News that a Primarch intended to personally inspect and "guide" the Adeptus Mechanicus in the construction of a Gloriana-class battleship spread like wildfire through the Martian Docks, sending the entire facility into a stir.
In the eyes of the Martians, these so-called Primarchs were merely more elegantly dressed Terran barbarians. Now, apparently unsatisfied with ruling over them as sovereigns, one was attempting to "instruct" them on how to complete a craft they knew intimately.
By the time Perturabo arrived at the berth housing the Gloriana-class battleship destined for him, the area was swarming with Archmagi and Tech-Priests from across Mars. It was a sea of red robes.
These Tech-Priests and Archmagi usually held each other in low regard, often plotting in private to topple rivals and absorb their technology and influence. Occasionally, they even led their respective Skitarii legions in "friendly" and "peaceful" exchanges of technological views—which usually involved open warfare.
But today, these fractious priests had reached a rare consensus: they had united to witness the failure of the Primarch who dared to teach them ship-building. They waited with bated breath for him to make a fool of himself.
No Tech-Priest could truly tolerate an outsider interfering in their work, even if that "outsider" was the scion of the one they hailed as the "Avatar of the Omnissiah."
Perturabo slowly raised his head and scanned his surroundings. As he realized the nature of his situation, his expression hardened into a mask of severity.
Even the most obtuse individual could feel the hostile glares emanating from the red-robed priests. A Primarch of Perturabo's brilliance felt the immense pressure radiating from the crowd with crystal clarity.
"Then, please begin, Lord Perturabo."
Mars-001, the Archmagos assigned to receive him, spoke with a sliver of schadenfreude. The red-robed priest was certain that Perturabo was about to suffer a public humiliation.
Beside Perturabo, the Custodians grew tense. Regardless of their personal feelings toward the Primarch, the fact remained that he was a son of the Emperor. They began to discreetly calculate how to manage the impending public relations disaster if Perturabo failed—halting his performance was no longer an option.
Under the mocking gazes of the Tech-Priests and the disapproving stares of the Custodians, Perturabo walked toward the machinery. It was the unit that had developed a critical failure—a problem so severe that even the most learned scholars of the Mechanicus could not resolve it.
Let me begin the miracle. Let me recreate the wonders Father once wrought, Perturabo thought. Driven by his innate pride, the Primarch began his performance.
Perturabo knew that his genetic father had won over the stubborn beast of the Mechanicus by manifesting miracles—making it rain on Mars and healing damaged machinery with a mere touch. Today, as His son, Perturabo possessed absolute confidence that he could repair this machine where the Archmagi had failed, forcing them to truly acknowledge the Fourth Primarch.
He reached out his hands toward the machine. As he moved, the expressions of the surrounding Tech-Priests and Custodians shifted.
Could this Perturabo actually know what he's doing? This thought flashed through the minds of many. Perturabo's resolute movements and unwavering confidence began to shake their skepticism.
The hardships and obstacles the Tech-Priests had envisioned did not exist for Perturabo, who possessed a transcendent understanding of mechanical engineering. Had the Primarch been Horus Lupercal or Leman Russ, the priests' assumptions might have been correct.
But the Primarch standing there was Perturabo of Kislev—one of the two Primarchs created by the Master of Mankind with the greatest aptitude for mechanical science.
"I see the composition of these machines as if they were transparent."
Looking at the damaged machinery, Perturabo could sense every component and the exact manner of their assembly. The "affliction" preventing the machine from operating was laid bare before his eyes.
This ability had once been a source of personal frustration; he could literally see through mechanical surfaces to observe internal structures. He was acutely aware of flaws that others would miss for a lifetime. Now, this once-troublesome gift allowed him to manifest a miracle that would bring the Tech-Priests to their knees.
The problem was identified; the next step was the solution. To the Fourth Primarch, this was the simple, unadorned logic of engineering: if there is a problem, solve it.
Under the stunned gazes of the assembly, Perturabo set to work. With a few precise adjustments and the replacement of several damaged parts, the machine that had baffled the most learned Archmagi roared back to life.
"Tech-Priests of Mars! I, Perturabo, Fourth Son of the Master of Mankind, High Tsar and Autocrat of Kislev, have successfully repaired the machine you could not!"
"I know your thoughts. You believed I knew nothing of engineering. You waited to mock me. Do not think your silence hid your intent from me; I knew it better than any of you!"
"But I have succeeded. I have solved alone what you could not resolve together. For I am the scion of the Emperor, the son of your Omnissiah's Avatar! I share His power; I am His perfect creation!"
"Worship and revere me!"
Perturabo turned to face the dumbfounded priests, his voice ringing with absolute conviction.
"Three cheers for the Son of the Omnissiah! He has shown us His miracle and His power!"
After a moment of stunned silence, Archmagos Mars-001 was the first to react. He raised his mechanical limbs and began to chant. Following the Archmagos's lead, the gathered priests—who moments ago had been waiting for a failure—began to cheer with religious fervor.
Soon, the entire Martian Dock was drowned in shouts praising Perturabo and the Emperor. No one dared to doubt the divinity of the Son of the Omnissiah again.
"Now, I shall take this vessel, my Gloriana, to Kislev for completion. I will teach the people of Kislev how to build warships. Assisting in the completion of this vessel will train countless workers."
"I trust you have no objections?" Perturabo seized the moment to make his demand.
"Honored Son of the Omnissiah, your will is the will of the Omnissiah. What reason could we have to disobey?" Mars-001 replied, his tone now respectful, bordering on fawning.
"However, we hope you will grant this vessel the name she deserves. Have you decided upon a name for this Gloriana-class battleship?"
Perturabo turned to look at the massive ship docked in the berth—the gift from his father. He lowered his head in brief reflection.
"The Iron Blood. The name of this Gloriana-class battleship shall be the Iron Blood." Perturabo looked up at the Archmagos and announced his choice in a loud, clear voice.