MLP 30K: Rebel Dawn

Amid the starry congregation, small specks of light dance and wink into and out of existence. Despite the seemingly random patterns woven among the spheres, there was a very real rhythm at work driving the spectacle onward.

The Guardian stares at the pulsing blue-white light silhouetting the curvature of Theta-Garmon II, the soft green and white wisps of the gas giant's upper troposphere barely touched by the dawning light of the somber star. Here, one could stand in utter silence as if hovering in the emptiness. Not a word passes his lips unless necessary, and alone with his thoughts, none was needed. He spots a dull grey-white object, a shape as insignificant as a child's model from this distance. Instead, a tightened grip on the sheathed hilt of Miseracordia betrays more than any silently observing could have hoped.

Hrafnkel hangs between himself and the blue hued horizon like a beast trying to interpose itself between another predator and its prey. But Theta-Garmon was no prey. The sharp glint of orbital star forts and space elevators bristling with armaments to protect battlefleet Solar's fleetworks were formidable, and the Sixth's flagship had others in mind.

Sanctioned meat. The Wolf King would see it as nothing else.

Other ships gather above the curve of the horizon, bloated Imperial Army mass conveyors and sharp geometrical mechanicum barques float near the largest star forts while the grey plated sharks of the Rout ply the void between, swarming around the larger Gloriana's flanks. Dozens of heavy cruisers, war galleons, and their trailing sliver-like escorts shine as they're caught by the glow of Theta-Garmon's bright blue-tinted star.

Hundreds of ships carrying thousands of men, women, and astartes gather at the Gateway to Terra.

All because of one creature's boundless hubris.

A quiet mechanical chirp echoes like a gunshot in the observatory tower. The gold-clad guardian doesn't even glance down as he activates a wrist mounted vox splicer. A tinny voice whispers from the other side, “Lord Valdor, hololith-transmission incoming.”

“Reroute to the observation deck main display.” Constantin Valdor unblinkingly commands, lifting his chin up, and for once, sliding his hand from the hilt of his gilded dagger to the rolled up stasis case on his hip. His armored fingers trace the Imperial Signet as he turns away from the window to face the center of the room. A flicker of blue light momentarily scars the unmarred disc of unbroken obsidian before small motes of light begin to gather in a misty cloud.

“-way with you, I will have words with my father's keeper!” the figure waves a hand dismissively, cutting off a few digits at the edge of the image field with the wild gesture.

It wasn't the Wolf King.

There's no spark of mischief, or the constant roam of the figure he expected, but the steely glare of golden disapproval.

“Warmaster Lupercal,” Valdor interjects as Horus rounds on him, yet calmly ignores the daggers cast by the primarch. He waits, knowing full well that there would be a delay in the transmission. “To what do I owe this unexpected interruption?”

“You damned well know, Valdor! What's this edict about Magnus I've been hearing of??”

Valdor watches Horus, seeing the flicker of anger in his eyes despite the imperfect flickers occasionally outlining his unshaven features. Cold green eyes pick out every imperfection beyond the transmission; his slight lean to the left while World Breaker rests on his shoulder, the lingering pull of a snarl on his lips, and the start of a hairline once again adorning his crown.

Valdor's palm rests on the Imperialis signet adoring the stasis case. “It's not a matter of edicts. Nikea was the Emperor's edict, this is his censure for an act of betrayal.”

“Betrayal, is it?” Horus says after a few telling seconds, yet the pause stole none of the heat from his near frothing bark. “Speaking of betrayal, did you get my reports of Lorgar's wayward legion?”

“The actions of the seventeenth legions are not at issue here, the disobedience of the fifteenth legion must be accounted for.”

“Did you hear me or not, Valdor?!”

The Captain-general unblinkly replies, “I have collected your reports, yes. They will be investigated in due course. But for the moment, there are more immediate issues that the Emperor must deal with.”

“Father, or you?” Horus snarls, “Is it true, Custodian? Is my brother there, conspiring with you?”

“The Wolf King is not currently present.” a flickering rune of an incoming transmission wants to call him a liar. Beneath the disembodied image of the Warmaster, a ident string belonging to the Hrafnkel's sanctum flickers into being.

After the transmission pause, Horus only growls, “But he is there.”

“Yes.”

Valdor's blase reply receives the same stony silence, though Horus's cheek twitches. “You're dedicated to prosecuting this, then? Magnus did what he could to help defend against an enemy of the Imperium.”

“All of us are sworn to defend against the enemies of the Imperium, Lupercal. Magnus did so in a manner unlawful and unju-”

“Fine, he helped defend against an enemy of mine.” Horus snarls more openly, taking a step forward as if to physically close the distance between them. The illusion may have even worked against lesser men, just as a lesser man may not have noticed the theatrical pause to catch them mid-sentence. “Magnus may be one of the few that can drag back Erebus by his collar for what he's done to me.”

“What complications you have suffered are immaterial. Imperial writ must be followed.” Valdor's impassive cadence draws not only the evident ire of Horus, but a renewed pinging flash of runes from the Hrafnkel. “By the word and the will of the Master of Mankind, Imperatoris, Terra Regnum, it is hereby decreed that Magnus, primarch of the fifteenth legiones astartes, be brought forth in censure and bound by law to stand before the Throne Imperial of Terra, there to answer-”

“Do not fling exposition at me like I haven't heard it before, Custodian.” Horus snorts, “Here is an equally important decree, lets see if you can guess who spoke it, 'I name you Warmaster, and from this day forth, all of my armies and generals shall take orders from you as if the words came from mine own mouth.' Now, do you recognize those words, Custodian?”

“Yes, Horus.” There's hardly a pause, and nothing more than the same numb look of detachment in the Custodus Captain-General's eyes, “And it is immaterial. This is a direct order from your Emperor. You will obey, and you will defer to Leman Russ and myself on this matter. We have been charged with the manner of enacting censu-”

“I WILL DO NO SUCH THING!” Horus spins the enormous mace on his shoulder, slamming it down tip first into the ground on the Vengeful Spirit, getting a spark and flicker of the hololith along with a hollow 'bang' robbed of its power by the distance. “I am the Warmaster! I was entrusted with His will! I will spell it out for you once, Custodian, so listen carefully. I. Am. His. Will.”

“I am His spear and his will, Horus. You are His proxy in military matters, not in matters of state. I am enacting the will of the Imperial council, and you will not interfere in the lawful prosecution of our duties. Not mine, nor Russ's in this. The matter is closed. You will not overstep your mandate as given to you by the Emperor, beloved by all.”

Whether a trick of the light or something more, the Warmaster's eyes flash a pale white corresponding to a flush of his pallid face. “You willfully defy me, Custodian?”

“No.” Valdor blinks just once, his grasp once more passing from the imperial signet to the hilt of his dagger. “It is impossible for me to defy the will of someone who has no authority over me. The Legio Custodes does not recognize the station of Warmaster as we are commanded by the Master of Mankind directly. We have no need of a proxy's faulty interpretation.”

“Damn you and your stubborn streak, Valdor! I give you information that is leagues more important than your pursuit of a petty quarrel, and what do you do but spit in my face!” Horus's red flush of anger never recedes, it grows even more pronounced, as does the quiet hiss of a voice in the background.

Valdor was all but certain he heard one of the Warmaster's subordinates counseling calm, only to be shunted away as Horus's grip tightens with a crackle around the pommel of World Breaker, tracing his hands over enormous mace's wire bound leather.

For all his prowess and glory, this was anything but unexpected. Valdor chances a glance at the still flashing ident trying to capture his attention, though that in itself was enough to draw a base lupine growl from the face a half-galaxy away.

“Warmaster, it is a fundamental mistake to believe yourself a competent and capable intercessor on such matters. You would be better served doing your duty in the Great Crusade and leaving such matters of governance to those made to enact it.”

The reply is snarling and immediate, spittle flecked and wrothful, “Then why don't you practice doing your damned duties and string up a real criminal like Erebus? But no. Here you are, rooting around in the hopes we wouldn't notice you slipping in like a thief to enact your own petty little plots!”

For once in what felt like decades, the Custodian Captain-General sighs. The slow crawl of what approaches a weary and unamused grimace shuffles across his sharp Eurasian face. “You are being an obstinate child, Horus. With all the stubbornness, and even less wisdom, in your misplaced ire. We obey, as should you. Learn your place, Sedecim.”

With a roar of anger, the Warmaster stalks as close to the edge of the projector as he can, picking up the towering presence as if staring into the Custode's eyes with a glower to quail tyrants and kings. Yet Valdor's impassive eyes merely trace the movements with detached dismissal. “One of these days,” Horus snarls, keeping his voice low and evidently personal, “I will break your blustering ego, or I will break your neck. Whichever comes first.”

The air shudders, as if it heard the Warmaster's threats, before suddenly flickering and dying.

The emblem for the Hrafnkel brightens for a moment, and fades. Valdor turns his back on the obsidian disc, going back to watching the last stages of replenishment. His attention falls on a trio of veridian hued cruisers among the shark-like escorts of the Rout, each bears the golden Eye of Terra on their wedge-shaped bows.

“Valdor to Oriflamme command,” the vox chirps a musical note of acknowledgement, “set a tracking and secondary firing solution on the squadron belonging to the sixteenth legion garrison fleet. Appraise me if they make any sudden alterations.” a reply chime wordlessly affirms the order a moment later before plunging the observation deck into silence.

Tybalt Marr watched his gene-father shaking and quivering as he clasped his hand around the wire-bound heft of the enormous mace in his grasp. It wasn't wise to interrupt, not like this. A thought evidently shared by the rest of the small coterie of astropath attendants standing at the edges of the raised dais.

The astrotelepathic relay and long-range communication hub was typically plunged into the unnerving silence, ignorant of the sleep-tremors of the astropathic choir in their sensory deprivation tanks, but this was different.

The Lupercal's broad back continues to quake as if shocked by a bolt of lightning for a few unsettling moments more, before finally he heaves a deep breath and speaks as if at a great distance.

"You have five minutes, and if you do not heed me, I'm going to wring your conveniently sized neck."

A measured female voice calls from the periphery. “Commander?” Ing Mae Sing, mistress of the astropaths, calls only for Horus's hand to shoot up and silence her with a single gesture.

"Not. You." Horus hisses through clenched teeth, keeping his hand upraised for a moment longer before slowly letting it rest on World Breaker's pommel. The willowy woman merely halts and bows her head before retreating towards the shadowy outlier of the room.

Marr covertly taps the vox-bead again, willing an absent Tarik Torgaddon to recognize the wordless series of vox-pops directed towards him. It was safer than confronting the shivering primarch, whose breaths only just started to lose its snarling edge. Even now, it was hard to miss the squirm of the hairless figures in the tank as if trying to shy away from his anger.

Damn it Tarik, aren't you done with our guests yet?

The center of the communication hub was usually devoid of anything but unmarred onyx discs, and Marr had already spoken up once and been waved away. An awkward silence fills the chamber, not helped at the Warmaster's silence as he stares blankly into the void left by the Custode's Captain-General.

In the brief respite that follows, Horus's voice comes out clear. “You are in my confidence, Tybalt. So confide: what say you?”

Thrown for a moment, the captain blinks and clears his throat. He wasn't mourneval, this was unexpected. Not to mention, improper. “Commander-”

“Off the record, Tybalt. No formalities.” The primarch turns his hulking frame just enough to glimpse Marr from the corner of his eye. The profile view was theatrical, like some brooding protagonist from an ancient playhouse operatic.

“Horus,” Marr swallows down the odd sense from that address, “Erebus is still a problem but our trail is cold. Magnus seems to be an ally, and one we may need to hunt down Erebus's... witchcraft.” The astartes reflexively bites his tongue, knowing the implications of what they needed as well. “This feels inopportune, perhaps even instigated by Erebus as a fall-back to eliminate a threat. But I do believe that the Captain-General will deal with this fairly. We should remain on course for our own objective. Which would be easier if you told us what that is.”

"You know precisely what our objective is, but I will not go about informing every rating and servitor about it. Only I need to know, everyone else need only obey." Horus grunts, taking that into consideration before looking more directly at Marr. “Would it surprise you that Valdor and I rarely see eye to eye? Or that while he avows neutrality, I placed Abaddon in the background to ensure that Valdor's golden puppets wouldn't harass Magnus at Ullanor?”

“I can't imagine Abaddon was happy with that.”

“No, he wasn't. And still isn't. But it was necessary.” The Warmaster breathes a breathy sigh and straightens up, rolling his left shoulder with a twitch, “Much of being a Warmaster is doing what is necessary, and delegating responsibility to others. But I am not a man of inaction, Tybalt. I am not a man content to sit here and have others do all my work for me.”

“Commander.” Marr nods respectfully, seeing the Warmaster's change of mood, but it wasn't far removed from before.

The anger still lingers in his golden eyes as Horus turns, “Mistress Sing,” he glances at the smooth skinned willowy figure cloaked in the gaudy trappings of a chief astropath, “Do forgive my roughness earlier, Cthonic blood runs hot. But, would you kindly send another message, one to all of my sons that they are to await my instructions. War footing.”

While the astropath nods, Marr merely asks, “The whole legion?”

Horus merely grins toothily, “Everyone.” The false grin fades, showing the same barely suppressed anger. “Marr, gather my mourneval and meet me in the strategium. I'll be with them presently. I have someone else to inform before this is set in motion.”

Marr nods quickly turning on his heel and striding past the entombed figures of the sleeping astropaths. They consistently unnerved him, open-mouthed husks asleep and unaware. Emaciated, sickly, laying in tangles of wires in bilious amnion or covered beneath thin vellum-skin sheets as if grown from an artificial womb.

As the door closes, the sensation doesn't quiet disappear. A prickling sensation traces up his spine. Adrenal stims course through his system as he feels the distinct sensation of eyes tracing his every moment. He turns, seeing only the empty plasteel grey hallway.

He blinks for a moment, looking around, smelling the faint iron-stink of rust and decay. Marr snuffs, clearing his nostrils in a moment and striding back down the hall and headed back to the strategium. He taps his vox-bead, “Garviel, Tarik, the Commander wants to see us in the strategium immediately.”

After a second, he hears two pops.

“Acknowledged, Marr.”

Tarik grins a little, “Hear ya' Tibs, just on my way out of the apothecarion.” With a buzzing pop, the vox goes silent and once more he's assailed with the sound of humming machines and medicae personnel.

"Please don't call me that again, Tarik."

"No promises."

The second company captain keeps the grin on his face, though it lacked the warmth of his more normal composure as he steals a sideways glance past the occupied medical cot and towards the clear glass walls looking out over a bustling hallway. Green and white coated mortal crew pass by, often enough a medicae servitor shuffles by with its assortment of bladed and needle-like protrusions flicking in the sterile air. It all reeked of the dead bio-scrubber tang that permeated the Vengeful Spirit's medical and research decks.

Tarik catches the amethyst armored figure conversing with interim chief apothecary Logaan, and the dark-haired chief geneticist whose name, for the life of him, he couldn't recall.

“So,” The legionnaire occupying the medica slab says with a wary grin and a lofted brow. “What brings one of the vaunted mourneval captains down to visit one so lowly as I?”

Tarik returns his gaze to the legionnaire. He was stripped out of his armor, new synthskin covering a mass of mottled purple and yellow tissue at the end of a short stump that was all that remained of his left arm. The sergeant still bore the gang-markings of Cthonia, a few glyphs along the left side of his neck, and splotched ugly shapes along the skin of his pectoral where the legion's gene-alteration had stretched it beyond its natural limit.

“What, can't a captain come and see one of the glorious victors of the assault on the Spirit?” Tarik lofts a brow and feigns offence.

The shark-like grin doesn't fade from the legionnaire, “That's usually a lieutenant's responsibility, or a company captain, innit?”

“Usually. But given what's left of your company, I don't see that happening in the near future, Grael.” Tarik shrugs. "You?"

Sergeant Grael's grin slips a bit, “No.” he shuffles, pulling himself up with his good arm and exposing the morass of new scar tissue across his abdomen. “Not unless the Warmaster starts appointing new officers. And, correct me if I'm wrong-” he pauses just long enough to let Targaddon interrupt if he wanted. “That would leave me as the ranking officer of the twenty-fifth company, right?”

“Sergeant to captain is a bit of a jump, even if you can count what's left of the company on your fingers.” Targaddon blinks, grimacing through a sheepish grin, “Well I can, at least. You're still a bit short.”

“Seems so, captain.” The legionnaire says and then narrows his eyes sharply. “So I take it you want something else while you're here.”

“Well, so long as I am here, Grael,” Torgaddon smirks a bit, “How about doing me a favor? I'm sure I can bring up your unique position with the Warmaster. You did survive, and even got one of the Word Bearer bastards, from what I heard.”

“Tried to gut me after a sucker punch in the hall,” Grael mutters, “Let me guess: you want me to keep an eye on the Peacock over there?” he pointedly looks through the clear glass panels at the purple-clad Fabius in his little gathering.

Torgaddon follows his gaze and smiles, “Maybe.”

“Sure. You're not the first to ask.” Grael reclined again and stares hard at the captain, “I think I can do that for you, Tarik. You can count on me.”

Torgaddon smiles, standing and giving the legionnaire a slight punch on his good shoulder. “Good.” It was quick enough to hide the small communicator that suddenly slipped in the golds of the green-grey blanket as the captain made his way to the sliding glass door.