Chapter 509: Labor at the Galaxy's Edge
Compared to the multifaceted fires of war currently consuming the stars, the atmosphere aboard the Honor of Macragge was one of relentless, grinding industry.
With the Dawnlight having departed alongside the First Expeditionary Fleet, a harmonious consensus had been reached between the new generation of demigods and their brothers returned from antiquity. The combined administrative weight of the Primarchs' disparate realms now converged within the hull of this singular Gloriana-class vessel.
The ship felt crowded, its opulent corridors teeming with busy chancellors, representatives from the Imperium's vital organs attached to the Primarchs' executive core, and vox-caste specialists coordinating communication between a thousand organizations. Direct advisory groups constantly relayed the Sires' commands, while reinforced security detachments patrolled the intersections to ensure the safety of this hive of governance.
In the ship's primary reception gallery, a steward presented a tray of vintage Ultramarine wine to a group of unique guests.
Unlike his interactions with the human dignitaries awaiting an audience, his posture was notably lower, his gaze carefully leveled to maintain eye contact with the stout, broad-shouldered visitors—a necessary mark of respect for the "Sanctioned Abhumans."
Nearby Imperial representatives watched with unconcealed curiosity as the newcomers sat upon height-adjustable benches, their feet dangling short of the floor—a sight that seemed almost comical to the average citizen of the Imperium.
"Brother, I find this scrutiny increasingly difficult to endure."
Clink.
A thick, powerful arm seized a glass. Thorgrim Grudgebearer (Solgrim), High King of the Greater Thurian League (Great Seria League), adjusted his hood as if to mask his features. Beside him, the Brew-Priest (Grimnyr) Thorek Ironbrow (Sorek) whispered a quiet complaint.
"Especially after those Aeldari departed. They have not stopped staring."
"Silence," Thorgrim rumbled, shaking his head.
The wine was too sweet for his palate, a sugary beverage meant for Imperial nobility that tasted like thin juice compared to the thick, potent ales of the Ancestor-Cores. Long hours of being "baptized" by the strange looks of the Imperial court were beginning to erode his diplomatic patience.
He found the situation maddening. If the Eldar xenos were permitted to negotiate treaties, why were the Kin—the true, genetic scions of ancient Terra—treated like an exotic curiosity?
Two CORV-pattern drones hovered beside the Brew-Priest, emitting a low, directional hum. These support units, designed to facilitate psionic channeling, also functioned as a localized sound-shield, preventing their private mutterings from being intercepted by the inquisitive ears of the court.
The High King sank into a brooding silence, his mind returning to the catastrophe that had consumed the Galactic Core over the last thirty years.
The collapse of the Leagues. The corruption of the Votann Cores. The "Cloneskeins"—the genetic tapestries of his people—becoming a breeding ground for Warp-borne horrors. The relentless incursions of Chaos fleets, the slaughter, the sacrifices, and the tearing open of the Great Rift...
The Ruinous Powers had turned their gaze toward the center of the galaxy, and the once-isolated holdfasts of the Kin had been unable to withstand the shadow.
As Abaddon's fleet had methodically dismantled the Leagues of Votann over several years, the Kin's former arrogance had transitioned into a grim respect for the Imperium. They finally understood how the humans had survived ten millennia of this hell, and they began to comprehend the "extreme" choices the Throne had often made in the name of survival.
During the height of the rot, Thorek hadn't known who to trust. Warp-taint was ubiquitous; whether it was a Kin emerging from a cloning vat or an Ironkin bearing the uploaded consciousness of the ancestors, no one was above suspicion.
The nightmare had only begun to lift when Thorgrim, overriding the objections of his traditionalist peers, formally petitioned the Maelstrom Guardian, Lugft Huron, for asylum. They had officially declared the Kin as a branch of Humanity, seeking integration into the species to secure a future.
Huron, executing the Dawnbreakers' protocols with absolute rigidity, had responded immediately. He had deployed strike forces to salvage the STCs and uncorrupted Votann Cores, assigned psychic cadres to screen for taint, and provided humanitarian aid to the shattered settlements with a degree of "Imperial Dignity" that had stunned the survivors.
Sigh.
At the thought of Huron—who had since risen to even greater heights—and the summons he had sent on behalf of the Primarchs, Thorgrim let out a heavy breath.
Years ago, we traded as equals. Now, I have to book an appointment just to see his face.
But there was no other path.
Mankind and Chaos were currently locked in a terminal struggle. Between the two, and the extragalactic Tyranid swarms, the galaxy was a meat-grinder, and the Kin were caught in the middle.
A minor overflow of the Great Conflict had nearly ended their race. Asylum was the only logical choice.
The High King's eyes flickered, ignoring the stares of the court as he mentally tallied what assets his clans still possessed that might interest a Primarch.
Thorek remained silent, nursing his sweet wine. To a Kin, whose physiology far surpassed the Imperial norm, this was little more than a child's drink.
"Lord Thorgrim. High King of the Votann. Leader of the Kin."
A familiar voice cut through the king's brooding.
Thorgrim looked up.
Standing before him was Lugft Huron, Guardian of the Maelstrom.
He was clad in golden and silver Cataphractii-pattern Terminator plate. On his left pauldron was a masterwork engraving of the Roman-style laurels of Macragge; his right bore the sleek, futuristic sigil of the Dawnbreakers. Beneath the heraldry were the engraved creeds of his station:
'EXCELLENCE THROUGH LABOR'
'RESTRAINT THROUGH WILL'
Intricate ciphers and Romanesque patterns wove across every inch of his armor—a chronicle of the master's life and honors that was opulent yet refined, speaking of power without the need for posturing.
Over his heart sat a glowing icon that burned with an intense brilliance.
Thorek, an expert in mineralogy, recognized the stone instantly: a Star-Eye, a priceless gem forged in the extreme gravitational pressures of the Galactic Core. Within the crystalline shell, clusters of light points swirled in a liquid suspension, moving with the wearer's every motion like a miniature galaxy in flux.
It was the badge of the Savior of the Maelstrom.
"The Primarchs have accepted your petition for an audience."
Huron, acting as the de facto Secretary-General during the Sires' stay in the sector, looked down at his old friend. He was a man who never missed an opportunity for professional advancement.
"It is my honor," Thorgrim replied. He pressed a manual release on his seat, preventing himself from having to "hop" off the furniture—a loss of dignity he refused to suffer—and stood to offer a fist-to-chest salute.
Huron allowed a small smile.
He remembered the border wars of decades past, where the two sides had traded blows and naval salvos until a stalemate forced a trade agreement. Back then, they couldn't even produce enough to satisfy the Dawnstar's appetite.
Now, the Kin were coming to him as supplicants.
But Huron was a professional. The Kin had high strategic value, and as a branch of Humanity (regardless of what the Ecclesiarchy's more zealous elements thought), they were far more acceptable partners than the Eldar. He wasn't about to sabotage the meeting with petty grudges.
"Follow me."
Huron nodded to his old acquaintance and turned, his heavy cloak snapping as he led the way. He ignored the envious looks of the modern Ultramarines lining the hall.
Thorgrim and Thorek exchanged a glance, sighed, and followed.
At least the giants were being polite. They hadn't called them "Squats" yet. And with Huron as their escort, the weight of the court's gaze felt slightly less crushing.
Passing through multiple checkpoints and witnessing the diverse host of the Sons of Guilliman, Thorgrim finally entered the grand strategium—a room the size of a plaza.
Romulus, the Regent, sat with a hand over his mouth, his face partially obscured by a data-slate. Karna, the Burning Angel, maintained a relaxed, almost indifferent posture, seemingly unbothered by the chaos around him.
Roboute Guilliman sat in the center, his expression a mask of stern intensity as he glared at a document in his hands.
The surrounding Ultramarines were backing away, maintaining a respectful distance as if trying to give the Primarch air.
As the Kin approached, the sheer height of the desks made it difficult to see the Sires' faces clearly.
The Regent looks... displeased, Thorgrim thought, a primal instinct warning him of danger.
He lowered his head, waiting for Huron to announce them.
"My Lords," Huron intoned, offering a perfect salute. "The representatives of the Leagues of Votann have arrived."
"Ah."
Guilliman looked up, dropping the "grumpy father" act he had been putting on for the benefit of his sons. He smoothed his features into the professional mask of a statesman.
"Bring them forward."
He gestured, and a squad of Ultramarines hurried to position two specialized, tiered chairs. These would allow the Kin to ascend to a level where they could look the Primarchs in the eye without being dwarfed by the massive mahogany desk.
A visible wave of relief swept through the Ultramarines in the room. The atmosphere lightened instantly.
Some "jokes" among the Primarchs were simply too much for the transhuman heart to bear.
Servius, Guilliman's new chamberlain, looked particularly relieved, earning an "I told you so" glance from Thiel and Drakus.
The staff returned to their work. One team resumed the macro-logistics of the sector; another organized the diplomatic files; a third presented the "Audit of the Leagues" to the front of the table.
The Leagues of Votann were not a unified state, but a collection of social and economic blocs known as Kindreds. Their primary political entity was the League itself.
Physically, the Kin were not vastly different from baseline humans. They were the remnants of the Dark Age of Technology. Unlike the warped mutants of the underhives, the Kin were products of stable, advanced genetic engineering. Their link to the "human trunk" was closer than that of Ratlings or Ogryns.
According to their internal philosophy, the "First Truth," the Kin possessed a deep sense of human identity. They believed they were descended from the "Ancestors"—ancient Terran prospectors and colonists who had ventured into the Core with the super-intelligent "Ancestor Cores" to preserve knowledge and guide the species.
During the Cybernetic Revolt, this migration had lasted centuries. The fleets had never returned to the human core, and in their isolation, they had taken the name "Votann."
"We salute the Great Protectors of Mankind. I, Thorgrim Grudgebearer, represent the Leagues in offering our gratitude for Your sanctuary."
Ascending the steps, Thorgrim realized that these Primarchs were far more "Imperial" and dignified than any governor he had ever dealt with. He remained standing until he had offered his formal respect to all three.
"Please, be seated," Romulus said. He set aside an application from the Mechanicus on Armageddon requesting the processing power of the Azure for Webway simulations and nodded to the High King.
Thorgrim cast a humble, almost pleading look at each Primarch. Only when they all offered a silent affirmation did he take his seat.
Among the wise, respect was a currency. If the Primarchs could account for the physical differences of his race, the Kin would not be found wanting in etiquette.
"..."
Guilliman offered a silent nod of approval.
While he understood the frantic pace of the Great Crusade, he had always held a grievance against how his brothers handled human sub-branches.
To charge in with bolters screaming and initiate an Exterminatus just because a colony didn't look "standard" was a waste of resources. It left a trail of ruins and resentment. It was no wonder Horus—the one brother who had possessed the patience for diplomacy—had won the title of Warmaster.
Sit. Talk. Negotiate. It is more efficient, Guilliman thought. And for a Primarch, it shouldn't be this hard.
"Phew—"
Far away in the Calixis Sector of the Obscurus Segmentum, Lion El'Jonson frowned as he wiped the ichor of a Khorne Great Daemon from his blade.
He stood amidst the wreckage, watching a portion of the daemon dissolve under the power of the C'tan-blade, while another part was dragged into the shadows by the spectral guardians of the Calibanite forest. The remainder fled back to the Brass Throne to face the Blood God's judgment.
"Sire?" Corswain asked, noticing the Lion's distraction.
"Someone is speaking ill of me," the Lion replied, addressing his most trusted son.
"And they aren't being subtle about it."
Since being tutored by Ramesses and the Emperor, the Lion's connection to the Warp had deepened. His instincts, already legendary, had become preternatural.
"Hm."
Corswain nodded. The Dark Angels around them, veterans of the 31st Millennium, let out a collective sigh of relief.
The Lion explains himself now. That is a good omen.
If they were back in the old days and the Lion had suddenly gone cold and silent, they'd be checking their necks for a blade.
"No matter. Assemble the officials. We must ensure local governance is stabilized before we depart. I will not leave a mess for my brothers to clean up."
He sheathed the blade Arthur had forged for him. He no longer brooded over his errors; he simply corrected them.
His intuition narrowed the source of the "bad vibes" instantly.
It has to be Guilliman.
"I have a distinct feeling of impending doom."
Guilliman, who was reviewing the technical files provided by the High King, suddenly felt his brow twitch. A faint, prickling sensation of "Unfortunate Theoreticals" rose in his chest.
But the feeling was ethereal, a mere spark in the storm of Imperial administration consuming his mind.
"What is it?" Karna asked, noticing the Regent's hesitation. He rose from his seat to check on his brother.
Guilliman frowned, trying to catch the thread of the sensation. But amidst the "Head-Cannon" of a million logistics reports, the feeling was evicted from his mind.
"It is nothing," Guilliman said, dismissing the premonition as a byproduct of exhaustion. He returned his focus to the technical exchange regarding Votann technology.
Karna sat back down, satisfied.
"The Leagues of Votann possess quite a collection of treasures," Romulus noted, flipping through the files. He ignored the minor interlude.
"Quite a few indeed."
He wasn't just talking about the Ancestor Cores or the pristine STCs.
The Dawnbreakers were focused on the core engine of the Kin's survival:
The Cloneskeins.
Essentially a planetary-scale gene-bank, this technology allowed the Kin to "weave" specific traits into their population. It ensured a stable cloning process while allowing for the creation of specialized individuals—genetically engineered for specific environments or high-stress labor.
The Kin reproduced much like the Adeptus Mechanicus—they were a race of clones. But where the Mechanicus used cloning to replace "defective" units under the fear of Chaos, the Votann used the Cloneskeins to ensure diversity and resilience.
The Kin possessed higher bone and muscle density than a baseline human, along with superior red and white blood cell counts. They were physically more durable.
Furthermore, the Cloneskeins could hard-code traits into the genome: enhanced reflexes, infra-sight, radiation resistance—traits that were hereditary.
The only thing that had stopped the Kin from becoming a dominant galactic power was their own traditionalism and isolation.
But the most critical feature of the Cloneskeins was the ability to "manufacture" psykers.
Under the stable cloning protocols of the Kin, they avoided the violent, unstable mutations seen in the human population. The Cloneskeins could even deliberately dampen a Kin's Warp-signature, making their souls appear "dim" to the predators of the Empyrean.
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