"Well… I think that went well," I say to Baldos as we appear on the teleport platform. "The face he made! Ha! That was quite the nasty joke," Baldos rumbles. "What joke?" I ask, cocking my head slightly. "Joking about his Primarch?" Baldos says, sounding confused. "Oh, that wasn't a joke. The Lion's back - or will be soon. Though the Dark Angels have some… internal disputes and house cleaning to handle before that gets around," I shrug. "Not our problem, we're not headed to that region of the galaxy." Baldos regards me for a long moment. "You… are a terrifying little gremlin." "As long as Agatha waits to read her list of traitors and targets, we're fine! If she opens it early… well, I don't feel like answering ten thousand questions. But she seems like a woman of her word. I wish them all luck." I mutter, shaking my head as we make our way towards the lift. —-------------------------------------------- The final week before departure is the busiest yet. Massive adamantine tow chains arrive on colossal spools, along with the lamprey tugs and our freshly inducted hundred thousand voidsmen. The bigger surprise is who else turns up. Half the preceptory of the Order of the Silver Lily, determined to follow Lael into the void and beyond. Fortunately, they're being distributed across the fleet. Though I still expect more than a few headaches with the transition. Then comes another ping from the Noosphere, Magos Zeta 9-Kane reports that the archeotech lance turret has finally been excavated. It's already en route to be stowed deep in the belly of the Adamant Hammer. Master Doll had encouraged me to give the Magos space. He has been… particularly full of fervor since I repaired the core module of the Halo. Master Doll even mentioned he had given a rather verbose recommendation for me to be delivered to his more traditionalist sub-faction. That opinion was not at all helped when I shared a few minor production techniques from the Tempestus data vault. I haven't told Master Doll about the nuclear bombshell waiting in there. While it's not an STC document. I have the full manufacturing data for the base Reaver chassis that has been rumored to have been lost in the ten millennia since the schism. Not just the Reaver, but the Mars pattern for every titan class other than the Emperor class is sitting locked away in my data vaults. That's going to be worth an incredible amount to the right Mechanicus circles. My document of authenticity from the Lord Inquisitor's administratum adepts has been put in my vault along with the Cypra Mundi proof of purchase. Along with the original copies of Genta's official documentation. "Maybe I should get a stasis vault just for physical files?" I muse as AME combs through my hair. She has been persistently looking for any breaks or loose hairs every day ever since I told her I might let her eat one if it fell out naturally. The bond between AME and I has stabilized, though I am not quite used to looking through her unique visual profile. The recruits have completed their grueling basic training and have transitioned to more academic studies. Well, mostly… a few of the less fortunate ones, like Yip, are learning the basics like how to read and write. Meanwhile, Mechanicus implants and the parts for their MIUs are being prepared for the majority of them. The sooner they have their MIUs, the sooner they can start simulator training. —-------------------------------------------------- POV: Governor Cornelius Aarark With the departure of the Inquisitor and the Drakios fleet poised to leave, Cornelius allowed himself to feel an emotion that he had not felt since before the invasion: relief. Ur-Haven had lost a major city and had suffered numerous human casualties, but the gains had been tremendous. The Inquisitor had been kind enough to take their tithe of psykers with her. In terms of liquid capital, in raw materials and currency, the planet was currently lacking after having paid out the remaining shares. In terms of investments, however, Ur-Haven was ripe. The tree subsuming Cycladon alone was a Dark Age wonder. The Space Hulk, despite being a long-term project, was a ripe fruit they would squeeze for maximum profit. The planet was poised to flourish, and all it had cost him was a few years of his life in stress… and most of his wine cellar… and an implant in his brain. The departure of the Princeps was welcome. Her aid had, of course, been utterly invaluable, but he still recalled the fear he felt when that terrible machine entered the room. A Rogue trader, or even an Inquisitor, was within expectations of his position, but dealing with Xenos, Saints, Astartes, and some walking, talking miracle from the Dark Age was so far above his pay grade it had left orbit and was somewhere in interstellar space. He had assumed they would unlikely meet ever again after she left, but then his distant nephew had the honor of being drafted into her Legio. That family branch was going to be insufferable for years. The boy himself had a good head on his shoulders, and he wished him the best. He had been quite generous with his parting gifts for those who were leaving with the lad. "Bethany, would you be a dear and fetch me a drink? No wine today. Tea." He decided with a sigh, glancing over at his beloved wife, who was checking some of the numbers. "Get enough cups for everyone. You girls are welcome to join us for a drink." "Yes, my Lord," Bethany said, politely bowing as she walked off to prepare the tea. Another positive of all the work to get done still was that Zeta 9-Kane would be occupied for quite some time. They had ultimately elected to follow the Princep's defensive emplacement plan. "Dear, when can I retire?" He asked his wife. "According to the Ur-Haven charter, you are eligible to step down and retire in a hundred and sixty-two years," she replied with an amused smile tugging at her lips. "Ah. Right," At least he was certain he could afford a rejuvenat treatment for not only himself but his wife too here in a decade or so. "Well, that's not too bad," he muttered, stroking his chin. "Our orchards will have expanded by then. And all the new Terran flora will have matured." Bethany returned with the tea, gracefully pouring him a fresh steaming cup. "We'll need our best clothes prepared. A proper departure ceremony is only appropriate after all the aid the Drakios dynasty has provided Ur-Haven. The rebellion, the invasion, and being quite fair in his dealings with us for the treasures," Cornelius spoke softly. "Besides, we're also seeing off the departure of family." "I've had my gown prepared for a month," his wife replied as she picked up her cup of tea. "Sir, now that the Inquisitor is gone and the Rogue trader is leaving, some of the nobles are getting… whiny," Millie warned him as she got her cup. Della nodded as she blew over her steaming cup. "A bunch of the nobles are demanding they get priority on the popular new waffle makers, and another group is demanding access to the flora database." He glanced at his three secretaries and sighed, "I believe I have been more than fair in the allocation of rewards. The Mechanicus will take charge of Cycladon and the processing of the Hulk. That is not up for debate. If any of them do more than whine, inform me immediately. Access to the database will remain restricted under the direct purview of Mechanicus biologis personnel. The last thing we need is an invasive species ruining all our hard work." He growled out grumpily. Shuffling his document, he scanned a page and hummed, "We only lost ten percent of the administrative hive's staff in the Inquisitor's sweeps? That's quite good." Unsaid was the reminder of what happened before his rise to governor when nearly the entire government of Ur-Haven was purged. "We're working to replace the positions with trusted, loyal individuals," his wife said with a small coy smile. There was a knock at the door and Bethany got up to answer. A member of his staff entered with a gift box held in his arms. "Lord Aarark, you've received a personal gift from Lady Cavalerio." Cornelius was wary but also quite curious as he beckoned the man over and had him set the package down. He opened it slowly, the case itself was a lovely redwood with brass metalwork. Inside was an ornate cane and a… row of bolt shells? Cornelius frowned and lifted the cane out. It was light, the head was a mix of gold and a black metal with his family crest engraved on one side and the Imperial eagle on the other. It fit perfectly in his hand and he did a double take when he realized the wood was an exact match in color and species with his desk. Seeing his confusion Bethany stepped forward "My Lord, I believe that is a bolter cane. The base will discreetly hold a bolt shell for emergencies and there should be a trigger hidden near the pommel. They're fairly rare. She's provided a choice of ammunition, standard, armour piercing, high explosive, and incendiary." Cornelius fumbled with the cane until he understood how the loading mechanism worked and he discovered the hidden trigger. Standing he posed and turned to his wife. Her opinion was the important one. "How do I look?" "Dashing and regal. It fits you quite well, dear." She said with a small approving nod. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. "An excellent gift, though shame it's not something I can really share." He muttered as he went back to his seat. "Oh, no need to worry about that, sir. The other items are already being distributed. New office vox systems, personal micro-beads, tablet cogitators." Bethany explained. Cornelius blinked. "Did you get something dear?" He asked his wife and watched cheeks flushing as she held up a wrist and showed off a mirror-finished little platinum wrist chrono with a sapphire crystal facing with the wristband made of woven synth-silk and platinum chain. The display was compact and elaborate with engraved mechanical dials marking standard Terran hours, local planetary cycles, and even minor warp-fluctuation rhythms. It looked expensive, and worse, he hadn't noticed it wasn't one of the ones he bought her! "Well, how did I miss that gorgeous little trinket? Clearly you are still far too beautiful my dear. Distracting me with your enchanting beauty." He declared openly as he reached down, took her hand, and raised the back of it to his lips. Seeing her eyes twinkle with restrained playful amusement, he relaxed, the bullet dodged. He had no desire to sleep on the couch, no matter how nice it was with its real grox leather and real hardwood. —------------------------------------ Departure day was a bit more of an event than I anticipated. The departure of Lord Inquisitor Striker had been professional, quiet, and respectful. With minimal civilian presence. Now the Halo docking arms are filled with people here to see us off. A parade had been held earlier, and the station guns fire off a salute using dummy munitions. I watch most of it from the observation dome. I barely spot the Governor standing proudly in front of the largest window on this side of the station, with his new cane in hand as he sees us off, waving as the clamps release the Argent Drake. The Drakios fleet moves into formation around the Argent Drake who trails behind the Starlight's Ghost. The fleet keeps pace with the slowest vessel in the fleet, which is the Adamant Hammer in this case. The Goliath-class factory-ship isn't built for speed, though, thanks to some upgrades, it performs above average for the class. As we leave Ur-Haven behind us, the planet slowly shrinks further and further until it's indistinguishable from the plethora of twinkling stars in the surrounding void. I consider the fact that we won't be seeing another habitable planet for several months. That thought doesn't bother me as much as I expect, after all, the Argent Drake is home. The trip to the edge of the system takes a full week, then we are led outside the system, and another five days before we find the Webway gate that's simply floating in the void. During the trip, the new Isolde class Clipper, the Gilded Scales, goes through several shakedown runs with the Hunters Lady, the new captain testing the ship's limits and the crew getting a good feel for her while learning how to work in a pack with the frigate. The moment we enter the massive Webway gate I feel a brief tingling sensation on the back of my hand. I glance down but nothing appears different about the mark and the sensation fades quickly. I wrinkle my nose, recalling that some Necrons also make use of the Webway. The ships are restricted to the larger, open passages of the Webway, unlike the smaller tunnels that can be used by individuals. The route we take is meandering. A lot of the crew complain about the bizarre geometric shapes and shifts in gravity. We pass through dozens of junctions and a number of collapsed passages and ruins along the way. The fleet doesn't stray, the formation is kept tight and the Starlight's Ghost is kept in sight at all times. The twisting labyrinth of tunnels and passages is not easy to navigate. Mental drills and how to recognize unusual phenomena are promptly added to the crew rotations as we progress through the bizarre geometric mess. Two weeks after we entered the Webway we have our first major encounter. It's another Eldar vessel. However a brief exchange with the Farseer sees us pass by without incident. The next encounter is an entirely different experience. —------------------------------------------------------ POV: Farseer Anvial Veilwalker "Listen to me. I am Farseer Anvial Veilwalker of the Ynnari. I humbly request you move aside and let us pass," he said as she struggled to keep his mounting frustration muted. The craftworld ship captain sneered at the mention of Ynnari, the markings of Biel-Tan clearly visible on his armour. "I fail to see why we should. This passage has been blocked for good reason. Moving for some Mon-keigh is absurd! Who keeps letting so many of them into the Webway!?" "I told you, we require the use of this passage to escort them to their destination. We are making good on a favor owed. I swear it on my word and my honor," Anvial attempted to be reasonable. Though the comment about other humans puzzled him. His grandmother had no such compunctions as she lumbered into frame. "Listen here, you mewling youngling, you dance the wraith's path! I am Krele-Caec Veilwalker, Wraithseer of Malan'tai. Would you care to know your future?" She hissed. "If you continue to delay us or foolishly attempt to fight us off, your remaining life will be as fleeting as starlight on water. We will stand aside, and the Mon-keigh fleet behind us will utterly extinguish your Phoenix Ship. Your souls forever lost to She Who Thirsts." Anvial winced as the captain's expression contorted into a furious scowl. "You dare!?" He growled. "Cast your own bones if you must. But know all paths of hindrance and defiance lead to your damnation. Do be quick about it, we have little time for simpering fools," She declared as she walked out of frame. The communications panel crackled briefly. "Is there a problem, Farseer?" Lord Drakios inquired politely. "We are still negotiating the use of this passage. I apologize for the delay, Lord Trader," Anvial replied smoothly. "Alright, do let us know if our services in debris removal are required," Drakios said over the open channel. "Where are you even taking them!?" The captain hissed, glancing between Anvial and the fleet hovering in the distance. "It is not your concern. But if you must know. We seek the Damned Gateway," Anvial said, his tone clipped. The captain paused for a moment to stare at Anvial incredulously. He muted himself and turned to argue with his crew. Gritting his teeth as his ship performed some scans, Anvial detected one of them performing a simple divination. "We will move," he finally said, reluctantly and still glaring at Anvial. "A fine choice. Captain, I would suggest you go somewhere for a few months, as we'll be coming back this way at some point. Your services are likely better suited elsewhere," Anvial said cattily right before the communication was terminated. ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ novｅlfire.net "Grandmother, do you think that was wise to antagonize them so openly?" He asked. "I put up with your sass, boy, because you are blood of my blood. I will waste no time on blithering fools who are stuck in their ways. I have seen it all before. Little brats require discipline. If that is through my scathing tongue or my wraithspear is up to them. At least the humans we are aiding are polite and show their elders proper respect." She said as she made her way to the rune stones. —------------------------------------ The fleet was somewhat disappointed that the Eldar battlecruiser finally moved out of the way. Trapped inside the Webway tunnel, where maneuverability was limited, the enemy ship must have vastly underestimated how outgunned it was. Lord Drakios ran a few practice drills, and the best idea was to saturate the area with macro bombardment and once the enemy's hull was located. Lance it to smithereens. Wanting to be in top form for the Procession, I decide to take a long rest. I have been skipping days between sleep lately, and despite all my meditation time and low levels of stress, my mind still desires the reprieve and clarity provided by REM sleep. It is a welcome one. Or rather it would have been a welcome reprieve. The moment the Argent Drake passes through the Damned Gateway and arrives in the Procession of the Damned, the dreams shift. I find myself in my mindscape surrounded by empty dark void on all sides. There is only one thing other than myself present. The dragon statue. I feel the back of my hand throb and I watch as the surface of the statue ripples like a roiling liquid metal, the jaws pull apart a few stray strands of metal drool down its chin as it licks its lips. Then, it speaks. I sit up screaming. The sigil on the back of my hand is throbbing as I frantically babble, "The Dragon… Dreams… Whole!" It takes me a minute to mentally reboot and shake off the strange fading dream. "What… the hell… was that?" I hiss as AME hovers over me with clear concern. The more I try to recall, the less I remember. Despite my vitals indicating there is nothing wrong, the twinge in the back of my hand has not faded. It tugs faintly in a specific direction, persistently, like a compass. I let out a deep weary sigh and press my forehead to AME's cool shell. With a groan, I mutter, "AME, I think the gods gave me a damned side quest." Much to my poor baby superweapon's confusion.