Chapter 42: A Manpower Deficit and the Black Crusade
Back in the Fortress-Monastery, Petros was still brooding over the manufactorum foreman's report. They lacked skilled labor.
In fact, the entire planet was suffering from a severe manpower shortage. The shipyards lacked qualified enginseers. The factories lacked experienced tech-wrights. The new scholas lacked proficient instructors. The Planetary Governor's court lacked adepts with administrative experience. The cargo-landers lacked pilots. The "Spear of Hector" barracks lacked drill-abbotts who understood modern tactical doctrine.
The military situation was the most severe. Sachs, after all, was just a line-infantry commander. He could teach men to march and fire a lasgun, but when it came to logistics, battlefield coordination, combat-medicae, or grand strategy, he was completely out of his depth.
Every sector was screaming for personnel. The thralls he had brought from The Ironclad's lower decks had long since been absorbed, and they were just a drop in the ocean.
Petros had considered one solution: Vitae-wombs. Cloning technology was not uncommon; both the Mechanicum and the Dark Mechanicum used it to produce their Skitarii legions, servitors, and even some of their own lower-order priests.
He had asked Priestess Yamila if Daedalos could provide them with cloning vats. They could use the hypno-indoctrination technology—the same kind used to create the "Swift Siege Cohort"—to flash-imprint skills onto the clones and mass-produce a qualified workforce.
The priests had immediately and flatly rejected the proposal. They explained that hypno-indoctrination only worked on the resilient, superhuman minds of Astartes. Shoving that much complex, systemic knowledge into a standard mortal brain would cause catastrophic mental collapse, producing only a drooling, screaming lunatic. If the technology were that simple, the Imperium would have been mass-producing soldiers for millennia, and there would be no need for the Schola Progenium or military academies. Mortals, they insisted, still had to learn.
The priests had told Petros that his problem was simple. His planet had over 11 million people, they were protected by Astartes, they were well-fed, and an education system was being established. They simply needed time. In 24 generations—a "mere" 600 years—the population would swell to over 10 billion, and a mature, self-sustaining educational and industrial base would be in place.
The problem was that 600 years was an eternity.
Petros had been born on Olympia in 992.M30. The current Standard Terran Date was 682.M31. By that math, he should be 690 years old.
But that wasn't how it worked. After the Iron Cage, he had retreated into the Eye of Terror with the Legion. He had been stationed on the daemon world of Midgard. Time in the Warp was a chaotic, broken thing. A century in realspace could pass in a few subjective months. By his own meticulous count, Petros was 204 years old.
For an Astartes, he was still young. But he wasn't young enough to waste 600 years waiting for mortals to breed.
There was only one other solution.
Plunder.
But plunder who? The Imperium, obviously. That presented its own problem. Primitive feudal worlds were not worth the promethium to invade. Civilized, advanced worlds were too well-defended; they could be a meat grinder.
Petros stood before the hololithic star-map in his office, racking his brain for a viable target, when a heavy, rhythmic pounding echoed through the door.
DOK-DOK-DOK-DOK!
It was a knock, but it sounded like someone trying to break into a coffin.
Petros knew who it was. The mortals, Sappho and Sachs, made appointments. Antonius would have just barged in. The other brothers would have knocked politely. Only one person knocked with some courtesy, but not much.
"Phelon," Petros called out. "Enter."
The black-skinned Warpsmith strode in, waving a data-slate.
"Boss," Phelon grinned, "I have good news, and I have bad news. Which do you want first?"
Petros felt a familiar urge to strike the man. "I want to hear neither. Give me the slate."
He snatched it from Phelon's hand. The screen lit up with a formatted astropathic message.
TO ALL WHOSE LOYALTY IS TRUE
IN THE COMING YEAR, 781.M31, EZEKYLE ABADDON—FIRST CAPTAIN OF THE SONS OF HORUS, MASTER OF THE VENGEFUL SPIRIT, WARMASITER OF THE BLACK LEGION, THE DESPOILER—WILL LAUNCH THE FIRST OF HIS BLACK CRUSADES.
ALL SONS OF THE LEGIONS ARE CALLED TO MUSTER.
JOIN THE LEGION. JOIN THE CRUSADE.
WE HAVE RETURNED. DEATH TO THE FALSE EMPEROR!
Below the text was a grainy pict-capture of Abaddon, his topknot immaculate, flanked by the Thousand Sons Sorcerer, Iskandar Khayon, and the World Eaters champion, Falkus Kibre.
"What is this?" Petros scowled. "A cheap recruitment poster?" He tossed the slate onto his desk. "Abaddon is launching a crusade. What part of that is 'good news'?"
Phelon's grin widened. "He sent this to every warband, boss. Ours included. He's promising fresh wargear to any warband that musters with his fleet."
At the mention of wargear, Petros's interest was piqued. His neophytes still didn't have a full issue of power armor. The only two spare sets in the armory had come from... Kolin and Fledri.
"I've heard the good news," Petros said, his voice flat. "What's the bad news?"
"Boss," Phelon said, still smiling. "You didn't look at the date."
Petros looked back at the slate. "781.M31. Next year... Wait." He looked up, a cold feeling in his gut. "Phelon. What is the current Standard Terran Date?"
"22:16, boss."
Petros wanted to throttle him. "The Terran Date."
"780.M31," Phelon said, his grin finally fading. "Boss... that last Warp storm. It blew us 98 years into the future."
Petros processed this, stroking his chin. "It's not unexpected. The Maelstrom is a sea of temporal anomalies. It's one of the reasons the Imperium can't hold this territory."
"So," Phelon asked, "are we joining his little crusade or not?"
Petros snorted. "Destroy the Imperium? Death to the False Emperor? We have no interest in that. We have no deep-seated grudge. If Abaddon wants to burn the galaxy, let him. It's not our concern."
He paused, a cold, calculating glint in his eyes.
"However... using the cover of a Black Crusade to go plundering... that, I am interested in. Very interested."
He stood, his decision made. "We'll go. We'll muster with Abaddon's fleet and we'll take his wargear. Then we'll follow in his wake, wave the banner, and shout the slogans. And when the main fleets engage and the Imperium is in chaos, we will slip the leash... and go find a nice, rich, undefended world to rob blind."
Phelon slammed his fist into his palm. "Right! That's what I was waiting to hear, boss!"