Tyberos stood in the foundry's secondary hall and looked at his lightning claws.
The blades had been cleaned properly, the ceramite shell of the Terminator replaced across the sections that had taken the most damage, the new plating catching the overhead light with a faint reflective sheen that the old material, worn down by decades of void operations, had long since lost. He turned one claw slowly, reading the work.
It was, by any honest assessment, competent. Not the standard of a full Mechanicus forge ship, not the work of a techmarine trained specifically in the maintenance traditions of ancient armour, but competent, and done without being asked twice. Tyberos had worked with Tech-Priests who delivered less on a longer timeline and with considerably more ceremony about it.
He exhaled through his nose. Something in the sound of it was not quite satisfaction and not quite resignation, but somewhere between the two.
Most of his years had been spent in one of two modes: fighting, or calculating how to sustain the capacity to fight. The void was not generous with the Carcharodons. Every round of ammunition, every ration, every replacement ceramite panel had been something to plan for, negotiate for, extract from reluctant sources through the particular combination of implied threat and demonstrated capability that the Chapter had refined into something approaching an art form. The grey tax. The blood tax. The endless arithmetic of a fleet that lived between stars and depended on no one.
Whatever this arrangement with Nolan was, it did not feel like that.
He was still working out how to think about it when heavy footsteps in the corridor announced company.
Nolan came through the doorway moving his joints as he walked, working out the adjustments of a different suit: speed-type power armour in a deep blue, the frame noticeably lighter than the Terminator configuration, built for different priorities. He stopped at a comfortable distance and looked up at Tyberos with the easy directness of someone who did not find the height difference particularly interesting.
"Chapter Master. How is the Terminator?"
"The Tech-Priest named Raditus has a solid grasp of the fundamental methods." Tyberos ran one claw across the other forearm's new plating, checking the seam. "Not a master. But the basic principles, properly applied."
He paused.
"If you find yourself short of technical personnel in the longer term, I can arrange to send you a Tech-Priest or two from the Adeptus Mechanicus. Ships do occasionally disappear in the Ghoul Stars. It is not unheard of for survivors to find their way to us."
Nolan's expression shifted in a way that communicated appreciation for the offer and something else alongside it: the look of someone who has spent meaningful time dealing with the Mechanicus and has developed specific opinions.
"I cannot refuse your generosity, Chapter Master. But what I value more than technical skill is loyalty and the willingness to follow direction. The temperament of the Adeptus Mechanicus, when they decide their expertise gives them standing to push back..." He left the sentence incomplete for a moment. "I would likely just shoot them."
Tyberos showed his teeth in something that a charitable observer might have described as a smile.
"I will select suitable candidates in advance. If those still prove difficult, then the Adeptus Mechanicus ships in the region will simply have a somewhat elevated accident rate. Consider them consumables."
Nolan opened his mouth, then closed it again.
He had been about to point out several things about that approach. He considered whether any of them would change anything, decided they probably would not, and let it rest. The Carcharodons operated in the Ghoul Stars. Their options for resupply and technical support were, by necessity, creative. Nolan could pray that whoever came through was of a cooperative disposition. That would have to be enough.
The loading operation was already well advanced when they reached the surface platform.
Two Thunderhawks sat in the launch bays, their holds being packed methodically by the servo-robots: ammunition crates, supplies, Intelligent Control Corps units moving in ordered columns up the loading ramps. The third transport, piloted by Doom, had already lifted. Given the shortage of qualified pilots at Twin Islands, even he had been pressed into the rotation, which he had accepted with the air of someone who considered it beneath his capabilities but was willing to make exceptions for practical necessity.
Nolan checked his loadout at the base of the remaining Thunderhawk: plasma revolver and Heart of the Furnace at his hip, boltgun on the other side, Blood Scythe across the power pack's back mount, and alongside it a vibranium power sword whose blade caught the pale Antarctic light and threw it back golden. Tyberos and his five guards emerged from the underground passage in their freshly maintained armour and fell in without comment. A brief equipment check, the kind that experienced fighters conduct without needing to be told, and they boarded.
David had the controls again. The flight north was long enough that the cold gave way to grey European sky before the descent began.
The Latveria base had changed considerably since its construction. The hill and mountain rock that had been excavated to make room for it had been put to use as structural material, and what had once been a modest installation now had the dimensions of something that would not look out of place in an Astra Militarum deployment briefing.
Parking platforms capable of handling multiple aircraft. Interior spaces expanded well beyond what the original plans had called for. And moving through all of it, carrying supply crates and equipment cases between the Intelligent Control Corps units, were the Latveria Planetary Defense Forces in full carapace armour, lasguns across their backs, their bearing sharper than anything they had managed under the previous government.
Tyberos, coming down the Thunderhawk's ramp, paused at the top and looked out across the base. He said nothing, but the pause said something.
The sound arrived before Thor did, a crack of displaced air and the accompanying roll of thunder that had nothing to do with weather. Mjolnir's wielder came down out of the sky fast and landed hard on the platform with the particular impact of someone who has never fully internalised that floors prefer to be landed on gently. The Planetary Defense Forces around him scattered backward and brought their lasguns up in a single reactive motion, several of them already acquiring targets.
David's voice came over the base communication system before anyone could fire, identifying the arrival, and the lasguns came down again.
Thor straightened up, golden hair tied back, hammer loose in his hand, and looked around the base with an expression of uncomplicated enthusiasm.
"Brother Nolan! I am here!"
He raised Mjolnir toward Nolan and gave it a firm shake, the way some people might wave a hand.
Nolan walked toward him, the blue armour's servos making the movement easy. "Thor. Welcome to Latveria." He scanned the sky behind him. "Where is Tony?"
"The number of armour suits he brought with him slowed his overall flight speed considerably. I did not see the point of waiting." Thor shrugged with the magnificent unconcern of someone for whom waiting had never been a strong suit. Then his gaze found Tyberos standing at the base of the ramp, and stayed there.
Thor lowered his voice by approximately the amount a person lowers their voice when they want to ask something but do not want to be overheard by the person they are asking about, which was not quite enough.
"Nolan. That large individual. Is that the Astartes you mentioned?"
Nolan felt something in his chest that was recognisably pride, though he would have described it differently if asked. He turned toward Tyberos with a gesture of introduction that managed to be both casual and deliberate.
"Thor, come meet him. This is Tyberos, Chapter Master of the Carcharodons. The five behind him are his personal guard." A brief pause. "Yes. They are all genuine Astartes. All of them."
Thor's expression shifted. Not intimidated, exactly: Thor did not do intimidated in any conventional sense. But something recalibrated behind his eyes, and he straightened his back in a way that was not quite unconscious, and he walked forward with Mjolnir at his side and looked up at Tyberos's helmet.
"Hello, friend." His voice had settled into something measured and formal. "I am the guardian of the Nine Realms, Prince of Asgard, heir to the throne, and God of Thunder." A brief pause before the last word, given its due weight. "I am Thor Odinson."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing takes time, coffee, and a lot of love.If you'd like to support my work, join me at [email protected]/GoldenGaruda
You'll get early access to over 50 chapters, selection on new series, and the satisfaction of knowing your support directly fuels more stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~