Chapter 70: Return to the Homeworld

Chapter 70: Return to the Homeworld

Standard Terran Date: 783.M31

At the Mandeville Point of the Lemnos System, the energies of the Warp roiled in the void, like a million whispering daemons trying to claw their way into realspace.

Twelve voidships tore their way out of the rift, just as Petros had led his five ships out three years before. The fleet banked, engines firing, and began the slow, majestic cruise toward Lemnos III.

The Warband's new flagship, the Siluria-class Cruiser The Judgment's Edge, led the formation. Her engines emitted a low, powerful thrum, and her plasma-plumes burned bright blue, announcing the Warband's victorious return.

As the fleet settled into high orbit, Petros stood on the observation deck of the bridge, looking down at his homeworld. His eyes narrowed in displeasure.

Nearby, a solitary Dark Mechanicum Lunar-class Cruiser was docked at the orbital starport. Or rather, what passed for one. The station looked identical to how he had left it three years ago—a skeletal frame with a few hab-modules attached.

Petros scowled. He knew where the rest of the Dark Mechanicum fleet was. They were at Lemnos IV.

He was beginning to regret gifting them that planet. Not because it wasn't a sound long-term investment, but because he hadn't anticipated their selfishness. They had prioritized their own world so completely that his own starport—the vital link for his system—had been neglected.

He decided to pay them a visit.

A Storm Eagle descended to the landing pad of the half-finished starport. Petros, flanked by Phelon and Antonius, strode down the ramp. The hangar bay was pressurized and functional, at least, but that was small comfort.

The project overseer, a Dark Mechanicum Magos, met him. His bionic limbs glinted in the starlight, and his pale, fleshless face was devoid of emotion.

"Why is construction so slow?" Petros demanded, his voice hard with authority.

The Magos's vox-caster buzzed. [Error. Progress is within nominal parameters. Fleet resource allocation exhausted.]

Petros's eyes flashed with anger. "Nominal? It looks exactly the same as when I left."

[Progress nominal,] the Magos repeated. [Awaiting resource extraction from Lemnos IV to fabricate modular station components. Once complete, modules will be transported and integrated.]

"I understand logistics," Petros growled. "But I am reminding you that this station is critical for system security. Do not test my patience."

It was a plausible excuse—building up infrastructure on Lemnos IV to better build the starport here—but Petros knew better. Tech-Priests were all the same. If they wanted to build something, they would move mountains. If they didn't, they would cite a thousand protocols and delays. Unless you put a bolter to their heads... which, admittedly, sometimes worked.

But now was not the time to antagonize his allies. In the Maelstrom, a greedy friend was better than another enemy. He would just have to keep pushing them.

Leaving the stalled construction site, Petros turned his attention to the most pressing matter: the cargo.

Thousands of shuttles and landers began the massive undertaking of ferrying two million captives from the fleet to the surface. Like a stream of ants, the aircraft moved back and forth.

For a planet with only 11 million inhabitants, absorbing two million new souls was a monumental challenge. Culture shock, language barriers, and loyalty to the Emperor would all be issues.

But Petros knew this influx of blood was vital. As for how to manage them... that was a problem for Planetary Governor Skaman and Chronicler Sappho. That was why he had appointed them—to handle the tasks an Astartes would not.

The new arrivals would be angry. There would be unrest, perhaps even riots. But with the Astropaths under strict control, their cries would never leave the planet.

And Lemnos III was not a Hive World. In a hive, even the lowest dregs could find a stub-gun or a laspistol. Here, weapons were scarce. The planet had been using bronze and iron just ten years ago. Even with the new manufactorums, firearms were strictly controlled. A revolt without weapons, against a garrison of Astartes, was suicide.

The Planetary Enforcers had been built up over the last few years. They would crack down hard. Tens of thousands of the new arrivals might end up in labor camps, or lobotomized into servitors. It was harsh, but it was the Imperial way, and it was what they understood.

As for their loyalty to the Emperor... time was the cure.

A year would pass, then two. They would realize there was no rescue. They would work, they would eat, they would survive. They would marry the locals, have children.

The next generation would be native-born. The generation after that would view the stories of the "Imperium" as myths of the old world. The Imperial aquila would fade from their minds, replaced by the burning shield of the Forged Steel.

Petros remembered an old text he had read in the Eye of Terror, written by an ancient Terran apothecary. It had said: "Time is the medicine that cures all ills."

He watched the landers descend, carrying the future of his world.