Chapter 39: Good Boys Don't Lie
Sappho walked through the Fortress-Monastery, her light purple peplos a stark contrast to the grey iron bulkheads. She had tied her hair up with a silk ribbon, and an emerald necklace and pearl earrings hung from her neck and ears.
Purple was, by tradition, a color reserved only for the highest male nobility. Its dye was the most precious, requiring "abyssal-divers" to harvest a specific sea-snail from the ocean floor. Thousands, sometimes tens of thousands, of snails were needed to dye a single garment, and many divers died from "the Bends" in the process. Each purple robe was paid for in lives.
And though the Tech-Priests had since introduced cheap, synthetic dyes, her father, the Governor, had kept the old law. Purple was for noble men.
Sappho was the exception. As the Chronicler to the Lord of the Forged Steel, she was his voice. She was, in effect, more powerful than the Governor himself.
She clutched her data-slate, her leather sandals slap-slap-slapping on the hard deck as she passed under the gaze of the armed sentries. She reached the door to Petros's office, pausing to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, hiding the small, healed scar from her cochlear implant. She pressed her palm to the bio-scanner. The heavy door hissed open.
She saw them in the reception area and flinched, then immediately regained her composure.
"Lord Antonius. Lord Phelon." She bowed deeply.
The two armored Astartes were at a table, eating. Before them were simple nuts, bread, seafood soup, and brandy.
Antonius, his face a ruin of melted flesh, ignored her completely. Phelon, however, gave her a wide, sharp-toothed grin and a nod. This only terrified her more. Her father had told her that while Antonius was scarred, Phelon was the one who had eaten her distant cousin.
The two Astartes were in the middle of a conversation.
"How is it?" Antonius rasped, gesturing to the soup.
Phelon, wiping his mouth with a piece of parchment, grunted. "Passable. Though I don't know how mortals eat these... acid-calcium wafers. They're damned sharp."
Antonius paused, his one good eyebrow raised. "...Wafers? There are no wafers in the meal." He leaned over and looked at Phelon's bowl, which was full of empty, cracked-open seashells.
"Phelon," Antonius said, "those are... shells."
Phelon's eyes went wide in mock surprise. "Shells! By the forge, you're right! Thank you, brother, I never would have known!"
He immediately burst into a deafening, booming laugh at his own terrible joke.
Sappho didn't dare get involved. She hurried past them into the inner office.
Petros was there, unarmored, wearing a simple, long grey robe. He was at his desk, writing on parchment with a quill pen. Beside him was the same meal as the others, though it included a plate of fresh figs, already half-eaten.
"My Lord, I—"
"Just report," he said, not looking up.
"Yes, my Lord." She activated her data-slate. "Per the new census, the total population of Lemnos III, including all thrall-classes, is 11,233,400. Males comprise 51.24%, females 48.76%. 19.9% are under 15 years of age, 72.49% are of working age, and 7.64% are... post-service."
Petros didn't seem to be listening, but his hypno-trained mind had already processed the raw numbers. "Other matters?"
Sappho quickly scrolled. "Food production is in surplus. We have begun stockpiling all excess protein-bars and corpse-starch. However, some of the new agricultural zones report insufficient rainfall and poor soil quality."
"Unimportant," Petros said, still writing. "The Dark Mechanicum will adjust the new weather-grid to increase precipitation. They will handle soil fertilization."
He didn't pause his work. He trusted the Tech-Priests to fulfill that part of the contract. Denying him tanks and void-fighters was one thing; basic planetary engineering was another.
"One of their long-term projects is to begin towing asteroids from the system's belt," he continued. "They will place them in orbit and... encourage... them to merge. A new moon. It will increase the planet's tidal forces, which will aid the new climate."
Sappho's eyes went wide. "My Lord... you mean moving the stars? Is that possible?" She wasn't questioning the Angel, but her education simply couldn't grasp the scale of it.
"It's not difficult," Petros said. "There is no drag in the void. Towing them is simple. The difficulty is ensuring the debris doesn't strike the planet."
Sappho stared at him, this giant who was remaking her world. She gathered her courage. "My Lord Angel... are you doing all this... is it the Emperor's Will?"
Petros's pen stopped. He looked up, his severe, gene-forged face locking onto hers. "No," he said, his voice cold and flat. "I do this for myself. You are my assets. My livestock. I am making you healthier, more efficient, and more numerous so you can produce better wargear and breed better soldiers to fight my wars."
He saw the hope drain from her face. He sighed, then motioned for her to come closer. He raised his massive, calloused hand and, very gently, placed it on her head.
"Remember this, Little Olive," he said, his voice quiet, almost kind. "I will never lie to you. Only to my enemies, as a tactic."
Sappho was startled. Only her father had ever called her 'Little Olive.' The Lord of the Forged must have overheard it and... remembered.
"My Lord... you have never told a lie?"
He shook his head, his expression serious. "No. I lied. When I was a boy... I lied, I stole, I fought."
"What... what changed you?" she whispered.
A shadow of some ancient, un-Astartes-like sadness passed over his eyes. "My mother. She told me... 'Good boys don't lie.'"
He pulled his hand back. "Leave the data-slate. I will review it."
Sappho nodded and turned to leave. But as she did, Petros's enhanced hearing caught a sound... thump-thump... thump-thump...
A heartbeat. A third heartbeat. Faint, fast, and tiny.
"Wait," he said.
Sappho turned, her head immediately bowed. "Yes, my Lord?"
Petros stood, walked around the desk, and stopped in front of her. Then, to her utter shock, the Lord of the Forged Steel knelt, bringing his massive frame down so his eyes were level with hers. He gently lifted her chin with one finger, forcing her to meet his gaze.
"You are pregnant."
He looked at her face, really looked at her, and realized she was no longer the terrified girl from the Senate hall. The last seven years had changed her. She was a woman.
He looked down at her stomach, hidden by the folds of her peplos. "May I... listen?"
She trembled, terrified, not understanding the request. Her hands moved, fumbling with the sash of her dress, assuming he wanted her to bare herself.
"No." He stopped her, shaking his head.
Then, Petros Kalaxis, Lord of the Fordged, Warsmith of the old Legion, knelt on both knees before his mortal servant. He turned his head, and pressed his ear gently against her stomach, closing his eyes, listening.