Chapter 52: Battleship Storm
Horus snorted. "Hmph! I'll let you off this time, but the next time we meet, it will be a fight to the death!"
"Mortarion, let's go!"
The Warmaster turned sharply, his cloak billowing as he led Mortarion and their Astartes away from the field. Some World Eaters followed as well, still loyal to the old ways.
Francis stood there, genuinely stunned. "Is this... brotherly love?!"
"Boss, are we still blowin' up da bomb?" A one-eyed Ork ran over, tongue lolling as he flailed about, nearly drooling on Francis.
"Forget it. We're brothers for life. He treats me this way, how can I bear to betray him!" Francis shook his head with conviction. He was, after all, a man of strong bonds and righteousness.
"Oh." The Ork looked disappointed, but was quickly distracted by dancing Gretchin nearby.
When the Orks took control of the Conqueror, Angron remained puzzled. "We can cross the Warp ourselves. There's no need for this."
"I don't need your opinion, I need my opinion!"
"Have you heard of Ork instant teleportation technology?"
The Primarch shook his head slowly. Francis clapped him on the shoulder with enthusiasm. "Now you have!"
"Boyz, activate the teleport!"
At their boss's command, every Ork sprang into immediate action. They dismantled the engines from three Legion ships and assembled them into a massive Warp-jump engine, code-named 'Big Junkyard One.'
The construction defied every known principle of physics and engineering, held together by nothing but absolute belief and copious amounts of welding.
Horror gradually spread across Angron's features as realization dawned. His mouth began forming the words 'don't want—'
With a thunderous hum, the battleship vanished.
Not into the Warp. It simply ceased to exist in that location entirely, as if reality had decided the ship no longer belonged there.
Mars
The Red Planet's crimson dust now sprouted stunted shrubs thanks to the Ork presence. From orbit, it resembled a balding, grey-bearded man with ruddy skin, a comparison that would have horrified the Mechanicus had they possessed sufficient humor to recognize it.
Deep within the Mechanicus heartland, towering spires pierced the dusty atmosphere. Gigantic mechanical arms danced in scorching light, transporting raw materials and assembling unknown devices with inhuman precision.
The air reeked of oil and molten metal, the scent of sacred industry.
Within his laboratory, Fabricator-General Kelbor-Hal stood at the chamber's heart, overseeing every experimental detail.
Dim light gave way to countless holographic projections flickering through the gloom, dizzyingly complex circuit diagrams and mechanical schematics that would drive lesser minds to madness.
He even offered commentary on the forced conversions of servitors taking place before him. Through his analysis, they had successfully modified the procedure to wetware stripping surgery.
Using such young brains as computational units suited his temperament perfectly, efficient, untainted by ideology, easily controlled.
"General, the Soul Drinkers Legion has arrived again to inquire about the battleship's construction progress." A red-robed Tech-Priest approached, his eyes fervent with devotion. He longed to modify himself to greater sanctity, just like the Fabricator-General.
Kelbor-Hal tapped rhythmically upon a pipe, his processors calculating rapidly. Originally, he had intended to pledge full allegiance to Horus, even to the point of destroying those portions of the Mechanicus that still revered the Emperor as the Omnissiah.
Yet Francis's arrival had presented another option, complicating everything.
On one side: lost STC technology promised by Horus.
On the other hand, mastery of Ork mechanics that shouldn't work but demonstrably did. Before the great Omnissiah, the choice paralyzed him. His logic engines found no clear path forward.
Moreover, he had sworn not to betray his brother. What if the Omnissiah truly enacted punishment for such duplicity?
So he wavered, providing support to Horus and the other rebels, yet not openly rebelling against the Imperium. This was the conclusion he had reached after expending an entire batch of wetware processors in calculation.
His current objective: Keep Stalling.
He would see whether Francis survived the coming confrontation. If the Ork-Primarch truly faced Horus and emerged victorious, he would support the winner, simple mathematics.
Besides, he hadn't even begun constructing Francis's battleship. Only a single metal plate existed in the warehouse, gathering dust.
"Tell them to wait. They don't understand technology; many things cannot be rushed." At the General's words, the Tech-Priest obediently departed to relay the message.
Kelbor-Hal suddenly recalled what his subordinates had mentioned, transplanting certain Astartes organs as a medium to acquire their knowledge and experience directly, a shortcut to understanding.
Considering the thousands of Soul Drinkers warriors outside, his thoughts grew increasingly active with dark possibilities.
Yet he quickly dismissed such notions. After all, one should not deceive a brother. The Omnissiah valued oaths, even if strategically inconvenient.
Suddenly—
With a thunderous rumble that shook the entire facility, the laboratory's ceiling vanished. A massive Ork body replaced it, slowly rising alongside an entire battleship that had simply appeared in the space where solid ferrocrete had been moments before.
The roof hadn't been destroyed or displaced. It had simply ceased to exist, as if the laboratory's ceiling had always been the Ork.
Kelbor-Hal's face attempted an expression of utter bewilderment, a complex computational task for his augmented features. The mechanical facsimile proved too ambitious. His facial skin fell off entirely, clattering to the floor.
"Yo! Brother Kelbor, showing your face so early! Good thing we're familiar, otherwise I wouldn't have recognized you." Francis's head emerged from the battleship looming above, grinning down at the scene.
Kelbor-Hal stood motionless, his processors struggling to parse this impossibility.
Every Tech-Priest froze where they stood.
Most wretched of all was the wetware subject on the surgical table, half-stripped, skull opened, brain lifted but not yet severed.
His agony reached its apex as he screamed, "Kill me! Kill me quickly! Ahhhhhhh~"
The Skitarii arrived within moments, weapons raised. The Soul Drinkers burst in simultaneously, having followed in secret to check on their Primarch's ship.
The moment they witnessed Francis, the Soul Drinkers erupted in joyous cheers. "Primarch! Primarch! Primarch!"
The Skitarii dared not act, looking only toward Kelbor-Hal for orders. They relaxed when he gave a slight nod of permission.
The Fabricator-General's brain worked frantically, computational wetware smoking from overuse as he processed this development. Finally, he managed to produce words through his vox-caster. "You're here, Lord Francis~"
"Wait for me. I'll be right out."
Francis glanced around the laboratory suspiciously, his eyes narrowing. He smelled conspiracy in the air, beneath the oil and blood. He retreated into the battleship. Countless Ork screams immediately erupted from within.
"Boss, why are ya hittin' me?"
"I'm unhappy, so I want to fight! Are you the boss, or am I the boss?!"
"Ouch~ Boss, I didn't do nuffin'!"
"Huh? Didn't do anything? Then you deserve an even bigger beating!"
"..."
Every listener wore a complex expression, their bodies trembling at the casual violence. The Soul Drinkers exchanged uncertain glances.
Hiss~
The hatch opened with a pneumatic wheeze. Francis emerged, beaten, Orks littering the cabin behind him in various states of groaning consciousness.
He immediately leapt down before Kelbor-Hal, throwing an arm around the Fabricator-General's shoulder with familiar ease. "Haha, you don't know, Ork Boyz get restless if they don't fight for a while. Now that I've given them a good beating, they'll be quiet for a bit."
He retrieved the fallen facial skin from the floor and handed it over carefully. "Brother Kelbor, you can't expose your face like this. What if someone steps on it? Then you'll have no face left! Hehehe~"
"Your advice is duly noted, Lord Francis. I should replace it." Kelbor-Hal accepted the skin and reattached it with practiced movements, magnetic seals clicking into place. "May I ask what prompted you to seek me out?"
Francis turned in confusion toward the Soul Drinkers behind him. "Of course, for the ship. Didn't you say this was where I should come to pick up the ship?"
Chief Librarian Sarpedon stepped forward, his psychic hood crackling faintly as he bellowed, "Reporting, my lord Primarch! The Fabricator General transmitted a message to us that it's not built yet! He has told us to wait!"
His voice echoed throughout the chamber, especially the words "not built yet."
Not built yet~
Not built yet~
The words bounced off cold metal walls accusingly.
"Huh? I thought the super-massive battleship you were constructing on Mars's far side was for me?" Francis's voice dripped with theatrical disappointment.
"Alas, so it wasn't for me! And here I thought you were preparing a surprise for me, and I, in return, had to give you something good. Alas, the feelings have faded! Our bond has weakened!"
Francis shook his head with exaggerated regret, turning toward the exit. "Let's go, we'll build it ourselves. What a shame about this Ork teleportation technology, though. Tsk tsk tsk~"
"Teleportation technology?!"
"You mean the teleportation technology that allowed you to manifest here instantaneously?!"
Kelbor-Hal's tone rose sharply, his vox-caster crackling with interference from emotional stress on his systems. He stared at Francis with fervent optics, his mechanical eyes blazing with hunger. Even bionic augmentations could express frantic desire when properly motivated.
Every surrounding Tech-Priest immediately turned toward Francis as one.
They began praying with absolute devotion, voices rising in binary cant. "Praise the Omnissiah for this blessing! You are the messenger the Omnissiah has sent! We will obey your every command! Is this not so, General?!"
The Tech-Priests pleaded frantically with Kelbor-Hal, their voices overlapping in desperate harmony. They utterly forgot wetware experiments, STC templates, and political rebellion.
This was teleportation technology, instantaneous matter transference without Warp travel!
Every Mechanicus heart-engine screamed in desperate desire. Mechanical components smoked furiously with thermal overload. Much longer, and there would be countless servings of roasted brain-matter scattered across the laboratory floor.
Thump thump thump~
The sound of Francis's receding footsteps echoed through the sudden silence.
Kelbor-Hal finally abandoned all pretense of reason and strategic calculation. "That's for you! That's your surprise!"
Francis's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. He spun around abruptly, his expression shifting. "Brother, you just said it wasn't mine, and now you say it is. Translate for me. What is a surprise?"
The Tech-Priests looked puzzled, their augmented minds struggling with the request. "Does this require translation? It's already been stated in clear Gothic..."
Francis raised a hand imperiously. "I told you to translate for me—what the hell is a surprise!"
Kelbor-Hal found the logic incomprehensible, his processors grinding against the circular reasoning. "No translation is required. It's a surprise! Do you not comprehend the basic concept of surprise?"
Francis turned to leave once more. "Translate it for me—what is a surprise! What a a goddamn surprise!"
The Tech-Priests exchanged confused glances, then began murmuring: "What is a surprise?"
Kelbor-Hal realized he could conceal nothing further. This bizarre negotiation tactic had somehow cornered him completely.
He revealed everything in a rush of binary and Gothic. "The surprise is the Furious Abyss! An Abyss-class battleship, superior even to Gloriana-class vessels in firepower and displacement. I will bestow it upon you immediately, and in exchange, you will instruct me in Ork teleportation technology. Is this exchange understood and acceptable?"
[End of Chapter]