Karon turned and climbed into the transport, the heavy hatch sealing shut behind him.
Amidst the roaring of massive engines, the armored convoy turned around and drove away from the base.
Cogboy stood atop the high wall, watching the fading trail of dust. He finally let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief.
"How did it go?" Paul's voice drifted over from behind him.
"I think... it went okay." Cogboy flexed his stiff mechanical arm. "Karon's final words felt like a genuine acknowledgment."
Blood Angels' Second Emperor stepped up onto the wall, watching the departing convoy. "The Iron Hands might be heavily mechanized, but the warriors themselves aren't bad people. During the Horus Heresy, even after their Primarch fell and the Legion lost over half its strength, a significant number of loyalists still fought on until the bitter end. They just... aren't very good at expressing themselves."
Tax Bro clambered up next, flashing a wide grin. "Are those smokes really that good? I saw the Space Marine Captain's eyes literally light up after taking a drag."
"It's the premium edition redeemed straight from the System Shop. How could it not be amazing?" Cogboy rolled his eyes. "One carton costs a hundred Imperial Coins. Fifty cartons cost us five thousand."
"Right now, we have half a foot firmly planted inside the Imperial system." Paul looked out toward the horizon, his gaze distant and profound."What happens next... all depends on what kind of identity and opportunity the Primarch gives us to openly intervene in the affairs of Aurelian IV."
At the exact same time, inside the Orion transport.
Karon sat in the passenger seat, quietly playing with the custom mechanical igniter in his hands.
Bright blue plasma arcs danced across his fingertips, illuminating the deep scar on his face.
"Captain," The Astartes driving the transport asked, "Is that base... truly clean?"
"At the very least, there is absolutely no Warp contamination." Karon pocketed the igniter, pulled out the open pack of cigarettes Cogboy had given him, and lit another one. "As for where they got their technology, or how they manufactured their weaponry... that is completely irrelevant."
"Why?"
"Because what our Father needs right now is a usable force."
Karon exhaled a thick plume of smoke, looking out the armored window at the passing wasteland.
"Aurelian IV desperately needs to be rebuilt. The local Mechanicus has been drastically weakened, and the four major factions exist in name only. There absolutely must be a new local power to maintain basic order and prevent mass chaos during this power vacuum."
He paused slightly. "As it stands right now... Crimson Dawn is by far the most optimal choice."
"Are they trustworthy?"
"Whether they are trustworthy or not depends entirely on how they are utilized."
Karon crushed the cigarette butt. "Our Father will place them in the correct position, provide them with adequate resources, and closely observe their development."
"If they truly intend to serve the Imperium, then everyone benefits."
"If they harbor treasonous ambitions..."
He glanced up at the rearview mirror. Reflected in the glass were the towering, nine-meter-tall walls of the Crimson Dawn sanctuary.
"The iron fist of our Legion can crush them at any time."
–
Fist of Iron, lower hangar corridor.
Karon Santos marched down the alloy decking, the heavy thud of his power armor echoing rhythmically through the cavernous passageway.
His left hand cradled the mechanical igniter, while his right hand held a half-empty bottle of freshly opened vodka. It was a sample Cogboy had forcefully shoved into his hands right before he boarded the transport.
The clear liquid sloshed gently against the glass, refracting an amber glow under the harsh, stark white lighting of the corridor.
The Fourth Company Captain took a deep breath, the lingering aroma of the specialized tobacco still resting pleasantly in his nasal cavity.
He had lived for nearly two centuries. He had smoked standard lho-sticks mass-produced in Martian manufactorums, sampled private blends rolled by the high nobility of the Ultima Segmentum, and even experimented with highly stimulating spices harvested from xenos civilizations.
But he had never found a single blend as dense, rich, and profoundly soothing as the cigarette he had just smoked.
Karon stopped before the massive airlock doors leading to the bridge.
The scanning array beside the bulkhead flashed crimson, rapidly verifying his power armor's heraldry, his facial biometrics, and finally, his unique genetic sequence.
Three seconds later, the twenty-ton alloy doors slid open silently.
The bridge was as freezing and imposing as always.
Ferrus Manus stood before the primary command console, his broad back facing the entrance.
"Father."
Karon stopped exactly five meters from the console and dropped to one knee.
When addressing the Primarch, one must take a half-kneeling posture—it demonstrated absolute respect while allowing the warrior to immediately spring into action should a sudden threat arise.
Ferrus didn't turn around.
His mechanical eyes flared with blue light as he rapidly processed a massive data-stream regarding the sealing progress of the Warp rifts in the industrial sector.
Three seconds later, the final tactical interface closed. The Primarch slowly withdrew his left hand, the data-link ports on his fingertips clicking softly as they disengaged.
"Speak."
Ferrus turned, his imposing gray eyes locking onto Karon.
His gaze briefly swept over the bottle of alcohol in the Captain's right hand, paused for a fraction of a second, and then shifted to the mechanical igniter in his left.
"The inspection of the Crimson Dawn base is complete."
Karon placed both the igniter and the bottle on the floor beside him before beginning his report. This was another ingrained habit of the Iron Hands: always give reports with both hands completely empty to demonstrate absolute focus.
"First, the armory audit. 5,722 lasguns. 84 heavy stubbers. 320 rocket launchers. Five indigenous light tanks. Twelve mobile rocket artillery units. All weaponry was either salvaged from battlefields or manufactured natively. Technological tier is rated between Basic and Intermediate. Zero traces of Warp contamination."
"Second, personnel management. The total residential population is exactly 27,437 individuals. Every single resident is meticulously documented."
"There are 537 unsanctioned psykers. 27 of them have reached the Official tier. Comprehensive control profiles have been established for all of them. Their primary training methodology is rooted in foundational meditation techniques salvaged from civilizational ruins."
"Third, infrastructure. The dual-layered defensive walls are structurally sound. The water purification systems output fifty metric tons daily. Food reserves are sufficient for four months of consumption. They possess two thousand acres of agricultural land, currently cultivating a radiation-resistant potato strain."
He paused before adding his final assessment.
"Their overall managerial competence... far exceeds initial expectations."
--
Goal = 250 Powerstones.
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