Reclaiming Ultramar

The other end of the channel fell silent for a moment, clearly weighing the offer.

"When you have completed all this," Abaddon dangled the bait, "I believe the additional provision of ten thousand pure gene-seeds is entirely negotiable.

After all, your... 'mutation' problem is in desperate need of a new, stable genetic source as well, isn't it?"

This condition had clearly struck at Huron's lifeline.

A low laugh came through. "...A satisfactory trade, Warmaster.

I will do it.

This rotten Imperium should have collapsed completely long ago. It... has no need for a living primarch to reach Terra safe and sound."

"Then I look forward to your good news, Huron."

Abaddon cut the transmission. Cold light flashed in his single eye.

He turned toward the void, as though whispering to someone absent, or swearing an oath to himself:

"You will fall into my hands, Guilliman... a living, whole primarch.

Once I corrupt you and make you kneel at my feet, becoming the mightiest warlord beneath my Black Legion... Heh heh, merely imagining that scene is enough to make me drink deep!"

Within the command hall of Hera Fortress, capital of Macragge.

Though the breach in the dome was still being urgently repaired by countless servo-skulls and Adeptus Mechanicus artisans, the atmosphere within the hall was utterly unlike the previous despair and chaos.

A grave air filled with hope and determination had replaced the old gloom.

Roboute Guilliman, the newly awakened primarch, sat upon the central throne.

His body appeared even more majestic than when he had slept. His black hair stood in sharp contrast to his azure eyes, while Fate Armor shimmered with a dim glow beneath the interior lights.

Before him sat the key figures who would determine the future fate of the Imperium:

On the Ultramarines side were Chapter Master Calgar, First Captain Agemman, Second Captain Cato Sicarius, and Chief Librarian Tigurius;

Belisarius Cawl, the Archmagos of the Adeptus Mechanicus, his mechanical tendrils curled silently behind him;

Saint Celestine, still surrounded by a faint golden radiance;

Yvraine, representative of the Eldar Reaper Host, seated at one side with elegant yet aloof poise;

Amalrich, Marshal of the Black Templars, like a silent black reef; and Voldus, Grand Master of the Grey Knights, whose very presence drove away unseen whispers from the warp.

Guilliman's gaze slowly swept over them all before finally settling on Calgar, breaking the brief silence:

"So, according to the orders I issued before my slumber, during the period of my 'absence,' actual control over the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar was returned to their respective planetary governors. Is that correct?"

His voice was steady, revealing neither joy nor anger.

Calgar immediately rose to his feet and bowed respectfully. "Yes, Father.

Everything was carried out strictly in accordance with your decree from ten thousand years ago.

We of the Ultramarines Legion were chiefly responsible for defense and war against external enemies. Internal affairs... were managed independently by each world."

There was a trace of barely perceptible complexity in his tone. Clearly, he too had felt deeply constrained while carrying out those orders.

Just as I thought... My former self really was an idealistic fool.

Guilliman sighed helplessly within his heart.

*Handing power back to mortal governors ruled by selfish desire and short-sightedness?

What could they do besides exploit their own worlds and play tricks with Imperial tithes?

This is practically handing lambs over to wolves for safekeeping.

It seems it is time for more 'loyal' and 'efficient' administrators—my sons, for instance. Or... perhaps I could 'borrow' some Custodes from Terra in the future?

They would certainly be loyal enough, and sufficiently 'reassuring.'*

These thoughts flashed through his mind like lightning, yet his expression remained calm. He merely nodded slightly and turned the discussion toward a broader matter:

"I see.

Then, judging from all I have seen and heard, the Imperium's current condition is likely even more... dire than it was ten thousand years ago."

He deliberately left the statement unfinished and looked toward the others, giving them a chance to speak.

It was a form of political wisdom: it would allow him to understand each side's views while also observing their positions.

"You are entirely correct, honored Primarch."

Marshal Amalrich of the Black Templars spoke in a resonant voice, his words carrying an iron resolve. "Compared to the glory it possessed before your slumber, today's Imperium has weakened by not merely hundreds, but thousands of times.

The deeds of that era are now little more than myths and legends in the eyes of many mortals, and even Astartes.

Countless Chapters are scattered like stars across the void, yet each fights alone, their strength dispersed.

More tragically still, innumerable Chapters once steeped in glory have betrayed their faith and embraced Chaos!"

He clenched his gauntleted fist. "The Imperium needs your powerful leadership. It needs you to unite humanity's strength once more!"

Guilliman looked at him with approval in his eyes. "You must be Marshal Amalrich, the outstanding son of my seventh brother, Rogal Dorn.

Very good. You have inherited Dorn's steadfastness and indomitability.

Indeed, I can even see within you the shadow of Sigismund, Chapter Master of the Imperial Fists in those days."

Hearing the primarch mention both his gene-father and that legendary hero, Amalrich straightened his chest and said solemnly:

"We shall forever inherit the will of the Primarch and our predecessor Sigismund, purging heretics with blood and fire!"

"I believe you.

One day, the glory of the Imperial Fists will shine even brighter."

Guilliman affirmed him, then shifted the subject and raised the central issue. "In that case, the Imperium is beset by troubles both within and without.

As a returned primarch, I believe I must proceed to holy Terra at once, consolidate all the Imperium's forces, reestablish unified command and legal authority, and concentrate our resources against the crisis.

What do you all think of this proposal?"

"This is also the will of the God-Emperor!"

Saint Celestine stepped forward. Her words bore sacred authority, and it was as if the Emperor's flames burned within her eyes:

"The Emperor wishes for you to return to Terra and, in his place, lead this Imperium battered by storm and rain."

Guilliman looked at her, a trace of suitably measured helplessness appearing on his face. "It seems my father has already conveyed his will to me through you.

But why can he not... communicate with me more directly?"

Celestine shook her head slightly, her face bearing devotion and a hint of apology. "I am sorry, Primarch.

I can only vaguely sense and convey the Emperor's vast will.

As for the God-Emperor's specific plans and demands, even I cannot fully comprehend or relay them."

"All right, I understand." Guilliman did not dwell on it further.

He took a deep breath, and his voice became firm and decisive, filled with unquestionable determination. "Then it is settled.

The entire force will rest and reorganize for one month!

During this month, I will personally lead the army and utterly purge every Chaos threat within the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar, restoring this territory to order and peace!"

He looked around at them, his eyes blazing. "And after Ultramar has been reclaimed, I will gather every available force and march on Terra!

We will proceed to the center of power of the Imperium of Man, reclaim the authority that belongs to a primarch, and unite this fractured realm for humanity's survival!"

His declaration resounded through the hall like a great bell. It also heralded that a storm destined to sweep across the entire Milky Way would soon rise fiercely from Macragge.