Chapter 23: Warmaster
Above the planet Basiank, war consumed every surface. Sky, earth, sea, cities, wilderness, nothing escaped the flames.
Omega stood near a viewport, tracking the battle through sound alone. The distinctive crack of bolter fire, the deep thunder of missile detonations, the scream of aircraft engines, each told its own story. A decade of constant warfare had honed this skill to precision. He could identify weapons, estimate troop deployments, even gauge Legion strength by the acoustic signature of combat.
Today he wore the power armor of a common Alpha Legionnaire. No rank markings. No insignia. Just another warrior in the ranks.
The Thunderhawk descended toward the Dark Angels' fortress, built into the city's heart. Both Legions were cooperating in this theater, the First Legion had graciously permitted their landing, cooperation born less from kinship than mutual necessity.
As the gunship's ramp lowered, they were met by an aged warrior in heavy power armor, leaning on a psychic scepter. He introduced himself as the Grand Master and asked for the name of the leading representative.
No answer came just that he was an envoy.
Omega watched the exchange with growing frustration. The secrecy was suffocating. It felt unnecessarily hostile.
The Grand Master led them through the fortress without further comment. The corridors bore the distinctive aesthetic of Caliban, elegant patterns etched into dark metal, the visual language of a knightly order. Dark Angels in black armor lined the passage, each bearing a power sword with quiet pride.
The great hall opened before them. Vast, but not in the grandeur of Imperial architecture, this was the fortress of warriors, all function carved into beauty.
Dark Angels officers stood in precise formation on either side. At the chamber's head, a Primarch sat in a high-backed seat.
Middle-aged by the standards of transhuman life, he wore power armor etched with gold. His helmet rested beside him, revealing a face framed by golden hair.
His presence filled the chamber like a palpable thing, not the overwhelming force of a god, but the controlled authority of a military commander capable of violence at any moment, yet perfectly at ease with restraint. His eyes were deep and difficult to read.
When that gaze swept across the assembled warriors and found Omega, Omega immediately looked away. He recognized the signs: here was another who concealed his true strength. Another who possessed the bearing of a king.
A cross-hilted power sword lay ready beside his seat.
This was Lion El'Jonson, Primarch of the Dark Angels.
He studied the Alpha Legion envoys with the calm attention of a general evaluating his options. Then he spoke, his voice measured.
"Alpha Legion. You have not announced yourselves through proper channels. What brings you to my hall?"
Alpharius stepped forward, helmet still sealed. "You may call me Alpharius, an envoy of the Alpha Legion, Lion El'Jonson."
The use of the Primarch's name without honorific drew displeasure from several Dark Angels officers. One of them, a Company Master with deep scars along his face, rebuked him sharply.
"That is Lord Lion El'Jonson to you. You forget courtesy, stranger."
Tension crackled between the two groups. Lion El'Jonson studied Alpharius carefully, then raised one hand with casual authority.
"Luther, be silent. Courtesy can wait. The war continues, and my time is finite. State your purpose."
Alpharius's posture shifted. When he spoke again, his tone carried unexpected sincerity.
"The war against the Rangdan consumes all the Legions, but the Dark Angels have borne the heaviest burden. You stand on the front lines, suffering grievous losses. The Alpha Legion wishes to fight alongside you, to share this burden so your own strength is preserved."
Luther's expression shifted from anger to naked hope. The offer aligned perfectly with the First Legion's desperate need for reinforcements. The prolonged campaigns had catastrophically reduced their numbers.
Lion El'Jonson laughed—a genuine sound, carrying real amusement.
"That is an unusual offer indeed. I confess, I am curious about your motives."
"Because," Alpharius continued with deliberate gravity, "when this campaign ends, such service will earn you recognition. The Emperor will see what the Dark Angels have accomplished. The First Legion will stand first not merely in founding, but in glory. When he names a commander to lead the Imperium's forces in his absence, your name will be remembered."
The weight of that statement hung in the air. Every Dark Angel present felt it.
The concept was almost treasonous—the idea that any Primarch might be elevated above the others—and yet the words were spoken without claiming ambition for Lion El'Jonson himself. A simple observation of fact.
Lion El'Jonson's eyes narrowed slightly. He was quiet for a long moment. Luther leaned toward his gene-sire, but the Primarch raised a hand, forestalling comment.
"I understand what you are implying," Lion El'Jonson said slowly. His voice carried no anger, only careful consideration. "But I cannot accept your aid on those terms, Alpha Legion."
Alpharius stiffened. This was unexpected.
"My reasons," the Lion continued, "are simple. The Emperor commands the Imperium. All glory and all authority flow from His will. If such a position ever truly comes to exist—and I suspect it will not—it will be bestowed by the Emperor Himself, and only by Him."
He rose from his seat, his movements controlled. "For me to accept reinforcements with the hope of advancement would be to acknowledge ambition for His authority. The moment I do that, I prove myself unworthy of it."
"I will not scheme for position, Alpha Legionor. I will not accept aid in hopes of glory. I will do my duty, face the Rangdan, and if the Emperor deems me worthy of greater responsibilities, that judgment is His alone to make."
Lion El'Jonson's expression hardened. "Your offer is kind, but I must decline. The Dark Angels will prevail through our own strength and discipline. We need no aid purchased with political aspiration."
Luther moved forward with evident distress. "My lord, please reconsider. Our losses have been severe—"
Lion El'Jonson's anger flashed, sudden and sharp. He gripped his power sword and rose fully from his seat, the crackling energy field around the blade speaking volumes about his suppressed fury.
"This discussion is concluded. Escort them out."
Alpharius stood motionless for a moment, clearly processing the refusal. When he finally turned to leave, his movements were sharp with frustration. He said nothing, simply gestured for his warriors to follow.
The Dark Angels watched them depart, and Luther felt the weight of their loss. They needed those reinforcements.
Yet he understood, on some level, why his gene-sire had refused. Lion El'Jonson did not compete for position. He was not the sort to accept aid that came wrapped in political calculation.
That was his strength, and his limitation.
The Thunderhawk banked sharply as it departed the landing zone. Inside, Alpharius slammed his fist against the armored wall hard enough to dent the plating. The warriors around him exchanged glances but said nothing.
Even they, deep in their layers of indirection and misdirection, could see that something here had not gone as planned.
When they returned to the flagship in orbit, neither Alpharius nor Omega spoke of the encounter. Their focus shifted instead to other theaters, other possibilities.
[End of Chapter]