On the Eve of the Expedition (Part 1)
"Boom—rumble—rumble—"
The freight elevator's massive gears groaned as it descended. With every passing second, the air grew hotter.
The cool, incense-laced atmosphere of Hera Fortress' upper sanctums faded away, replaced by the acrid stench of burning promethium, hot engine oil, and metal forced into shape beneath industrial hammers.
The smell was familiar to Irene.
More familiar, in truth, than polished marble halls and vaulted galleries. This was the scent of industry. Of exhaust fumes. Of survival.
The smell of a hive.
But when the blast doors opened with a thunderous hydraulic hiss, she realized her mistake.
This was no rust-choked hive workshop.
This was a cathedral of steel and fire.
The subterranean armory of Hera Fortress stretched wide enough to swallow a hive spire whole. High above, a distant dome vanished behind cooling conduits and crane assemblies. Below, thousands of red-robed tech-adepts, servitors, and labor crews moved in disciplined precision along labyrinthine production lines.
Servo-arms lifted glowing sheets of adamantium and lowered them onto damaged Land Raiders. Laser arrays carved High Gothic litanies into ceramite plating. Sparks fell like golden rain. Servo-skulls drifted overhead, chanting binharic hymns through crackling vox-grilles.
[Ah… now this is proper "bigger-is-holy" industry.]
"This is… your workshop?" Irene muttered, shielding her eyes from the heat as she stared downward.
She had once imagined war as street gangs clashing with iron pipes and stolen pistols. Shouted threats. Leaders barking orders. A chaotic rush.
But this—
Rows of armored vehicles. Titans of steel awaiting war. Weapons assembled at a scale beyond comprehension.
For the first time, she felt the weight of the word war.
Not fists and knives.
But annihilation.
"Mind your phrasing," Cato Sicarius said, his voice carrying easily over the industrial roar. Today he wore full war-plate, crimson cloak edged in gold, armor reflecting the furnace-light like a living flame.
"This is the Forge of Glory, Ms. Irene. Here, the finest wargear in the Imperium is wrought. And today—your shield will be forged."
He guided her down a suspended stairway through the heart of the foundry.
They passed a recessed arcade set into the wall. Irene slowed.
Within towering alcoves stood immense armored forms, entombed in stasis fields.
Dreadnoughts.
Ancient sarcophagi of ceramite and adamantium. Broad power claws. Assault cannons. Battle-scars carefully anointed with sacred oils by kneeling techmarines.
Even dormant, they radiated solemnity.
"Do not stare too long," Sicarius said, quieter now. "Those are our honored dead. They wake only for the fiercest wars."
Irene nodded quickly and followed.
They arrived at an elevated, sealed workshop.
At its center stood a massive figure clad in red Mechanicus robes layered over Ultramarines-blue armor. Four servo-arms extended from his back. Half his skull was replaced with lenses and data-spines.
Harkus, master of the forge.
"Master Harkus," Sicarius saluted. "Is the Primarch's request prepared?"
Harkus turned. His augmetic eye scanned Irene with a shrill crackle.
"This is the designated asset?" His voice ground like grinding gears. "Physical output: above baseline human. Bone density: reinforced. Defensive capacity: negligible without armor. Conclusion: fragile."
He pressed a rune.
A massive display case rose from the floor with a hydraulic sigh.
Inside—
A hulking exoskeleton suit. Thick ceramite plating. Twin servo-arms mounted over its shoulders. A tower shield fixed to one arm, a heavy weapon interface on the other.
It looked like a miniature Tactical Dreadnought suit fused with construction machinery.
"Iron Wall Pattern I Individual Tactical Exoskeleton," Harkus declared proudly. "Reinforced to withstand frontal impact from an Ogryn. Integrated flamer port. Maximum survivability."
Irene stared.
"…I have to wear that?"
She backed away instinctively.
"It looks like a metal box with a tumor!"
"Sacred machinery is not subject to aesthetic critique!" Harkus vented steam in irritation.
"And how am I supposed to run?" Irene protested. "Or hide? If it runs out of power, I'm stuck inside like canned meat!"
Her hive-born instincts screamed at her. Big targets died first.
Harkus' servo-arm twitched.
"Why hide? You would break through walls."
"I am not a bulldozer!" Irene shook her head violently, hiding behind Sicarius. "I'm supposed to purify things!"
Sicarius coughed diplomatically.
"Master Harkus. The Primarch requested mobility, protection, and no interference with psionic projection. This… may impede her function."
Harkus' exhaust vents sighed.
"Mortals…"
He dismissed the exoskeleton. A second platform rose.
This one bore a sleek black bodysuit.
"Synth-gel protective suit," Harkus explained. "Flexible. Breathable. Issued to high-ranking operatives and planetary nobility."
He stabbed it with a blade. Clang.
"Impact-hardening. Equivalent to carapace armor under stress."
Irene touched it. Cool. Smooth. Practical.
Next, a dark blue tactical trench coat emerged—clean cut, hooded, embroidered with the Aquila.
"Micro-refractive mesh lining. Acid-resistant. Corrosion-resistant. Radiation-shielded. Hood incorporates psionic stabilization circuits."
Irene's eyes lit up.
Perfect.
Finally, Harkus retrieved a golden pendant from a gene-locked reliquary.
A Rosarius.
Twin-headed Aquila outstretched, a deep red gem at its core.
"Rosarius-pattern force field generator," Harkus said solemnly. "Reserved for Chaplains and company commanders."
He glanced at Sicarius.
"This unit originates from the Regent's private arsenal. Great Crusade era."
He placed it in Irene's hands.
"It will deflect lethal strikes. Its energy is finite. Do not squander it."
Irene weighed it thoughtfully.
"…Is it real gold?"
Sicarius nearly choked.
"If—if I'm not useful anymore," Irene asked quietly, "will it still be mine?"
The question struck harder than any bolt round.
Sicarius knelt.
"It is priceless," he said gently, fastening it around her neck. "Because it preserves your life. And your life is worth more than all the gold in Ultramar."
Harkus remained silent.
[I told you, lucky,] Old Huang whispered. [Anyone else asking that would've been turned into a servitor.]
Irene suddenly remembered something and produced her short sword.
"Can you sharpen this? It's a bit dull."
Harkus took it casually—
Then froze.
His augmetic eye flared red.
"Adamantium fold-forging… Great Crusade pattern… residual psionic saturation…"
His servo-arms snapped protectively around it.
"This blade was forged in techniques reserved for the Emperor's own artificers! It bears consecration-level psychic imprint!"
He trembled.
"You used it… for carving?"
Thirty minutes later—after sacred oils, binharic hymns, and reactivation rites—
Irene took the sword back.
It hummed in her grip.
Golden arcs danced faintly along its edge. The air sizzled as it moved.
"Now it awakens," Harkus said reverently. "It will shear ceramite. Warp flesh will part before it."
"Use it to slay the Emperor's enemies. Not furniture."
Irene nodded solemnly.
…
When she emerged from the armory clad in her dark blue coat, Rosarius gleaming at her throat, awakened blade at her waist, she no longer resembled a fragile ornament.
She looked ready.
They stepped into the assembly plaza above.
A sea of warriors awaited.
Astartes in ordered ranks. Behind them—tens of thousands of mortal soldiers bearing the inverted Ω of the Ultramar Auxilia. Leman Russ battle tanks idled. Chimera transports lined the field.
Ordinary men and women.
No gene-enhancements. No secondary hearts.
Yet their eyes were steady.
"They're coming too?" Irene asked softly.
"Yes," Sicarius replied. "They are the people of Ultramar."
"To defend their worlds."
"Many will die," she whispered.
"Yes. That is war."
He did not lie.
"But that is why you matter," he continued. "If you lessen their suffering—even slightly—their sacrifice carries meaning."
Sicarius reached up and tore a strip of parchment sealed in red wax from his pauldron.
A purity seal.
"I earned this in a warp nightmare," he said. "Brothers fell. This endured."
He knelt on one knee.
With a heated fingertip, he softened the wax and pressed the seal gently against Irene's coat—over her heart.
"I lend it to you."
He met her eyes.
"May it guard you as it guarded me."