He had been hit by too many paradigm shifts in too short a time.
For the Lord of the First, it was surreal. His toil had been rewarded. His sons revered him. He didn't have to be the "enigma" who offended everyone. He was enjoying his new life. The human empire, which had been a rotting corpse when he woke, was suddenly kicking the lid off its coffin and preparing to stand.
And then his brothers told him that there was a mountain sitting on the coffin lid, and the lid was about to snap.
"No. I have a more efficient method," Ramesses said. He keyed a signal to an Inquisitor who had walked with the Dawnbreakers for a hundred years.
THRUMM—THRUMM—
The rhythmic thunder of industrial machinery was constant.
The Production Director of Manufactorum 130 was a man named Kyle, a veteran of the Maelstrom Wardens. He meticulously reviewed a set of identification papers handed to him.
He frowned, running them through an optical scanner twice.
He had never seen a warrant like this before, but the sigil of the Primarch was undeniable.
"'Apprentice.' Vague. Signed and stamped. Objective: 'Data collection and archival recording'?"
He grunted, folding the parchment and looking at his adjutant.
"What is this nonsense? They have clearance to walk through the Guardian's inner bastions, and they come here just to interview workers?"
"I don't understand it either, sir," the adjutant replied with a polite smile. "The factories on Badab are countless. Perhaps they should be interviewing Lord Huron instead."
The white-haired director grumbled, gathering his files. "Watch the lines while I'm gone. The medicae team arrives at 15:00. Make sure the wounded are organized by grade before then."
"Understood, sir."
"I have to handle this personally. 'Apprentice'... who comes up with these names? I have no idea what they want with my laborers." Kyle set down his unfinished meal and headed for the door. "We have a quota to meet and the clock is ticking."
The girl known to the Ordo Originatus as "The Apprentice" had been waiting at the gates of Manufactorum 130 for nearly an hour.
It appeared her permit was causing a bureaucratic hiccup. The staff were too busy to explain; laborers flowed through the utilitarian atrium under the direction of Tech-Adept foremen.
She could hear the industrial din behind the blast doors—the clatter of assembly lines, the shriek of lathes, the rhythmic wail of safety klaxons. The factory, once a munitions plant, was pivoting to civilian reconstruction, churning out chemicals and reinforced plating for the hive-cities.
She wanted to enter, but the labor shortage on Badab meant she was low on the priority list.
Fortunately, it was the dinner hour. Despite the famine following Nurgle's invasion, the subterranean "Doomsday" vaults of Badab were open. Even she, a non-productive outsider, was handed a ration tin.
CLICK.
The Apprentice unsnapped the lid. She pulled a spork from the bottom of the container.
SQUELCH.
The tined edge of the utensil sank easily into a slab of fat-marbled protein. Oil shimmered on the surface of the gravy.
The other compartment held compressed, dried bread. The moment it touched the moisture, it began to swell.
It was a meal of high fat, high carb, and high protein. A vitamin supplement was prominently placed in the center, meant to be swallowed with the last of the food.
Maybe I should start in the canteen, she thought, chewing on the surprisingly tender meat. Beyond the caloric intake, there was a visceral sense of "happiness" that came from consuming quality food in a warzone.
The head of the Ordo Originatus—now the Department of Historical Reconstruction—High Inquisitor Aglaia Hesiod, had urged her pupils to find the "Small Stories." The tales of the commoner, the worker, the soldier—the micro-narratives that were usually crushed by the macro-history of the galaxy.
Ten thousand souls worked in Manufactorum 130. It was a primary artery for the Guardian's fortress-network, having pumped out millions of shells for the hundred-day stalemate in the Verdun Sector.
CREAK.
The sound of a chair sliding across the floor reached her ears.
She looked up. A minor commotion was unfolding ahead.
A knight of the Grey Knights Chapter strode into the atrium from the courtyard. Instinctively, the Apprentice assumed the silver-clad giants—who often watched her with inexplicable, unnerving gazes—were there to settle her clearance issue.
They were not.
The Grey Knights, whose existence was no longer a state secret, moved through the crowd amidst looks of awe and whispered prayers for protection against the Shadow.
The leader wore a laurel of victory upon his helm. He was a Brother-Captain, far removed from the rank-and-file guards she usually saw.
The Apprentice knew these men reported directly to Lord Ramesses. It was whispered they had been in a state of fierce professional rivalry with the Custodes for decades.
"Officer," she said, using the formal honorific. "Could you...?"
The atmosphere in the room froze.
"Not now," the Brother-Captain replied. His body gave a sudden, involuntary twitch. He immediately dropped to one knee, striking his breastplate in a salute. He looked as if he were forcing himself to remain calm.
"But..."
Looking at the silver giant who was still taller than her even while kneeling, the Apprentice hesitated.
She knew she was "special," but she enjoyed her mundane life. She didn't want to be stalled here, and the Grey Knights possessed the authority to go anywhere they pleased.
If it's necessary, I don't mind using these 'stalkers' of mine, she thought.
"It is truly impossible at this moment," the Captain shook his head. He signaled for her to stay put, then whispered a sequence to a Proctor. The Proctor immediately deleted her previous application.
"Hey!" she protested.
"Lord Ramesses requests your presence," the Brother-Captain said in a low tone.
The Apprentice's irritation vanished instantly. She followed the Grey Knight through the parting crowd.
The interlude ended.
"Back to it," Kyle grunted, reclaiming his data-slates from the Proctor.
The younger man had been staring at the girl's schedule before the Captain arrived.
Kyle looked back at the group of silver giants.
"Right then. Let us get back to making history," he said, dismissing the distraction.
Order returned to the atrium.
The laborers finished their meals under the prodding of their foremen. The night shift rotated out. The canteen was reclaimed by those coming off the line, filling their bellies before heading to the barracks or the chapels.
Tools were raised. Strength was restored. They were building the next day.
Roboute Guilliman strode along the shimmering corridor of the Honor of Macragge. Beneath the reverent gazes of a thousand Ultramarines, his heavy auramite boots hammered against the polished marble, producing a metallic thunder that felt entirely out of place amidst the opulent decor.
His face was un-helmed, his expression dark. Even the Astartes could only look up at his tightly pressed lips and the hard line of his jaw. He maintained a mask of lake-like calm, yet his eyes—scanning for familiar faces—betrayed a hidden urgency.
He fought to control his breathing, which had grown heavy from his pace. He wanted every step to look measured and regal.
But the frequency of his stride and the frantic scratching of his gauntlets against his faulds betrayed him. The knuckles of his hands, hidden inside his iron gloves, were white from the pressure of his grip.
Finally, he reached his objective: the Primarch's Council Chamber.
Guilliman accelerated. His massive frame was like a prow of a ship, parting the scent of incense and the hushed honorifics of the staff as he drove toward his partners.
"I hope I haven't kept you waiting," he said, coming to a halt. The slight rise and fall of his chest-plate showed he had not yet fully recovered.
He took a deep breath and leaned in, slowing his speech to ensure his voice sounded as steady as the laws he wrote.
"What is the meaning of this? Why the sudden—why are we moving against Father?"
He paused, unable to find a better word for what he was hearing.
How can I believe this? The Emperor, who has guarded Humanity from the Throne for ten millennia, is our greatest 'threat'? Our next objective is to kill Him?
Unless the Emperor Himself demanded his death, Guilliman was ready to have a very long, very loud conversation with his brothers.
He stepped to the table and looked at the drafts spread out before the council.
[Expansion of the Legion-Industrial Complex]
[Recovery of the Lost Sires]
[Webway Reclamation Protocols]
[Xenos Extinction Cycles]
[Expansion of Human Habitats]
[Decoupling from the Emperor's Influence]
[Consensus with the Lost Primarchs]
[TERMINATION OF APOTHEOSIS ON TERRA]
The titles of the contingencies made his vision blur for a second.
Brothers... are you insane?
He exchanged a glance with the Lion.
The Lord of the First met his gaze with a look of pure, unadulterated desperation.
What do you want me to do? the Lion's eyes said. The target is locked. The Dawnbreakers are already building the infrastructure. They don't know how to sit still.
Are we really doing this again?
"Let the Emperor explain it to you," Ramesses said, pointing to Aglaia and the "Apprentice" who had just been escorted in.
"Father?"
It was no secret to Guilliman that the Emperor could manifest through this girl. Everyone at the highest level knew she was His lens.
But it was a costly process. The girl required long periods of rest to mend the spiritual scarring the Emperor's presence left on her soul.
"You speak as if the Master of Mankind is a servant to be summoned at—"
Guilliman stopped mid-sentence.
The Apprentice's eyes flared with a blinding, solar gold. The very air around her shifted, the atmospheric pressure spiking until it felt like the heart of a star.
The Lion and Corax stiffened, dropping into a formal salute.
"..."
Guilliman covered his face and took a step back, as if he had been physically slapped.
He followed the others, bowing his head.
Seeing the legendary Primarchs act like mice before a cat, Ramesses raised an eyebrow. He struck a pose, looking as if he intended to bow as well.
The entity inhabiting the girl—The Emperor—recoiled instantly.
He looked as if he were terrified that the Dawnbreakers would quit the human race entirely if He didn't show them proper respect.
The transmigrators struggled not to snicker. The crushing weight of the unknown future lightened just a fraction.
Yet the "Emperor" remained silent.
At first, Ramesses thought the "Old Man" was just posturing before his sons. Then he realized there was a massive "Null-Shield" in the room.
Ramesses looked at Arthur.
Arthur immediately took thirteen steps back.
The Lion, catching the hint, retreated even further, hiding himself behind a group of Custodes.
No one knows what Father is like now better than me, the Lion thought. I spent ten millennia under His 'cold sun.' I am not facing that again.
"I will speak," the Emperor finally intoned through the girl's voice.
His gaze locked onto Guilliman.
"I am more than willing to explain."
The girl's lips did not move, yet the voice resonated in the very bones of everyone present.
Except for Arthur.
Arthur only "heard" the words when Ramesses relayed them through their internal link.
The Emperor nodded with a grim, final satisfaction.
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