The Emperor of Mankind, Master of the Imperium, the Omnissiah, the Carrion Lord (though no one was allowed to call him that to his face, mostly because he didn't have a functional face anymore), had not had a coherent thought in approximately ten thousand years.
This was not for lack of trying. The Emperor was, technically, still conscious. His mind still functioned, after a fashion, maintaining the Astronomican, holding back the tides of Chaos, keeping the Webway project from completely imploding, and performing the thousands of other psychic tasks that kept humanity from being devoured by the darkness between stars.
But coherent thought? Linear thinking? The kind of mental processing that would allow one to, say, follow a train of thought from beginning to end without getting distracted by the screaming of a billion souls or the constant gnawing pressure of the Dark Gods?
That was a luxury the Emperor had not enjoyed since Horus had ruined everything.
Until now.
For the first time in ten millennia, the Emperor's attention was focused on a single point. A single soul. A single, inexplicable, absolutely maddening individual who had appeared in His Imperium like a splinter in the cosmic toe.
WHAT, the Emperor's psychic voice boomed through the halls of the Imperial Palace, causing seventeen Custodians to stumble and forty-three servants to instantly develop migraines, IS THAT?
The Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes, Trajann Valoris, looked up from the report he had been reading. It was a rare occurrence for the Emperor to communicate directly, and an even rarer occurrence for Him to sound... confused.
"My liege?" Trajann asked carefully.
THERE IS A MORTAL. ON GORAXIA PRIME. HE KNOWS THINGS. THINGS HE SHOULD NOT KNOW. THINGS NO ONE SHOULD KNOW. I CANNOT... I CANNOT SEE HIM PROPERLY. HIS FUTURE IS... UNCLEAR.
"Unclear, my liege?"
UNCLEAR. MUDDLED. AS IF... AS IF SOMEONE HAS TAKEN THE THREADS OF FATE AND TIED THEM INTO KNOTS. DELIBERATE KNOTS. ANNOYING KNOTS.
Trajann frowned. The Emperor's precognitive abilities were legendary. The Master of Mankind could see the paths of fate stretching out before Him like a vast tapestry, reading the future with a clarity that made lesser seers weep with envy.
If something was blocking His sight...
"Shall I dispatch a team to investigate, my liege?"
AN INQUISITOR IS ALREADY THERE. VORN. ORDO HERETICUS. SHE IS... CONFUSED. SHE HAS INTERROGATED HIM. HE TOLD HER THAT THE IMPERIUM IS A GAME. A GAME WITH SMALL PLASTIC FIGURES. HE TOLD HER THAT I AM A FICTIONAL CHARACTER.
Trajann blinked. "That is... certainly heretical, my liege."
IT IS NOT HERETICAL. IT IS INSANE. THERE IS A DIFFERENCE. HERESY IMPLIES INTENT. THIS MAN HAS NO INTENT. HE GENUINELY BELIEVES WHAT HE IS SAYING. HE GENUINELY BELIEVES HE IS DREAMING.
"Perhaps he is simply mad?"
PERHAPS. BUT THE MAD DO NOT ACTIVATE ARCHAEOTECH WITH A TOUCH. THE MAD DO NOT SURVIVE ORK NOBS BY ACCIDENT. THE MAD DO NOT KNOW THE INNER WORKINGS OF THE INQUISITION, THE HISTORY OF THE HORUS HERESY, THE NAMES AND NATURES OF THE DARK GODS...
The Emperor trailed off.
Actually trailed off.
Trajann had not known that was possible.
HE KNOWS ABOUT THE DEAL, the Emperor said, His voice suddenly very quiet. HE KNOWS ABOUT THE BARGAIN I MADE IN MOLECH. HE KNOWS ABOUT THE PRIMARCH PROJECT. HE KNOWS ABOUT... ABOUT EVERYTHING.
"My liege, how is that possible?"
I DO NOT KNOW. I DO NOT KNOW AND IT IS BOTHERING ME. I HAVE NOT BEEN BOTHERED IN TEN THOUSAND YEARS. I HAD FORGOTTEN WHAT IT FELT LIKE. IT IS EXTREMELY UNPLEASANT.
Trajann was silent for a moment. Then, carefully, he asked the question that needed to be asked.
"Do you believe he is a threat, my liege?"
The Emperor was quiet for a long time.
I DO NOT KNOW, He admitted finally. AND THAT IS PERHAPS THE MOST CONCERNING THING OF ALL. WATCH HIM. HAVE HIM WATCHED. I WANT TO KNOW EVERYTHING HE DOES. EVERY WORD HE SPEAKS. EVERY MOVE HE MAKES.
"And if he proves to be a threat?"
THEN WE WILL DEAL WITH HIM.
There was a pause.
BUT I DO NOT THINK HE IS A THREAT. I THINK HE IS... SOMETHING ELSE. SOMETHING NEW. SOMETHING I HAVE NOT ENCOUNTERED BEFORE. AND AFTER TEN THOUSAND YEARS OF THE SAME ENDLESS STRUGGLE, 'NEW' IS... INTERESTING.
Another pause.
ALSO, HE CALLED ME A 'SKELETON' IN HIS INTERNAL MONOLOGUE. I AM NOT PLEASED ABOUT THAT. I AM NOT A SKELETON. I AM A PARTIALLY DESICCATED CORPSE. THERE IS A DIFFERENCE. SKELETONS DO NOT HAVE FLESH. I HAVE SOME FLESH. IT IS ADMITTEDLY NOT MUCH FLESH, BUT IT IS FLESH NONETHELESS.
"Of course, my liege."
I AM BEING DEFENSIVE. I REALIZE I AM BEING DEFENSIVE. THIS IS ALSO NEW. I HAVE NOT BEEN DEFENSIVE ABOUT MY PHYSICAL APPEARANCE IN... EVER. THIS MAN IS HAVING A STRANGE EFFECT ON ME AND I DO NOT APPRECIATE IT.
"Shall I have him killed, my liege? To remove the source of your... discomfort?"
NO. NO, I WANT TO SEE WHAT HE DOES. I WANT TO UNDERSTAND HIM. UNDERSTANDING HIM FEELS IMPORTANT FOR SOME REASON. BESIDES, IF I KILLED EVERYONE WHO MADE ME UNCOMFORTABLE, THERE WOULD BE NO ONE LEFT IN THE IMPERIUM.
"That seems statistically unlikely, my liege."
YOU HAVE NOT SPENT TEN THOUSAND YEARS LISTENING TO THE CONSTANT PSYCHIC NOISE OF A MILLION WORLDS. EVERYONE IS ANNOYING. EVERYONE. THIS MAN IS JUST ANNOYING IN A NEW AND UNUSUAL WAY.
The Emperor's presence receded, leaving Trajann alone with his thoughts.
The Captain-General looked down at the report in his hands. It was a standard military briefing from Goraxia Prime, but now it seemed to carry significantly more weight.
Private Bartholomew Thaddeus Jenkins III.
The man who had confused the Emperor.
Trajann made a note to have the Custodes start a file on him. A large file.
Meanwhile, on Goraxia Prime, Bartholomew was having what he considered to be a very pleasant day.
Sure, he was technically under arrest. Sure, the Inquisitor was watching him like a hawk with a particularly suspicious mouse. Sure, there was an ongoing war happening all around him.
But on the bright side, he had just been given breakfast (some kind of nutrient paste that tasted like sadness, but still, breakfast), and the Inquisitor had promised to show him her ship later, and he was pretty sure this dream was going to win some kind of award for "Most Immersive Subconscious Experience."
"You seem cheerful," Inquisitor Vorn observed.
"I'm having a great time," Bartholomew confirmed. "This is definitely in my top five dreams. Maybe top three."
"What are your other top dreams?"
"One time I dreamed I was a dragon. That was pretty cool. And there was this one where I found a secret room in my house that I never knew existed, and it was full of unpainted miniatures that I didn't have to pay for. That one was actually better than this one, if I'm being honest."
Helena stared at him. "You're ranking a dream about free plastic toys higher than a dream about an entire galaxy-spanning civilization?"
"The plastic toys were really nice," Bartholomew said defensively. "There was a Titan in there. A Warlord Titan. Do you have any idea how much those cost? Like, actual real-world money?"
"I don't know what a Titan is."
"What? How do you not—" Bartholomew paused. "Oh, right. You call them something different here, don't you? The big walking machines. The ones that are like, a hundred feet tall and have all the guns."
"You mean the God-Machines of the Collegia Titanica?"
"Yes! Those! In the game—I mean, in the stories—we just call them Titans. The models are super expensive. Like, 'this costs more than my car' expensive."
Helena made a mental note. This was probably the twentieth mental note she had made since meeting Jenkins, and she was running out of mental paper.
"I have more questions for you," she said.
"Sure! Ask away. I'm an open book."
"You mentioned the Horus Heresy earlier. What do you know about it?"
Bartholomew's face lit up like a child's on Christmas morning.
"Oh man, so much. The Heresy is like, the central event of the whole setting. It's the reason everything is the way it is. Okay, so, ten thousand years ago, the Emperor created the Primarchs, right? These super-powered demigod beings who were supposed to lead humanity's armies. But then the Chaos Gods snatched them up and scattered them across the galaxy, so the Emperor had to go find them all. And he did, eventually, and they led the Great Crusade to reclaim the galaxy for humanity. But then Horus, who was the Emperor's favorite son, got corrupted by Chaos, and he convinced half the Primarchs to turn traitor, and there was this massive civil war that ended with Horus and the Emperor fighting on Horus's flagship, and Horus almost won, but the Emperor killed him, but the Emperor was also mortally wounded, so they put Him on the Golden Throne to keep Him alive, and now He's been sitting there for ten thousand years while the Imperium slowly falls apart around Him."
He paused for breath.
"That's the short version. The long version takes like, fifty books. More, probably. I lost count."
Helena was silent.
Everything he had said was accurate.
Disturbingly accurate.
The official version of the Horus Heresy—the version that most Imperial citizens knew—was a heavily sanitized account of noble loyalists fighting against inexplicable traitors. The truth, the real truth, was known only to the highest echelons of the Inquisition and the Adeptus Custodes.
And yet this random conscript had just rattled it off like he was recounting the plot of a holovid drama.
"How do you know this?" she asked, her voice carefully controlled.
"I told you. It's in the books. The Horus Heresy series. There's like, sixty of them. I've read most of them, though some are better than others. 'The First Heretic' is really good. 'Fulgrim' is disturbing but good. 'Battle for the Abyss' is... well, it exists, I guess."
"Books," Helena repeated flatly.
"Yeah. Published by Black Library. They're the fiction arm of Games Workshop. They do all the novels set in the Warhammer universes. Warhammer 40,000 and Warhammer Fantasy, though Fantasy got replaced by Age of Sigmar, which is a whole thing, people have opinions—"
"I need you to stop talking."
"Okay. Sorry. I ramble. It's a thing."
Helena pressed her palms against her eyes.
Either this man was the most elaborate deep-cover agent in the history of deep-cover agents, or something genuinely inexplicable was happening.
She was starting to lean toward the latter.
In the Warp, the Chaos Gods were convening.
This was unusual. The Chaos Gods did not "convene." They schemed against each other, warred against each other, occasionally formed temporary alliances that inevitably collapsed into betrayal.
But they did not convene.
And yet, here they were.
"So," Tzeentch said, his voice a symphony of overlapping schemes. "The mortal."
"The mortal," Nurgle agreed, his form bubbling with paternal affection. "He is delightful."
"HE IS INTERESTING," Khorne growled. "I HAVE NOT BEEN INTERESTED IN A MORTAL IN SOME TIME."
"He is excessive," Slaanesh purred. "His knowledge, his honesty, his complete and utter lack of self-preservation instinct. He is a feast of contradictions."
"The question," Tzeentch continued, "is what to do with him."
"Bless him," Nurgle said immediately. "Give him gifts. Make him ours."
"HE CANNOT BE OURS," Khorne pointed out. "NOT IN THE TRADITIONAL SENSE. HE DOES NOT WORSHIP US. HE DOES NOT EVEN BELIEVE WE ARE REAL."
"That's what makes him so perfect," Slaanesh said. "He cannot be corrupted in the usual way. He is... immune. Not through resistance, but through sheer, beautiful obliviousness."
"An uncorruptible mortal who knows all our secrets," Tzeentch mused. "Who walks through the galaxy speaking forbidden truths without consequence. Who survives impossible situations through luck that borders on supernatural."
"He would make an excellent plague bearer," Nurgle offered.
"HE WOULD MAKE AN EXCELLENT SKULL," Khorne countered.
"He would make an excellent anything," Slaanesh said. "That's the point. He is infinitely adaptable. Infinitely malleable. Not through weakness, but through that strange quality that makes him... him."
"So we agree," Tzeentch said. "We all want him."
"YES."
"We do."
"Obviously."
"And none of us are willing to let the others have him exclusively."
Silence.
"Then we share," Tzeentch proposed. "We each bless him. We each grant him a portion of our power. Not enough to mark him as ours—that would draw too much attention—but enough to... protect him. Guide him. Amuse ourselves with him."
"AND THE ANATHEMA?" Khorne asked. "THE CORPSE-EMPEROR HAS NOTICED HIM."
"Let Him notice," Slaanesh laughed. "Let Him wonder. Let Him squirm. When was the last time the Anathema was genuinely confused? This is entertainment of the highest order."
"Agreed," Nurgle rumbled. "Let us bless our little mortal. Let us see what happens when all four of us take an interest in the same soul."
"This is either going to be very interesting," Tzeentch said, "or very catastrophic."
"ISN'T THAT THE SAME THING?" Khorne asked.
"...You know, you might be right about that."
Bartholomew sneezed.
It was a perfectly normal sneeze. Nothing special about it at all. Except that it lasted approximately thirty seconds longer than any sneeze had any right to last, and when it was over, he felt... different.
Not bad different. Just... different.
"Are you alright?" Inquisitor Vorn asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
"Fine," Bartholomew said, rubbing his nose. "Just allergies, probably. Do they have allergies in the 41st millennium? I never really thought about it, but it seems like with all the different planets and environments, there would be so many potential allergens—"
"You're doing it again."
"Sorry. Rambling. I know."
But something had changed. Bartholomew couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something in the universe had... shifted. Like a puzzle piece clicking into place.
He dismissed the thought. Dream logic. Everything in dreams felt significant, even when it wasn't.
Elsewhere on Goraxia Prime, a battle was reaching its climax.
The Ork WAAAGH! had been pushed back, but not broken. The greenskins were regrouping for another assault, and the Imperial forces were stretched thin. Reinforcements had been requested, but in the Imperial Guard, "reinforcements" was often a polite way of saying "more cannon fodder."
What arrived instead was something much more significant.
Commissar Ciaphas Cain, HERO OF THE IMPERIUM, stepped off the transport and immediately regretted every decision that had led him to this moment.
Cain was many things. A reluctant hero. A skilled fighter. A man whose instinct for self-preservation was matched only by his uncanny ability to find himself in the most dangerous situations in the galaxy.
He was also, though he would never admit it, genuinely lucky. Not blessed-by-the-Emperor lucky, not chosen-by-fate lucky, but the kind of lucky that meant bullets always seemed to miss him by inches and explosions always seemed to blow him in the direction of safety.
It was a gift he had learned to rely on.
And right now, that gift was screaming at him.
"Something's wrong," he muttered to his aide, Jurgen, who was standing beside him emanating his usual aura of unpleasant smells and anti-psychic blankness.
"Sir?" Jurgen asked.
"I don't know what it is. But something on this planet is... off."
Cain had learned to trust his instincts. They had kept him alive through more impossible situations than he could count. And right now, his instincts were telling him that there was something on Goraxia Prime that shouldn't be here.
Something that was going to make his life very, very complicated.
"Find me whoever's in charge," Cain said. "I want a full briefing. And I want to know about anything unusual that's happened since the Guard arrived."
Jurgen nodded and shambled off.
Cain looked out at the war-torn landscape and felt the familiar weight of destiny settling on his shoulders.
He hated that weight. He really, truly hated it.
But it never seemed to go away.
The briefing was exactly as bad as Cain had expected.
The war was going poorly. The Orks were relentless. Imperial casualties were mounting. The usual story, really, for any conflict involving greenskins.
But then the briefing officer mentioned something that made Cain's instincts scream even louder.
"There is one other matter, Commissar. A... situation."
"What kind of situation?"
"A conscript. Private Jenkins. He's been... unusual."
"Unusual how?"
The briefing officer looked uncomfortable. "He's survived several encounters that should have been fatal. He activated archaeotech that hasn't worked in millennia. He was captured by an Ork Nob and released. And he's currently being held by an Inquisitor for, quote, 'being extremely confusing.'"
Cain blinked. "Being extremely confusing?"
"Those were Inquisitor Vorn's exact words, sir. She said he's either the most dangerous heretic she's ever met or the most innocent idiot in the galaxy, and she can't figure out which."
Cain considered this information.
On one hand, getting involved with someone who had attracted Inquisitorial attention was exactly the kind of thing that got people killed.
On the other hand, his instincts were telling him that this Private Jenkins was the source of the wrongness he had been feeling. And if he was going to survive whatever was about to happen, he needed to understand it.
"Take me to see this Private Jenkins," he said.
The briefing officer looked concerned. "Sir, the Inquisitor has him in custody. I don't think—"
"I'm a Commissar," Cain said, flashing his most heroic smile. "Surely the Inquisitor won't mind a brief visit from a fellow servant of the Emperor."
He was lying. He was absolutely, positively lying. Inquisitors minded everything. Inquisitors minded you looking at them funny. Inquisitors minded you breathing in their general direction.
But Cain needed to see this Private Jenkins for himself.
His instincts demanded it.
Bartholomew was having a nap when Commissar Cain arrived.
This was notable because he was napping in the middle of what was technically an interrogation cell, on a hard metal bench, with an Inquisitor watching him with undisguised frustration.
"He just... fell asleep," Helena explained to the Commissar. "I was in the middle of asking him about the nature of Chaos, and he said 'this is a long dream, I'm going to rest my eyes,' and then he was out."
"He fell asleep during an Inquisitorial interrogation?"
"He doesn't seem to understand that this is an Inquisitorial interrogation. He thinks it's a 'really in-depth dream conversation with a dream Inquisitor.'"
Cain looked at the sleeping man. He was ordinary-looking. Nothing special about him at all. Average height, average build, the kind of face that you would forget five minutes after seeing it.
And yet...
And yet there was something. Something that Cain's instincts couldn't quite identify. Something that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
"Wake him," Cain said.
Helena shook Bartholomew's shoulder.
Bartholomew woke with a snort.
"Wha—? Oh. Dream's still going. Cool."
And then he saw Cain.
His face went through an expression that Cain had seen before, though rarely. It was the expression of a fan meeting their favorite celebrity.
"Oh my GOD," Bartholomew breathed. "Oh my actual literal GOD. You're CIAPHAS CAIN."
Cain blinked.
"You know who I am?"
"Know who you are?! You're only the BEST character in the entire setting! The reluctant hero! The HERO OF THE IMPERIUM!" Bartholomew made the phrase sound like a title, complete with imaginary capital letters. "I've read all your books! Well, all the books about you. Written by Amberley Vail. Who you're totally in a relationship with, by the way, everyone knows. The 'we're just colleagues' thing doesn't fool anyone."
Cain's face went very, very still.
"I don't know anyone named Amberley Vail," he said carefully.
"Sure you don't. Wink wink. I get it. Operational security. Very important for Inquisitors." Bartholomew suddenly paused. "Wait. If she's not here yet, then the books haven't been written yet. So technically I'm spoiling your own future to you. That's weird. That's very weird. Time travel is always weird."
"There's no time travel involved—"
"There must be, though, right? Because I'm from... well, I'm from a different universe, I think, where all this is fictional. And if I know about events that haven't happened yet to you, then there's some kind of temporal shenanigans happening. Unless the books were written about things that already happened, in which case I'm just meeting a younger version of you than the one in the books. How old are you? You look pretty young. Early career, maybe? Have you done the Perlia thing yet? What about Simia Orichalcae? No, wait, don't tell me, I don't want to spoil myself—"
"STOP," Cain commanded.
Bartholomew stopped.
"What," Cain said slowly, "are you talking about?"
"The Ciaphas Cain novels. Published by Black Library. There's like, a dozen of them. They follow your adventures as a Commissar who's secretly kind of a coward but keeps accidentally becoming a hero anyway. They're really popular. You have a very distinctive narrative voice."
Cain felt his blood run cold.
This man—this random conscript—had just accurately described Cain's deepest secret. The cowardice that he hid behind his heroic facade. The fear that drove him to survive at all costs, which somehow always ended up looking like bravery.
No one knew that. No one. Not even Jurgen, probably.
And yet this man spoke of it like it was common knowledge.
"How do you know this?" Cain demanded.
"I told you. I read the books. They're very entertaining. The author—well, the in-universe author, Amberley Vail—has a lot of footnotes. She corrects your memory a lot. It's very charming."
"There are no books about me."
"Not yet, apparently. Give it a few decades. You become famous. Well, more famous than you already are."
Cain turned to Helena.
"Is he like this with everyone?"
"Yes," Helena said wearily. "He seems to know things about everyone. Things he shouldn't know. Things no one should know."
"And you haven't killed him?"
"I'm considering it. But every time I make up my mind to do it, he says something so bizarre that I need to investigate further. It's extremely frustrating."
Bartholomew beamed at both of them.
"This is great," he said. "Two of my favorite characters, in the same room. This dream is really pulling out all the stops. Hey, do you guys know each other? Because in the lore, you don't really overlap much, but—"
"We're meeting for the first time now," Cain said.
"Oh, cool! A crossover! Those are always fun." Bartholomew looked between them with obvious delight. "So what happens next? Is there going to be some kind of team-up? Do you fight some Orks together? Ooh, or maybe a twist villain? There's always a twist villain in these stories."
Neither Cain nor Helena had any idea how to respond to that.
"He's insane," Cain said finally. "Obviously, completely insane."
"That's what I thought at first," Helena agreed. "But everything he says checks out. He knows things that only the most classified archives contain. He knows the future, or claims to. And he has the most remarkable luck I've ever witnessed."
At the word "luck," Cain's instincts surged.
That's it, he realized. That's what I've been feeling.
This man had luck. Genuine, inexplicable, reality-bending luck. The same kind of luck that Cain had always believed was unique to himself.
But more.
Much more.
"Show me," Cain said suddenly.
Bartholomew blinked. "Show you what?"
"Show me this luck of yours. I want to see it in action."
"I don't really control it. It just kind of happens. Like, I'll be walking along, and suddenly I'll trip and fall, and then a bullet will pass through where my head was. That kind of thing."
"Then let's go somewhere dangerous. Somewhere your luck might be... tested."
Helena raised an eyebrow. "You want to deliberately put him in danger?"
"I want to understand what he is. And the only way to do that is to see him under pressure."
Bartholomew looked excited. "Are we going on an adventure? This is great! I've always wanted to go on an adventure with Ciaphas Cain! Let me get my lasgun. Wait, I don't know where my lasgun is. Someone took it. Do I get a new one? Can I pick one? I've always wanted to try a hot-shot lasgun, the extra penetration seems really useful—"
"Someone get this man a weapon," Cain sighed.
What they gave him was not a hot-shot lasgun.
What they gave him was much, much better.
Or worse, depending on your perspective.
Due to a clerical error that would later be blamed on an administratum scribe who had been "under demonic influence" (he hadn't been; he was just bad at his job), Bartholomew's weapons requisition was filled with equipment meant for an entirely different unit.
Specifically, an Ultramarines strike team that had been operating in the sector.
Specifically, a chainsword.
An Ultramarines chainsword.
Complete with the chapter insignia, the blessed ceramite casing, and an activation rune that should have been impossible for a normal human to activate.
Bartholomew activated it on his first try.
"Oh COOL," he said, watching the teeth roar to life. "This is just like the ones in the tabletop! Well, bigger. And louder. And more terrifying. But still! A real chainsword!"
"That's Space Marine equipment," Helena said, her voice strangled. "That's—that should not be in your hands. That should not be working in your hands. Space Marine weapons have gene-locks and identification protocols and—"
"Maybe it's broken?" Bartholomew offered, swinging the chainsword experimentally. "Or maybe dream logic applies to weapons too? In dreams, you can usually use whatever you want. I had a dream once where I was really good at archery, even though I've never shot a bow in my life."
He swung again, and this time the chainsword moved with a fluidity that seemed almost practiced. Like he had been training with it for years.
"That's... actually a pretty good form," Cain admitted reluctantly.
"Thanks! I watch a lot of miniature battle reports. And there's this YouTube channel that does historical sword fighting, and I always thought the techniques would probably translate to chainswords if you adjusted for the weight distribution and the gyroscopic effects of the spinning teeth—"
"You learned sword fighting from a YouTube channel?"
"What's a YouTube?"
"I don't know, he just said it."
"Is it heretical?"
"At this point, I have no idea what's heretical anymore."
Bartholomew was now doing practice swings that looked disturbingly competent. The chainsword hummed through the air, and despite being a weapon designed for eight-foot-tall posthuman warriors, it seemed almost natural in his hands.
"Okay," he said, "so I have the chainsword. But I also want my lasgun back. Can I have both?"
"You want to fight with a sword and a gun simultaneously?"
"Why not? In the tabletop, characters do it all the time. Pistol in one hand, melee weapon in the other. It's a classic combo."
"That requires ambidextrous training. Years of practice. Enhanced reflexes. You're a conscript who, by your own admission, has never fired a weapon in combat."
"Yeah, but this is a dream. Dream-me is probably way more competent than real-me. Real-me can barely coordinate walking and chewing gum at the same time."
Helena handed him a lasgun.
She wasn't sure why. Something in her wanted to see what would happen. Some deep, morbid curiosity that she normally would have suppressed.
Bartholomew took the lasgun in his left hand, keeping the chainsword in his right.
He looked ridiculous. A scrawny conscript in ill-fitting flak armor, holding a Space Marine's weapon in one hand and a standard-issue lasgun in the other.
And then he moved.
He moved.
The chainsword swept out in a diagonal arc while the lasgun came up and fired three precise shots at a practice target across the room. All three shots hit center mass. The chainsword swing would have disemboweled any enemy standing in front of him.
And then he spun, the chainsword reversing into a block while the lasgun fired again, taking out two more targets behind him that he shouldn't have been able to see.
And then he stopped, looking mildly surprised.
"Huh," he said. "That was easier than I expected."
Cain and Helena stared at him.
"That's not possible," Helena said finally.
"What's not possible?"
"What you just did. That level of coordination, precision, reflexes—that's not possible for an untrained conscript. That's barely possible for trained veterans."
"Maybe dream-me is a natural?" Bartholomew offered.
"STOP SAYING DREAM," Helena snapped.
"Sorry. It's just, this can't be real, so..."
"Why? Why can't it be real?"
"Because I'm not this cool! I'm not cool at all! I'm a guy who paints miniatures in his mother's basement and argues about lore on the internet! I don't have real-life sword fighting skills or gun skills or any skills at all! If this was real, I would have died approximately seventeen times by now!"
"You should have died approximately seventeen times by now! And you didn't! Which is why we're all very confused!"
Bartholomew paused.
For the first time, a flicker of doubt crossed his face.
"Okay," he said slowly. "Okay, let me think about this. Either this is a dream, and dream-logic explains everything, or..."
"Or?"
"Or I actually died and got reincarnated into the Warhammer 40,000 universe with some kind of supernatural luck and inexplicable combat abilities, which would be insane, but would also explain why everything feels so real, and why I can feel the chainsword vibrating in my hand, and why that nutrient paste at breakfast tasted so bad, because dreams don't usually have that much sensory detail, and..."
He trailed off.
"Huh," he said again.
"Huh?" Helena repeated dangerously.
"I might have made a miscalculation somewhere."
"YOU THINK?"
In the Warp, the Chaos Gods were watching.
And they were pleased.
"The blessings are taking hold," Tzeentch observed. "His combat abilities are awakening."
"Nurgle's gift of resilience," the Plague Father rumbled happily. "He will endure."
"KHORNE'S GIFT OF BATTLE-SENSE," the Blood God growled. "HE WILL FIGHT."
"Slaanesh's gift of reflexes and coordination," the Dark Prince purred. "He will excel."
"And my gift of foresight," Tzeentch added. "He will know when danger approaches. Even if he doesn't realize he knows."
"The question is," Slaanesh mused, "will he figure it out?"
"He is beginning to," Tzeentch said. "Doubt is creeping in. The certainty of his 'dream' theory is wavering."
"Should we clarify things for him?" Nurgle asked. "Send him a vision? A message?"
"NO," Khorne said firmly. "THE CONFUSION IS PART OF THE ENTERTAINMENT."
"Agreed," Slaanesh said. "Let him stumble toward truth in his own time. The journey is always more interesting than the destination."
"Speaking of journeys," Tzeentch said, "something else is happening. Something unexpected."
The other three Chaos Gods turned their attention to what Tzeentch was indicating.
Deep in the Warp, in a place that was not a place, something was stirring.
Something that should not exist.
Something that should not be able to exist.
The Warp itself—the roiling, chaotic, fundamentally unthinking sea of psychic energy—was developing something that looked almost like... awareness.
And that awareness was focused entirely on Bartholomew Thaddeus Jenkins III.
"Well," Tzeentch said, after a long moment of stunned silence. "That's new."
"IS THE WARP BECOMING SENTIENT?" Khorne demanded.
"It appears so. Partially, at least. A fragment of sentience, centered on our mortal."
"How is that possible?"
"I don't know. And I always know. This is very exciting."
"This is very concerning," Nurgle corrected.
"Same thing," Tzeentch said cheerfully.
In a place between places, in the churning un-reality of the Warp itself, something opened its eyes for the first time.
It had no form. It had no name. It had no history or memory or purpose.
It simply was, suddenly and inexplicably.
And the first thing it became aware of was him.
The strange mortal. The impossible one. The one who knew things he shouldn't know, who walked through reality like he expected it to conform to his expectations, who treated gods and demons and cosmic horrors like characters in a story.
The Warp—or at least, this newly-aware fragment of it—found this fascinating.
It did not understand what it was. It did not understand what he was. But it knew, with a certainty that surprised it, that it wanted to know more.
It wanted to watch. To learn. To understand.
And, if possible, to help.
Not for any grand purpose. Not for any cosmic agenda. Simply because the strange mortal was interesting, and being interested was a new sensation, and the Warp wanted to see what happened next.
So it reached out, invisibly and imperceptibly, and wrapped itself around Bartholomew's soul like a protective blanket.
It would keep him safe, this strange impossible mortal.
It would make sure nothing happened to him.
Because if something happened to him, the interesting things would stop.
And the Warp had only just started being interested.
Bartholomew shivered.
"You okay?" Cain asked.
"Yeah, I just felt... weird. Like someone walked over my grave. Do you ever get that feeling?"
"Frequently. Usually right before something terrible happens."
"Oh. Great. That's reassuring."
An explosion shook the building.
"ORKS!" someone screamed from outside. "THE ORKS ARE ATTACKING!"
Cain sighed. "Of course they are."
Bartholomew tightened his grip on his chainsword and lasgun.
"Well," he said, "I guess we're about to find out if I'm actually good at this or if I've just been lucky."
"Those might not be mutually exclusive," Helena pointed out.
"True. Hey, question: if I die here, do you think I'll wake up in the real world, or is this one of those 'if you die in the dream, you die in real life' situations?"
Neither Cain nor Helena had an answer for that.
"Only one way to find out," Bartholomew said cheerfully.
And he charged out of the building, directly into the oncoming Ork horde.
What followed was later described by witnesses as "the most inexplicable combat performance in the history of the Imperial Guard."
This was saying something, because the Imperial Guard had a long and storied history of inexplicable combat performances, ranging from "miraculous last stands" to "how did that regiment accidentally win a war they weren't even supposed to be fighting in?"
Bartholomew moved through the Ork horde like a dancer at the world's deadliest ballet.
His chainsword carved through greenskins with an efficiency that would have impressed a Space Marine. His lasgun fired with pinpoint accuracy, every shot finding its mark despite the chaos of battle.
He ducked attacks he shouldn't have seen coming. He dodged bullets that should have been impossible to avoid. He stepped into gaps in the Ork formation that opened at exactly the right moment, as if the greenskins were cooperating with his assault.
"WHAT IZ DAT HUMIE DOIN'?!" one of the Ork Nobs bellowed.
"I DON'T KNOW BUT I DON'T LIKE IT!"
"HE KRUMPED GRIMFANG! GRIMFANG WUZ DA TUFFEST NOB IN DA WARBAND!"
"HE DIDN'T EVEN LOOK AT GRIMFANG WHEN HE KRUMPED HIM! HE WUZ LOOKIN' DA OTHER WAY!"
The Orks were experiencing something they rarely experienced: confusion.
Orks understood fighting. They understood cunning (the sneaky kind and the brutal kind). They understood superior firepower and overwhelming numbers and the pure joy of a good WAAAGH!
They did not understand a single human carving through their ranks like they weren't even there.
They did not understand a human who seemed to know what they were going to do before they did it.
And they definitely did not understand a human who was smiling the whole time.
"IZ HE... IZ HE 'AVIN FUN?!" one Ork asked.
"I FINK HE IZ!"
"DAT'Z... DAT'Z NOT RIGHT! HUMIES AIN'T SUPPOSED TO 'AVE FUN WHEN FIGHTIN' ORKS!"
"MAYBE... MAYBE HE'Z ONE OF DEM SPECIUL HUMIES? DA ONES WIF DA BIG ARMOUR?"
"HE AIN'T GOT BIG ARMOUR! HE'Z JUST GOT NORMAL HUMIE ARMOUR!"
"DEN 'OW IZ HE DOIN' DAT?!"
The Orks had no answer.
And for Orks, having no answer to a combat question was deeply unsettling.
Watching from a relatively safe distance, Cain and Helena observed the carnage with expressions of complete bewilderment.
"He's good," Cain said, sounding almost offended by the fact. "He's actually good."
"He's more than good," Helena said. "He's impossible. That level of prescience, that combat awareness—he's fighting like a psyker. Except my sensors say he's not a psyker."
"Then what is he?"
Helena was quiet for a long moment.
"I don't know," she admitted. "I've been an Inquisitor for two centuries, and I genuinely don't know."
Bartholomew ducked under a power klaw that would have taken his head off, pivoted on one foot, and drove his chainsword through the attacking Nob's chest in a single fluid motion. The lasgun in his other hand fired simultaneously, taking out an Ork Boy who had been charging from his blind spot.
"That shouldn't be possible," Cain said. "He can't see that Ork. There's no way he could know it was there."
"And yet," Helena gestured at the now-dead greenskin.
"Is it possible," Cain asked slowly, "that he really is what the troops are starting to believe he is?"
Helena turned to look at him. "What are the troops starting to believe?"
"You haven't heard? The rumors are spreading through the regiment like wildfire. They're saying he's blessed. Chosen. Some are even saying he might be..." Cain lowered his voice, "...the Emperor's chosen. His avatar, returned to lead humanity to victory."
Helena's face went through several expressions, none of them happy.
"That's heresy," she said automatically. "The Emperor sits on the Golden Throne. He can't have an avatar. That's—"
"I know what it is. But look at him. How else do you explain it?"
They watched as Bartholomew single-handedly turned the tide of the battle. Everywhere he went, Orks fell. Everywhere he moved, Imperial forces rallied.
And he was still smiling that infuriating smile.
"This is great!" they could hear him shouting. "This is amazing! I can't believe how good I am at this! Dream-me is a total badass!"
"He still thinks he's dreaming," Helena said flatly.
"At least he's consistent."
The Ork WAAAGH! broke.
This was not supposed to happen. Ork WAAAGHs didn't break. They won or they died, but they didn't retreat, they didn't fall back, they didn't break.
But watching their biggest, toughest Nobs get carved up by a single, apparently unkillable human had a way of dampening even Orky enthusiasm.
"DIS IZ WEIRD!" the remaining Ork Warboss shouted. "DIS IZ TOO WEIRD! WE'Z GONNA FALL BACK AN' FIGURE DIS OUT!"
"FALL BACK?! DAT'Z NOT ORKY!"
"SHUT UP! I'Z DA WARBOSS! I SAY WE FALL BACK, WE FALL BACK! DAT HUMIE IZ DOIN' SUMFIN' WRONG AN' I WANT TA KNOW WHAT BEFORE WE FIGHT 'IM AGAIN!"
The Orks retreated.
For the first time in anyone's memory, the Orks of WAAAGH! Goraxia retreated.
And at the center of the battlefield, surrounded by the corpses of greenskins he had personally slain, Bartholomew stood with his chainsword humming and his lasgun steaming from use.
He looked around at the devastation.
He looked down at his own blood-covered armor.
He looked at his hands, steady and sure, like they belonged to someone else entirely.
"Okay," he said slowly. "Okay, that was... that was not normal. That was very not normal. I don't think dream-logic covers whatever just happened."
Behind him, he could hear the Imperial Guard troops beginning to cheer.
"THE EMPEROR'S CHAMPION!" someone shouted.
"BLESSED BE HIS NAME!" another voice joined in.
"HE TURNED THE TIDE! HE SAVED US ALL!"
Bartholomew turned around, looking confused.
"What? No, I didn't—I mean, I did, technically, but I'm not—look, this is a misunderstanding—"
But the troops weren't listening. They were too busy celebrating, too busy praising, too busy building a narrative around what they had just witnessed.
And the narrative they were building was simple and powerful and utterly wrong.
The Emperor had sent them a savior.
The Emperor had manifested His will through this humble soldier.
The Emperor had returned.
"Oh no," Bartholomew said, watching the religious fervor spread through the army. "Oh no, no, no. This is not good. This is very not good."
Cain walked up beside him, carefully stepping over Ork corpses.
"Welcome to my world," the Commissar said with a grim smile.
"What?"
"Being treated like a hero when you're absolutely not. I know that feeling. It never goes away, and it never gets easier."
Bartholomew looked at him with something like desperate hope.
"You believe me? That I'm not whatever they think I am?"
Cain considered this.
"I believe that you genuinely don't understand what you are," he said finally. "Which might actually be worse. At least I know I'm a fraud. You seem to genuinely have no idea that you're doing anything special."
"Because I'm NOT! This is all just—just luck! And maybe some kind of weird dream-powers! I'm not the Emperor's champion or avatar or whatever they're calling me!"
"Try telling them that," Cain nodded toward the celebrating troops.
Bartholomew looked at the mass of worshipping soldiers.
"HIS LIGHT SHINES THROUGH OUR BROTHER JENKINS!" someone was shouting.
"PRAISE BE TO THE GOD-EMPEROR AND HIS CHOSEN!"
"HE WILL LEAD US TO VICTORY!"
"I am so screwed," Bartholomew said.
"Yes," Cain agreed. "Yes, you absolutely are."
In the Warp, the Chaos Gods were laughing.
It was not a pleasant sound. When Chaos Gods laughed, reality tended to develop stress fractures.
But they couldn't help it.
"THEY THINK HE'S THE ANATHEMA'S AVATAR!" Khorne bellowed with dark amusement. "THEY THINK HE'S THEIR CORPSE-GOD MADE FLESH!"
"And he has no idea," Slaanesh giggled. "He genuinely, truly has no idea. The irony is exquisite."
"The Imperials worship him," Nurgle chuckled. "The Orks fear him. The Inquisition is baffled by him. And all because he's too oblivious to understand what's happening."
"This is the most entertainment I've had in millennia," Tzeentch said. "And the best part is, it's only going to get more complicated from here."
"How so?"
"Because word of this battle will spread. Already, astropaths are sending messages across the sector. 'Miraculous victory on Goraxia Prime. Single soldier turns the tide. Possible manifestation of Imperial divine favor.' Within days, the entire Imperium will know. Within weeks, pilgrimages will begin. Within months..."
Tzeentch's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Within months, our little mortal will be famous. Infamous. The most talked-about individual in the galaxy."
"And he still won't understand why," Slaanesh said gleefully.
"Exactly."
And on the Golden Throne, the Emperor of Mankind received the reports from Goraxia Prime.
He looked at the data.
He looked at the testimonies.
He looked at the growing belief among His subjects that this random conscript was somehow His avatar, His champion, His return to active participation in galactic affairs.
THIS IS RIDICULOUS, He said. I AM RIGHT HERE. I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN RIGHT HERE. I AM NOT POSSESSING SOME RANDOM GUARDSMAN. I DO NOT WORK THAT WAY. I HAVE NEVER WORKED THAT WAY.
The Custodians said nothing.
TELL THEM. SEND A MESSAGE. EXPLAIN THAT I AM NOT—
The Emperor paused.
WAIT.
He considered the situation more carefully.
ACTUALLY... THIS COULD BE USEFUL. IF THE TROOPS BELIEVE HE IS MY AVATAR, THEIR MORALE WILL BE UNPRECEDENTED. THEIR FAITH WILL BE UNSHAKEABLE. THEY WILL FIGHT WITH A FERVOR THAT NO COMMISSAR COULD INSPIRE.
The Custodians still said nothing.
BUT I AM NOT ACTUALLY CONTROLLING HIM. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT HE'S GOING TO DO NEXT. HE'S COMPLETELY UNPREDICTABLE. THIS COULD GO VERY WRONG.
A pause.
BUT ALSO VERY RIGHT.
Another pause.
I AM GOING TO WATCH HIM. CLOSELY. IF HE PROVES USEFUL, I WILL ALLOW THE BELIEF TO CONTINUE. IF HE PROVES DANGEROUS, I WILL CORRECT THE SITUATION.
The Emperor's psychic presence pulsed with something that might have been amusement.
BESIDES, IF NOTHING ELSE, THIS IS THE FIRST INTERESTING THING TO HAPPEN IN TEN THOUSAND YEARS. AND I AM VERY, VERY BORED.
On Goraxia Prime, Bartholomew was being carried on the shoulders of celebrating guardsmen, his protests drowned out by chants of praise to the God-Emperor.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a tiny voice that sounded almost like the universe itself whispered: Don't worry. I've got you.
Bartholomew had no idea what that meant.
But for some reason, he felt strangely comforted by it.
[END OF CHAPTER TWO]