Deidactor Skerry

[Bruce Malcom]

Dramatis Personae

—---------------------

Hadrian Respervus - Chapter-Master of the Pterarchos Liberalis

Dainen Artellus - Sixth Captain of the Pterarchos Liberalis

 

Donolin Praetus - Chapter-Master of the Imperial Shields

Zahart Prosiel - First Captain of the Imperial Shields

Dometrius Gauhl - Fourth Captain of the Imperial Shields

Partellian Velenos - Fifth Captain of the Imperial Shields

Aurelius Petracus - Tenth Captain of the Imperial Shields

 

Hantel Ingeun - Master of the Forge; Imperial Shields

Deccitel Holimus - Chief Apothecary; Imperial Shields

 

Aspeno Frash XVII - Planetary-Governor of Lysbonus

Mank Gertugo - Planetary-Governor of Shibul

Stephanus Brettunol - Planetary-Governor of Nazacan

Drakul Leskunmo - Planetary-Governor of Valeidlectus

Machivia - Fabricator-General of Purgariphum

 

Barabbel Duutar - Lord Admiral of Fleet Deidactor

Venezia Calhoun - Captain of the Refused Despondency

 

Worlds of the Deidactor Skerry:

Lysbonus, Hive World

Shibul, Production World

Nazacan, Agri-World

Valeidlectus, Civilized World

Purgariphum, Forge World

—------------------------

 

Under the span of the Imperial Aquillia sat over a million worlds colonized by the human species, and protected by endless regiments and vast interstellar fleets of ships which reserve the majority of a planet’s entire industrial capacity to construct. Every world in the Imperium of Man is as independent as they are ruled by the High Lords on Terra, who’s reach can wax and wane in the endless shaking tides of politics and campaigns.

 

Those in the segmentums away from the Sol System find their own ways to live in the face of xenos, heretics and whatever else the inky depths could muster. Many do not make it; falling to ruin against teeming hordes of monsters where reasoning is no solution. Others establish unions of safety, creating patrols of warships and regiments of Imperial Guardsmen cycling about these miniature federations, so that food and material may follow in their wake.

 

Some fall from grace, creating pacts with dark gods or falling under the thumb of xeno rulers, such as the Tau, certain Eldar craftworlds, or one of the other myriad species lurking the galaxy. These inevitably come to conflict with neighboring worlds, and the Imperium of Man at large. One could look upon a standard stellar map of the Imperium and see clean, defined borders between itself, its endless enemies, and its sparse, tense allies. In truth, this is a lie, for entire sectors are gained, lost and regained every month.

 

There are endless factors which may determine the fate of a world under the Emperor’s eternal vigilance. Positioning, available resources, previously unseen or entirely known bordering enemies, or the fracturing of interplanetary unions which causes all to fall into chaos and ruin. Yet such worlds are not defenseless, and certain worlds could weather storms unimaginable.

 

In the final moments of the forty-first millennium, in the Perpetua sector within the wider Segmentum Ultima, the worlds within the Deidactor Skerry would be pushed to such a brink.

Edited May 22, 2022 by Bruce Malcom

[Bruce Malcom]

—--------------------

Part One - The Warden

 

Lysbonus’s Spire Primus was a spectacle of engineering and achievement in the Deidactor Skerry. Its population outnumbered any other planet in the region in total, and entire colonies elsewhere had been built from excess people spawned in Spire Primus. In the core of the impossibly large city was a shimmering tower of brass, ferrocrete and dull yellow alloy.

 

This was the Fortress-Monastary of the Imperial Shields, where an entire chapter of the Adeptus Astartes resided. The Reviere, it was named by its inhabitants, was guardian and warden of Spire Primus and even the rest of the Skerry. At the heart of such a structure was the Observator Grandis, the throne room of the Chapter-Master, Donolin Praetus.

 

Surrounded by screens, monitors, servo-skulls and trusted aides, Praetus was statue-esc. His servos remained still, and had for over two hundred years. Enginseers, Magi and Techmarines operated on the encasing armor, as serfs monitored the food and water flow into his suit. He was pristine, an untouchable, mythic figure to his chapter-bretheren. His internment unto the Observator Grandis was an event shrouded in eternal mystery, the younger Astartes all questioning the events leading to such a decision.

 

He was not wounded too harshly, he was not stuck here – beyond the consequences of a choice made long ago. Yet the chapter-master was not lost from them, his words and orders still arriving in the cogitators of warships and vox-receivers of fireteams across the Skerry. Yet often, true command fell to the first captain, Zahart Prostiel.

 

Zahart was a man once filled with endless will and drive. Yet boredom, attrition and stagnation had robbed him of such conviction. His armor was as tired as he was, repairs refused in the face of a chapter’s duties. It was not that the Mark IV plate he wore was without blemishes – many gashes and cuts adorned his dull yellow power armor, but he always figured the armories and forges of the Imperial Shields were better spent on those lesser in command than he.

 

Thus, his armor, much like the skin underneath, had become a collage of pain, scars reading like poetry. Claw marks and acidic burns, gunshot wounds and psychically-mangled flesh. As he strode into the great Observator Grandis, those serfs who operated on the connections between the Chapter-Master and the great auspex arrays felt a shiver sneak down their spine and legs.

 

Zahart was tall, a being who stood out even among his brothers. His armor, though damaged, spoke to a thousand battles, a hundred worlds fought upon. And yet, the first captain knelt before his inanimate lord. “Chapter-Master,” he began, a tired, nearly bored tone about his voice and movement. “The men are all in good health, the apothecaries and chaplains have assured me. Our latest requisitions, the Dictator-type cruiser Refused Despondency and the twin Venial-type frigates Saint Garro and Cardinal have arrived over Hive Primus, in the chapter Ramilies station. Already, serfs and crew are being mustered – I will be interviewing potential captains in a few hours’ time. Scout squads Nonus and Octavo have earned their power armor, their heroism in the blistering sands of Begorax VI haven’t gone unnoticed, a glorious day for the chapter and the company they shall be assigned to,” he said with hints of bravado and pride.

 

Zahart’s head slowly upturned to see the unchanged, unmoved Chapter-Master. To the serfs, for a moment, it looked like prayer, deification of the old Astartes. A mirror of the Emperor himself, a hero entered upon a throne, a seat of power and a prison unescapable. The heart of bureaucracy, a chapter grinding to a halt as its dynamic structure is frozen in time.

 

“You know this, don’t you?” Zahart asked. “You and this…tomb. You promised to lead us into glory, into combat and conquest! And here you are, entrenched in all this ferrocrete and all these layers of cables, wires…” The first captain wanted to scream, holler, demand he get off his cowardly throne. But there would be no use. There was no place for outrage, when such emotion would only harm oneself and the chapter. But, by the Emperor, how he wished…

 

Zahart stood, his gaze not leaving the elevated Chapter-Master, and the first captain parted silently. He strode past the walls lined with chapter slaves and tech-priests, with almost an air of defeatedness. Of loss. Of failure, old and new.

—------------------------

 

The elegant bower of Aspeno Frash XVII was scarcely visited, even by its wealthy and powerful owner. Occasionally, a handful of servitors would enter the room, with walls lined in royal blue silks and adorned with endless rows of portraits of rulers’ past – paintings detailing his closest relatives at the end of the entrance walkway, a reminder of the Frash legacy Aspeno upheld every day.

 

Though the very room itself was caked in a glory bought and purchased, it barely withheld against the earned honor of an Astartes in full power armor. “Zahart Prosiel,” the gun-servitor spoke his name, standing down outside the chamber door. “Authority recognized. Access granted.” Though the room protected by the door was not made for it, the security gate door itself was made of layered ceramite and thrice-folded adamantium – able to withstand even the splitting of an atom.

 

The door unlocked, gigantic mechanisms sliding within as the door’s sides parted, allowing entrance to the first captain. He walked with a casual stride, the dirtied pride of his war-plate a strange anomaly in the stainless, peerless sanctum where the planetary-governor resided. Much like his estate, Frash was a man who was adorned so heavily, one could not tell where the royal blue suit ended and the gold, purple and otherwise colorful rolls of cloth, silk and alloy began. His face was perfect, artificial – a suave yet entirely fake aura around him.

 

Yet despite his wealth and grandeur, Prosiel knew the governor was familiar with the pain and stress of ruling Hive Primus, as his forefathers had before him. “First captain,” Frash began. It was not the typical casual ‘Zahart’ or even the serious ‘Prosiel’. Frash’s choice of words placed a degree of concern on Zahart’s face underneath his pale yellow helm.

 

“There is a serious matter at hand,” the governor continued. “The Conviction of Lysbonus, the pride and joy of our subsector defense force, has suffered from some sort of engine failure – our sole battleship. We are defenseless if anything legitimately dangerous comes for us, captain. Are the forces of the Imperial Shields willing to postpone any extra-sector activities so that we may remain prepared?”

 

Zahart sighed. “The Conviction is not the only ship of its size and stature on call if Lysbonus is besieged. The Bastion and the Pride of Purgariphum remain over Spire Primus. Battle-barges, crewed by the finest of chapter aides and even some Astartes themselves, can be far more efficient in defense than your famed Emperor-class.”

 

Frash grimaced. “I mean no offense with my words, first captain, but the local Navy elements are increasingly perturbed by the Observator Grandis. I have heard many accusations from travelling Mechanicus priests that we practice the ways of the Heretek – it has cost me many an aquillagelt from trade and barter.”

 

“If you believe I support Praetus’s decision to sit atop his throne of sensors and cables you would be very mistaken,” Zahart told Frash, menace dripping from his words; the governor had taken a step too far. “Do not blame me for his folly, and we would both be foolish to ignore the many times his macabre vigilance has saved the Skerry from collapsing under assault.”

 

Frash’s demeanor shifted to a defensive innocence. “Of course, Zahart, I didn't mean to offend you, as I stated. I merely wished to say that the sector fleet admirality is growing…unappreciative of the increasing control the local chapters of the Adeptus Astartes are displaying over the affairs of the Deidactor Skerry. The union of worlds we represent feeds and supplies the rest of the sector – we are the jewel of the Perpetua sector, they are merely protective of it. I for one support Astartes involvement, who better to protect us than sons of Dorn?”

 

“Not just the sons of Dorn,” Zahart mused. “The Pterarchos Liberalis do their part in ensuring the Deidactor Skerry's safety. The legacy of Guilliman’s legion is important in keeping our stability.”

“Well yes,” Frash agreed with hesitancy, “but the Ultramarine successors are far less interested in our total safety as they are Valeidlectus’s safety. By the Emperor, their governor is a Chapter scribe! I have long maintained that if given the chance, Hadrian and Leskuno would have us annexed into the five hundred worlds of Ultramar – then again, it wouldn’t be a clean five hundred then, now would it?” A smile accompanied his words, and Zahart smiled in turn.

 

“We are all part of the Imperium,” Zahart reminded Frash with a humorous grounding. “And I do not fear soft annexation by Ultramar, the Perpetua administratum would never stand for it, and the adminstratum could never be satiated with bribes – else we would’ve never had to pay our tithe again.” Frash laughed at the jab, and Zahart did as well. For a moment, concerns of Astartes and interplanetary politics faded away, and two good friends were left.

 

“Well, Zahart, I am glad you stopped by. Perhaps, when the wars are won and the Emperor can breathe stress-free, we could share a drink and go over our stories and experiences,” Frash asked Zahart with a grin, and the Astartes nodded.

“Of course, Frash…when the day comes.”

 

—--------------------------------

 

The Espethica Spaceport was a widely used location for the entirety of Lysbonus – an endless web of cargo freight-trains sometimes more massive than the ships used to ferry their loads expanded from the hub of travel and commerce. Over a billion merchants, civilians and servitors walked its halls and vast expanses of metal and grime every hour, its renown spread across the Skerry by the retinues and crew of Rogue Trader cargo ships, and every month Imperial Shields were cyclied in and out of the duty of its protection.

 

It was no secret that the Shields assisted in its construction, or that they broke the confines of the Codex Astartes to do it. Over a thousand Imperial Shields patrolled the inky expanses and the dour, grim tunnels of mankind alike, and they had done this so that they could further control the flow of power within the Deidactor Skerry.

 

Their chapter had been founded under full strength by the High Lords of Terra three millennia prior, a distant council for a distant throneworld, and sent to defend the frontiers of the Skerry. They hadn’t expected the influence the chapter came to have. But they didn’t care, either. They hadn’t since its founding, and the Imperial Shields were largely to thank for such overlooking, for the eyes of the High Lords were not drawn lightly - it took the cataclysmic invading of aliens and traitors and whatever else to stop the flow of tithes, and tithes were the only things High Lords cared about, besides personal power.

 

At least, that’s how Barabbel Duutar saw the situation of the Skerry. Duutar was rarely outseen of his deep blue naval officers coat, or seen without the large and powerful stub-pistol holstered at his side. He was not a frail man, his bulk and muscle entirely unrequired for his job but required for his ego and, as he saw it, ‘command presence.’ The silver placed on his handcuffs and puffed collar, engraved with the sigil of the Armada Imperialis, denoted his allegiance while the various medals saluting in parade stance along his right breast denoted his rank.

 

“Lord Admiral,” the characteristically deep voice of an Astartes rumbled through the air, and Duutar’s neck crained back to see the large and imposing figures of First Captain Prosiel and Fourth Captain Gauhl. Duutar knew Prosiel, as everyone on the Hive World did. His very name carried a wave of morale-restoring loyalty, his coming to a battle the death knell for any opposition. Why they did not call him Chapter-Master, and chose to deem the corpse on the mock-throne such a title, he would never understand.

 

But he knew Gauhl, and much fewer men did. Fourth Captain Gauhl, master of the Imperial Shields fleet. With each lock of their eyes, a sense of rivalry passed. They were forced to cooperate, forced to accept one another in their affairs – long had he maintained the Astartes chapter keep to their fortress and use their chapter on offensive missions only, but to expect any degree of stillness on the matter of defense from a son of Dorn was, itself, foolishness, and Duutar admitted this.

But it did not make him like Gauhl more.

 

“Why is the fourth captain here? This is a matter of the Navy, the Refused Despondency does not belong to the Adeptus Astartes, and neither do the two frigates,” Duutar informed them with barely concealed bile, long suppressed anger lacing every syllable as he struggled to keep himself formal.

“The cruiser and the frigates may not, but the Skerry’s protection is our charge as much as it is yours. The governor has requested that we interview the captains chosen as well,” Gauhl responded. “Will that be an issue?”

 

“Not if Frash has demanded it,” the Lord Admiral replied with struggling acceptance, before the three were met by the yell of transport thrusters. The Valkyrie-class gunship was a versatile sort of craft, able to carry Astartes and humans alike. The one that came to carry them was itself painted blue with outlines and hints of maroon, denoting its belonging to the Navy, along with the Armada Imperialis sigil emblazoned proudly on its two side doors.

 

The Espethica Starport was abuzz with life and civilian craft, other Valkyries painted gunmetal grey and olive green flew past, while freighters, copter-planes and Arvus Lighters sprinkled the sky with machines. The clouds fought low-hanging ships for presence in the sky, and squadrons of Aeronautica Imperialis fighters made their typical runs across Hive Primus’ length and width, stopping to refuel at their designated hangars in the starport.

 

It was one of these hangars where the Navy transport settled down, its passengers off-loading with purpose. Many enginseers and minor artisans stopped in awe of the Astartes commanders, and even some of the pilots grinned as they recognized the defenders they worked with, remembering old campaigns and long-defeated enemies.

 

Yet in the mess of pilots and repairmen, three notable figures stood out as they approached the three commanders. Two were unflinching and highly prestigious Tempestus Scions, their hellguns withdrawn but not aimed, and the center figure was a Navy officer in a longer blue coat and cream pants. Her right eye was replaced with a typical Navy prosthetic, a glowing red circle in the center of machinery and wires replacing the majority of her cheek and face.

 

“Captain Calhoun,” Lord Admiral Duurtar began, and the captain bowed to the Lord Admiral. The two scions simply raised their fist to their chests and hit themselves once, the colliding of ceramite and duraweave causing a suitably loud clunk to be paired with the gesture of respect. “I hear you have been recently promoted from a position on a heavy frigate. Congratulations on this accomplishment.”

“The Imperial Shields look forward to working with you, to better protect the Skerry,” Captain Gauhl added, making Duutar’s teeth ground together.

 

“I am honored, Astartes captain,” she replied, looking back to Duutar. “And thank you, lord admiral. But I suspect I was not brought here to celebrate my arrival here. Am I to get acclimated to my ship?”

“Yes, but not yet,” Duutar responded. “We must first confirm you are…right for the position you are about to receive.”

“I see. There is no harm in security, I suppose.”

 

From there, the Scions led them deeper into the facility. As they got away from the shine of Lysbonus’ sun, the number of gun-servitors and Navy armsmen increased. This portion of the starport was dedicated firmly to the service of the Armada Imperialis, with supplies being shipped to and from the great vessels above. Yet all of those in the group were used to facilities dripping with pride and militarization - a Lord Admiral, aspiring Captain, two Astartes commanders and a squad of alumni from the Schola Progenia itself were no stranger to such sights.

 

The chamber they sought was a stark, deep grey. It was illuminated by candles and long-faded lanterns, and occupied by a single man. He was old, wrinkled and adorned in naught but a tired and thick brown robe. A staff of sorts, ornate and full of encarvings, stood upright in his boney fingered grip. “You are the new captain…” he grumbled, a voice long strained by a lifetime of shouting and physical damage.

“I am,” Calhoun replied.

“Many have passed through here before you. The Imperial Navy is an institution far older than my weathered face…or even the Astartes themselves. I know you have a record for captaining if you are being considered for something of this tonnage, but mere frigates and corvettes pale in comparison to the weight of controlling and leading an entire cruiser. Five times the size, five times the responsibilities, the resources to manage, the crew to feed…it is a demanding task.”

“I understand the responsibility I am to uphold.”

“Let us hope so.”

 

The old man’s eyes suddenly turned a brilliant white, and the smell of ozone was laid thick in the air. Duutar put his hand into one of the pouches placed on his hip-belt, and retreived a large cigar. “I imagine you don’t smoke,” he said to Zahart, but before the Astartes commander could respond, the captain was screaming in pain.

 

It was a sound terribly common to Zahart. He heard it more than any man or woman should, during the trials of becoming an Astartes; decades of hellish training and surgeries, punishment and combat. He knew the process made good warriors - each Astartes was worth a hundred, two hundred guardsmen in a straight fight - but Zahart knew he would be lying if he said it did not leave its mark.

 

The old man was a psyker, but one who served the Emperor at the least. Zahart knew many psykers, mostly Astartes Librarians and Chapter Navy Navigators, but the presence of psychic arcana never failed to make his muscles tense and his senses sharpen. There was little ryhme or reason to the function of psychic ability - the most a common psyker could ask for was that his attack did not kill himself along with his opponent - but a properly trained and well-skilled psyker was beyond a worthy foe. He trusted the man’s age to allow him to perform his job, but he did not trust that the psyker would not affect him in the process.

 

The screaming died down, and the psyker’s eyes returned to its original brown, though severely bloodshot. Calhoun herself collapsed after the intense psychic trauma, but remained awake enough to stand up. “The captain is pure, untouched by Chaos. She has a steel mind and will, and possesses little connection to the Warp beyond the usual levels provided by a soul. Good material for a captain. You have picked well, Lord Admiral, if I may say so myself.”

 

“Thank you, Guharel,” Duutar replied, and Zahart was surprised by the genuine tone the Lord Admiral possessed. Suddenly, his past experiences and Gauhl’s verbal jabs at the man’s honor suddenly bled away as he saw a man who truly cared for those under his command, even if he had little respect to give for those outside his operation. “Calhoun, are you present in mind?”

 

The captain nodded. “Yes, Lord Admiral. What would you have me do?”

“Go to your vessel, the Refused Despondency. If you’ve passed Guharel’s test, then you have passed mine.”

Calhoun gained a smile, and gave Duutar the hand gesture of the Aquilla. Duutar half-heartedly responded with the same, and the eager captain passed by him and the Astartes on her way to a transport.

 

—--------------------------------

Zahart’s Thunderhawk gunship returned to the Fortress-Monastary of the Imperial Shields without much haste. The Thunderhawk pilot had been instructed to open the side hatch and fly slower than typical speeds; for today, the First Captain had no rush to get home. The void of space was calm, the hive below was under no threat, and the matter of the day had been settled.

 

Hive Primus was glowing with endless streams of lights, a hundred billion candles and lamps illuminated the entire superstructure like a great plume of warming flame. Transport ships made their final departures or conducted their final landings. Within the underhive, there was no difference between day and night, but above the endless ceramite-plasteel floors and roofs, there was a magesty to the mess of steel and humans. It was the culmination of millions of years of advancement in engineering, populated by uncountable residents, and protected by his chapter and several dozen regiments of Planetary Defense Forces.

 

And for all that, it bored him. Even his builder’s soul, the blood of Dorn running through his organs and veins, was unstimulated by the same sights, for decades on end. The same defensive emplacements, the same gleaming neon signs, the same choking plumes of smog. He longed for the foreign lands of hostile worlds, the reclamation of besieged Imperial planets, the destruction of the enemies of mankind.

 

But he was here. Stuck. With no escape in sight and seemingly doomed to another decade of waiting among the worn dull yellow of his familiar fortress.

 

The Thunderhawk prepared to land in the maw of the hangar bay. It was not dissimilar to the starport’s Navy compartment, filled with Astartes craft and servitors bearing the mark of the Imperial Shields instead of human pilots and typical Aeronautica fighters. There was also a squad of Space Marines in waiting, their bolters kept at their backs, led by an Astartes in artificed Mark III armor plate.

 

The man was another Astartes captain, Partellian Velenos. He walked with a staff hitting the ground with every step, a company standard covered in seals of purity and scripture regarding the duties of the Adeptus Astartes. An Iron Halo generator sat utop his power pack, and the heavy march of his Mark III plate, along with the clang of his staff, gave his approach a sense of gravitas.

 

“With as much presence as you can bear, Velenos, I should have made you Lord Executioner,” Zahart jested, and the Master of the Marches gave back a hearty chuckle.

“Alas, the job is too boring - the reports on murdering people are far too short for my tastes.” Velenos extended his hand and Zahart took it, and the pair collapsed into a short embrace before breaking the hug. They began to walk towards the mess hall, while the tactical squad dispersed.

 

“How did the burning skies of Baccalus III do for you, Partellian?” Zahart asked idly, and unexpectedly Velenos sighed.

“The expenditure of ammunition, the damaging of armor up to that of Terminator plate, and the destroyed vehicles of the Fifth Company will strain the chapter armory’s production abilities for months to come. We lost twenty of our hundred to the menace of the Tyranids, however our fleet was more than a match for a withering splinter hive, especially so as we were supported by elements of Battlefleet Perpetua. The planet was largely saved, the horde was exterminated, and the Deidactor Skerry will remain unblemished by the tendrils of the Tyranid species.”

 

Zahart shook his head. “Twenty Astartes? In one engagement? We are losing our edge, Partellan. The Master of Recruits will not enjoy this news…”

“Petracus will have to bear the burden of reinforcing the Fifth Company. He has more than enough neophytes in the Tenth. Chief Apothecary Deccitel reports our geneseed stock has five hundred remaining. Just what has Petracus been doing? I understand we have more neophytes in the ranks of the Tenth than ever in our history - one of the boons of being so entrenched in the matters of a Hive World, I suppose. But if he is implanting all of them with geneseed, we will be drastically bloated. Our armories will not be able to equip them all with power armor and bolters…”

“To say nothing of how badly and how extensively we will be breaking the mandates of the Codex Astartes. Yet I cannot help but feel this is the best course. I do not seek for this chapter to be hunted by the members of the Holy Inquisition, but I see no wrong in reinforcing all of the Skerry. We will be the most well-defended segments of the Imperium.”

“Zahart, you know how closely the Pterarchos Liberalis follow the Codex. If they catch wind of this, there may be no Deidactor Skerry to protect.”

“We have the support of Fleet Deidactor, and the governors all fear the spread of Ultramar’s influence. They would not dare to make a move against us.”

“They could report us to the Inquisition, and then they will have more resources than anything the Skerry can muster on its own.”

 

The two captains halted their walk at the edge of the wider mess hall’s entrance. Zahart’s head tilted up to meet the eyes of Partellan. “We will be fine, my friend. The Deidactor Skerry will welcome our reinforcements, and I will deal with the politics of the Pterachos Liberalis.”

[Urauloth]

Always nice to see people building up their own dark little corners of the galaxy. Interested to see where this goes!

[Bruce Malcom]

Part Two - The Chapters

 

The phithalo forests of Valeidlectus were an expanse that stretched for as far as one could see, broken only by gleaming ponds of crystal blue waters and villages of marble and charcoal black wood. It was without peer in all of the Deidactor Skerry for its pristine and hardly blemished beauty - its wildlife docile enough to not require endless armies of planetary defense, its woodland replenishing faster than normal trees, its population dedicated to its preservation.

 

There were few major settlements, most of them built in the archaic form of a castle or fort, and their population hardly went over a million souls. Yet the one exception to these standards was Pratctallia, a city constructed around the overgrown fortress-monastery of the Pterarchos Liberalis. Turquoise clashed with worn bronze plating across its width and length, while harmless vines and shrubbery overtook the structure.

 

Pratcallia was the first settlement established on the planet, thus its size and seeming disregard for the rules emplaced afterwards by the Pterarchos Liberalis on its preservation. Across it, squads of scout marines patrolled the marble and wood city alongside the typical law enforcement, and chapter serfs competed for roles and status within the city inside the dedicated political halls of the fortress-monastery.

 

While the Imperial Shields had their wardenhood over Lysbonus and the wider Deidactor Skerry, the Pterarchos Liberalis had their own personal realm, an echo of their progenitors, the Ultramarines’ wider empire from ages prior. Control of the planet was officially shared between Drakul Leskunmo, the planetary governor, and Hadrian Respervus, the chapter-master, but all who took residence on the world knew who really handled the planet.

 

—---------------

Drakul’s plain cloth and cotton robe clashed with his garment of fine silks and fur. It was both prideful and reserved, glamorous but secretive, but there was a sigil emblazoned on his back that was unmistakable. The wings of a bird, like the tool of chaplains, sat bold and wide on a central circle. It was the chapter marking of the Pterarchos Liberalis.

 

His leathery skin was contorted and bent around mechanical tubing and ruined body structure, held together by hidden technology and surgery. His body had received the worst of a geneseed’s rejection, and every cell in his body suffered for the folly of Apothecaries prior. Yet he had endured, his mind far from inoperable.

 

On a throne he sat, his mechanical right eye connected to cogitators and data-slates. If one did not know better, they may have even mistaken him for a scion of the Mechanicus. But his blue and teal robes paired with bronze and gold regalia spoke to his true allegiances. So far deep into the cogitator’s provided systems that he was not even surprised when the door to his chamber opened abruptly.

 

It was an Astartes, from the chapter he served. Fresh scrapes and holes dotted his armor plating, pieces of ceramite and adamantium torn off crudely and with abandon. “Governor,” the Astartes’ booming voice began. “The sixth company returns from its crusade!” His power sword was jutted towards the tall ceiling, its blade crackling with invisible power and held by a warrior of renown. Yet Drakul’s face remained unchanged, uninterested, even annoyed.

“Glory to the sixth,” he said, his tone as static as the mountains. There was an awkward silence that followed, where the Space Marine continued to stare as if prepared to receive further praise, and the governor gave none.

 

“Is that all, governor? My deeds will be recognized, my ten dead shall be mourned, mortal,” the captain demanded. “Write down in your scrolls their names, and then I shall leave. I want their titles engraved on the wall of the fallen!”

“Your men shall be mourned when I find the time, sixth captain Artrellus. You should demand the honors for your men from the Master of the Marches, not I. Now leave me, I have a civilization to run.”

 

The captain continued to glare, his sword angrily emplaced in his scabbard. His free hand clenched, the slow grinding of finger plating against the palm dully audible. “You disrespect me, mortal? My troops?”

“You embarrass yourself, captain Artrellus. Do not lose your rank over problems of your own fabrication. Now go, Astartes.”

 

Artrellus burned with a terrible rage, unwanted desires creeping into his consciousness from the recesses of the id - but he did not give in, and merely stormed off, each footstep threatening to dent the durable synthetic marble beneath his heels. Drakul did not give the man another thought, choosing to keep his mind on the tasks of the planet and its problems.

 

Every day he ended alone. He had forsaken any chance at a normal life, with normal prides and connection, when he attempted to join the Pterarchos Liberalis over a century ago. He was but a child then, no older than thirteen, when the call across the planet was made for potential aspirants to partake in the trials. He had gone with friends - none were still alive to share his shame - and while he was tested capable of accepting the geneseed of Guilliman, he had failed physically in the tests.

 

They had all said he would make for a subpar, weak Astartes, not worthy of the bolter and chainsword he would’ve been given. But they did not say anything ill of his mind. They had never planned to send him back to his family in shame, or pass around ammunition in the fortress-monastary. He was destined for something, even if Astarteshood was out of the question.

 

But they never warned him how dull that destiny would be. For a century he has drunk wine, succled the life of underlings and crafted a political phalanx stronger than any construction of the Imperial Shields. Yet he could claim no dead Ork, no dead clawbug to his name and honor. He had a few children sired, a horde of gold and aquillagelt, but none of these things compared to the glory he felt he lacked. If only they had uplifted him anyway, if they gave him a chance to train his body and strengthen his physical power…

 

Such times had passed, and he was an old man now. Try as he did, however, there was no being content.

 

—-------------------

“A toast!” a loud, charismatic voice resonated throughout the feasting hall, its walls adorned with banners and sigils of the chapter it was claimed by. Fine wood and turquoise duracrete mingled into a truly unique design, decorated with gold and milky pearls. Large Astartes in full plate sat around the table, gorging on the fruits and meat offered by the countless lesser kingdoms scattered across Valeidlectus, though a few wore silk robes and cream togas.

 

The champion at the head of the table had ceramite-adamanitum plates covered in deep blue and red stripes, colors clashing with the turquoise-bronze aesthetic of the Pterarchos Liberalis. It was a piece of relic armor dating back to the Great Crusade, a plume of red atop his Mark IV power armor. A leather battle skirt sat around his waist, with a full scabbard emplaced aside his waist. mirroring the master-crafted bolt pistol on the other. His name, often spoken with total reverence for his ability in leadership and combat, was Hadrian Respervus.

 

“To the sixth company, who valiantly strode against the Clawbug Hive on Strevolok - and to the seventh, which still returns from its mission against the Ruinous Powers and their heretical agents. Finally, our campaign against the cursed warband, the Disciples of Grulgor, will be at an end, and the Deidactor Skerry will be safe from such taint spreading,” the champion finished as he rose his glass of perfect red wine. He could not be intoxicated by the liquid, but he could not deny its particular taste.

 

“Aye, to the fifth and the seventh!” Another embellished Astartes stated in joyful agreement, and all around the table were glasses hit against one another, and within moments their contents disappeared down the gullet of the scions of Guilliman. The feasting and comradery was disrupted, however, when the twin doors to the vast hall were opened with an unmistakable, attention-demanding creek.

 

Stepping through the doors was Zahart Prosiel, his blonde yellow armor far more damaged than the Pterarchos commanders’ sets combined. Hadrian watched as Prosiel progressed past the auxilla guard, the gathered Pterarchos who turned to watch the First Captain of the Imperial Shields interrupt their beloved, traditional feast of victory.

“Zahart Prosiel,” Hadrian managed, after collecting himself after surprise. “What brings you to our home, Zahart? Is there trouble, or are these political matters?”

“I need to speak with you,” Prosiel replied. “It is…vital.”

Hadrian’s face bore a pout. “Truly, there is no time to finish?” Zahart contained his judgment at the gluttony on display, releasing his words through a single sigh, and nodded.

“Finish your meal,” Prosiel conceded and Hadrian’s face brightened. He waved over a serf, and quickly a new chair was brought.

“Then, perhaps, you can join us in the interim? There are enough turkeys to spare congratulating the Imperial Shields’ consistent defense of the Skerry, along with your destruction of the Tyranids’ splinter hive, Zahart.”

 

Prosiel wasn’t sure what to do in the situation. He was proud that they held such an important place in protecting the Deidactor Skerry, but was he proud of the methods they took to do so? His old friend, attached to a machine of wires and data-nodes. His brothers, butting heads with Imperial admirals and regiment commanders. His available troops lost their edge, dying in numbers not easily replaced. At least, not before.

“Of course, I will join you,” Prosiel replied simply, gathering newfound warmth in his voice. He was simply eating an evening meal with a friend, nothing more. No honor, no ritual. He pushed away the darker thoughts of stealing this reward from those who better earned it, and bit down into the roasted, well-prepared animal presented to him.

 

“So, shield-master,” one of the Pterarchos began, referring to him by a title he had earned many moons prior, “how goes the patrols and such on Lysbonus? Any surprises?”

Surprises. Third Captain Aeterus Cavallo knew what he was doing when he asked that question. He knew full well Prosiel had not gone into a true battle in just over twenty years. It had been so terribly long since he had been entrapped with the responsibilities of protecting the Deidactor Skerry. With every passing day, he felt like he was less its protector, and more its ruler. Some hidden, treacherous aspect of his soul yearned for a menace which could breach the Skerry’s outer defenses and survive its preemptive strikes, so he could have a reason to engage in battle once more. 

“No, no surprises. You?”

“Oh, do not get him started,” Fifth Captain Nepellus Poterion commented in a friendly jab. “He will talk until your skin falls off your bones about conquests new and old.”

“Jealousy is unbecoming of you,” Aeterus replied in mock disappointment, before shifting his ignited attention back to the Imperial Shield. “I had quite the surprise just a few months ago. Nepellus had lent me one of his pursuit frigates to chase down a pirate force of cutters and corvettes, leading into the winding fields of asteroids behind the backdrop of the Ganhaw’s Gleem.” The Ganhaw’s Gleem. A beautiful ocean of bright purple and turquoise light which made for a den of piracy and secessionist asteroid colonies. Battlefleet Fortuna was considering a campaign to take the Gleem, but was distracted by deflecting an attack by the Disciples of Grulgor. “We delved into the violet depths of the Gleem, void shields raised in case something appeared from the Gleem that our sensors did not detect.

“Our vigilance was justified, for when a small horde of needle fighters peered out of the pink-blue miasma, our flak cannons came alive. Over the beautiful backdrop of the Gleem, a new wall of orange flame appeared, burning away the needle ships by the dozen. When their numbers were made zero, we were able to trace the servitor command vox-signal back to their stolen escort carrier. Though it attempted to flee, the engines of the Konor-fashioned Longbow were not to be denied, and their vessel erupted in a great wave of flame and debris!”

Prosiel was unimpressed. The fact that this small pirate hunt was lauded so much by the captain betrayed his years and experience. Defeating a stolen, worn escort carrier with an Astartes frigate, built by one of the greatest forge worlds of Ultramar was as easy and natural as a farmer reaping wheat - hardly worth the honor roll for the ship’s service history.

“Did you catch the rest of them?” Prosiel asked simply, little interest in his tone, deep and unfluctuating. Aeterus tilted his head in confusion.

“We destroyed the carrier,” Aeterus commented, most of the humor gone from his voice. “What more was there to capture? There was no flotilla, only a single ship of traitors.”

“That you know of,” Prosiel responded, darkening the mood of the feast. “Did you bother checking its navigation cogitators? Interrogating the crew?”

“Brother, I do not think the dining table is the place for this,” Hadrian gently cautioned, trying to save the celebratory mood from the void of humor that was Prosiel often called. “The traitors are dead, their vessel of terror asunder, the Imperium aided. That is enough for me.”

The Imperial Shields captain held his tongue, despite the churning waves of criticism brewing behind his sealed lips. What if they were part of a greater force, an alliance of traitors and freebooters? Who would clean the mess of such a party of raids against the Deidactor Skerry? Of course, it would be the Shields, and at best the Pterarchos Liberalis would assist lightly and defend its own territory, and proceed to feast on meat, pastries and vegetables over it like slobs.

 

“Aye,” Prosiel said. “My apologies, third captain. I am still trying to remove myself from the pale yellow walls of the Reviere, and I forget I am not the first captain in all places.”

“No worries, Prosiel. I am not blind to the stresses the Shields suffer through. Though I must ask,” Aeterus started, and Prosiel flinched. He had come here to gain Hadrian’s support in the Shields’ plan to expand, and to ensure no friction may arise from their decision, but ruining relations with the chapter’s leaders before even beginning that risky process would bring that plan to a halt before it could even begin. “Are you going to eat that ham?”

Prosiel’s internal tension held for nearly another minute, before he let it slip away as a rush of relief traveled up his body. He laughed weakly after the air escaped his lungs, and smiled cordially. “Of course. My thanks to the serfs who prepared this fine dining, it tastes better than any nutrient packets the tech-priests offer.”

This, gained the laughter of the gathered captains, and humor returned to the dinner feast.

—-----------------

“You wished to meet me in person, Zahart?” Hadrian asked, entering with the Imperial Shields first captain into an exceptionally large chamber. The seal of the Ultramarines sat on the archaic round table at its center, and relics of old Ultramar were scattered about, as if the fortress-monastery was a museum of distant worlds as much as it was the capital of the planet.

The meeting room glimmered with gold, silvers and platinum. Such material boons, not fit for a chapter of the Adeptus Astartes. Chapters should care about ceramite, adamanitum, rockcrete and lithius-silica, not currency and wealth. What madness, what glory captures these sons of Guilliman…

 

“Yes, I did,” Prosiel answered, his voice echoing slightly through the massive meeting room. “You have quite a collection of relics and items from days past…I don’t believe I’ve ever been in this chamber in all my visits.”

“Ah, we moved most of them from the internal holds a few levels down. The rest were gathered from campaigns in the border worlds of Ultramar, when we were called to serve. The Battle for Macragge bled the Ultramarines and Macragge dry for a time. All Astartes available were needed to defend its worlds,” Hadrian explained, taking a seat at the old, weathered table. “We even acquired a bolt pistol from the Dark Angels Legion, though we have yet to meet a descendant chapter to give it to. Nothing from the Fists though, I’m afraid.”

 

“It is alright, Hadrian.” Prosiel reconsidered his stance. If they were truly pieces of the Imperium’s past and not some attempt to flout greatness, perhaps it did have a purpose for the chapter after all. “The Imperium should do well to remember its history, and I am sure the chaplains enjoy this room most. It is best to keep those in the skull and black pleased, in my experience.”

Hadrian chuckled lightly. “Indeed, indeed. An angry chaplain is bad for one’s health, in more ways than one.”

Prosiel sighed. “I suppose we should get to why I asked to meet you, Hadrian. Unfortunately, it was not to share food, it was to discuss the Codex and its tenants.”

“The Codex?” Hadrian let out a fit of booming laughter. “Have you run out of copies to share among your chapter?”

“No, brother. I have come to the decision to amend it, in our chapter’s case.”

 

Hadrian’s joyful face went cold, and his hands twitched, spine rigid. “What?” was all he said. Already, Prosiel could tell this was not going to be an easy discussion.

“The Skerry is a large place, Hadrian. Even between two Astartes chapters, the administratum of Fortuna demands more from us, more from the Skerry. Even in the vastness of the Imperium of Man, every drop of blood, every gram of material is needed, and what better way to make that count than creating more Astartes to defend it?”

“You speak of legion-building,” Hadrian said in hushed, angered tones. “You speak of betraying the founding principles of the Codex Astartes, defying the endless wisdom of Roboute Guilliman! The Skerry is safe, brother, it is safer than it ever has been before. Once the Conviction of Lysbonus is repaired, even a full fledged attack from xenos or the Ruinous Powers could not break our fortress. There is no need to found new companies in the Imperial Shields, this is a play for power, nothing more!”

 

“Can you say this for certain?” Prosiel replied, maintaining his calm against the building rage inside him. “We are the jewel of Fortuna, and that draws eyes. Whispers from the Gleem, the sabotage of the Conviction, the Disciples of Grulgor’s last stand…it all means something. We are surrounded, Hadrian, on all sides. The Imperium is fraying, and we are already so distant from Terra. You said it yourself, even the Realm of Ultramar is shuttering under the weight. We are in a time of waning, and if we do not reverse that tide soon, we may need every Astartes we can get.”

“You are paranoid beyond reason,” Hadrian stated, as if feeling regret. “You have lost your mind behind the Reviere’s walls, sitting in the shadow of your thronebound master. Inactivity is poison for the Astartes’ soul, and so is jealousy. Declare yourself a chapter-master, crusade out, see the effectiveness of your current soldiers. You’ll see there is no need for this betrayal. Please, Zahart, do not make me choose between loyalty to the codex and the Imperium or my friendship with you.”

 

Though he disagreed, he had no easy counter to the points Hadrian had raised. Perhaps he had gone a fraction mad, jealousy getting the best of him. Even so, it was the path the rest of his chapter demanded. With even fifty more Astartes, he could shore up more defenses, free forces to patrol wider ranges of land. But how to tell him? How to convince Hadrian of this? “Hadrian, I could not expect you to understand the logistics of defending four worlds, three of them with a population nearing a trillion souls, with a thousand warriors. That madness is mine to bear, yes. The Codex was built to have us be a speartip, a thousand-strong sword to shove into the enemies of mankind, but it was not intended as the foundations of making fortresses out of hive worlds, as the lord administrators planned for us here. We have the resources, the geneseed, the recruitment pool, indeed, little stops me from commissioning more Astartes right now. I just came to discuss this with you first. I do not need you to do the same. I merely need more Astartes, and I would be a fool not to get them when I could with a single vox-message.”

 

“The Inquisition would not see it that way,” Hadrian said plainly, and Zahart felt a twinge of betrayal in his heart. If he did not choose his words carefully, the alliance which protected the Skerry could completely crumble. “But it will not be me who tells them. This is so much risk, for so little payoff, Zahart. But I will not stop you.”

Surprise struck Zahart. The man who had been championing the codex and its mythical author a moment before had flipped his decision, and he was suspicious of the authenticity of Hadrian’s concession. But he wasn’t going to press on Hadrian, not after he gave him what he wanted, despite the odds. “Thank you, Hadrian. Know that the Shields owe you and the Pterarchos Liberalis a large favor.”

“Be careful.” Hadrian’s humor had not returned, and his voice was stern and cold. “The Deidactor Skerry is already concerned about your degree of control. Do not give them reason to remove you for good.”

“I don’t intend to,” Zahart faintly smiled.