On the bridge of the Conqueror's Star, the atmosphere was strangely light. The screens showed images of the Dropships landing smoothly, SCVs distributing supplies, and Aethelgardian faces marked first by disbelief, then by immense gratitude. You could see Elder Kael shaking Lieutenant Marx's hand, a gesture of rare simplicity and power.
"Incredible..." murmured Raynor, crossing his arms with a half-smile. "Humans, just normal humans, struggling and surviving. Reminds me of Mar Sara before everything went to hell. It's... good to see."
"Their resilience is remarkable," commented Data. "Their survival rate, given the environmental conditions, defies probabilities by 98.4%."
Even Nova, usually so impassive, watched the images with particular attention. "Their social structure appears extremely cohesive. No sign of internal conflict despite the privations. A perfect society for integration."
Caleb Valerius himself had misty eyes. "It reminds me of the first colonies, before the Long Night. The community, the mutual aid... We have found a fragment of what we were."
A wave of satisfaction, almost euphoria, swept through the bridge. They had found lost brothers and sisters, and they were helping them. It was a clean, human victory, very different from the bloody battles and strategic calculations.
It was then that Julius's voice rang out, cold and clear, shattering the ambient tranquility.
"That was a beautiful scene. Look closely. Savor this moment. Because be certain, it will not often be like this."
All eyes turned to the command throne. Julius had not left his seat. His dark blue helmet was on his lap, and his face was grave, without a trace of the relief touching the others.
"Commander?" inquired Data, tilting his head.
"We have just experienced an anomaly," Julius explained, scrutinizing the faces of his council. "An isolated human world, uncorrupted, grateful, and peaceful. Do not get used to it. The galaxy is not a fairy tale."
He stood up and walked to the viewport, turning his back to the images of fraternity.
"Next time, the humans we find might be fanatics worshiping an insane machine god. They might be degenerate mutants hostile to any form of genetic purity. They might be renegades, pirates, or worse, already sworn to the Imperium and seeing us as heretics to be shot."
His voice carried the weight of bitter knowledge.
"Helping Aethelgard was the right decision. Strategic and moral. But it is a luxury. Our priority remains our security, our expansion, our power. The next hand we extend may have to hold a sword. The next smile may have to hide a trap."
He turned, his gaze sweeping the bridge.
"Never forget why we are here. We are not missionaries. We are not crusaders. We are the architects of an empire that must survive at all costs. Today, we offered medicine. Tomorrow, we may have to administer poison. Be ready."
Silence had fallen again, but it was different. Heavier, more realistic. The warmth of the moment of fraternity had dissipated, replaced by the coldness of duty and mistrust.
Julius was right. The Warhammer 40k universe did not forgive naivety. Helping was a bonus, a rare opportunity. But survival was an absolute rule. And to survive, one sometimes had to be as pitiless as the darkness they would face.