The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 125: A New Mars



Archmagos Kelbor Hal's mechadendrites writhed in fury as he processed the cascade of battlefield data flooding his augmented consciousness. Red warning runes flashed across his optical sensors, each one a fresh wound to his pride. The position of Fabricator General - his rightful destiny - slipped further from his grasp with each passing moment.

Through his command pavilion's cogitator arrays, he watched his forces' carefully orchestrated offensive crumble. The binary cant of death-songs filled the noosphere as more of his loyal forces fell. A particularly urgent data-burst cut through the chaos - Urtzi Malevolus, his trusted frontline commander, terminated by Thallax assault units. The loss of such a valuable strategic asset caused Hal's internal cooling systems to strain under the heat of his rage.

The pavilion shook as another bombing run struck nearby. His augmetic fingers clenched, scoring deep grooves in the armrests of his command throne. The air war - another tactical failure that defied logic. His forces had systematically destroyed numerous airfields and bunkers housing Cawl's aerial assets. Yet somehow, the loyalists maintained complete air superiority.

His optical sensors tracked upward, focusing on the source of his aerial defeat. The massive shapes hung in the Martian thermosphere like artificial moons - the "Arsenal Birds," as his intelligence assets had designated them. Each one a mobile airbase that launched and recovered aircraft with mechanical precision. The finest anti-aircraft batteries in his arsenal barely scratched their void shields and due to the height it's staying at.

"Abominable Intelligence!" The words burst from his vox-caster in a screech of binary static. Kelbor Hal knew - KNEW - these machines had to be guided by forbidden AI. Cawl's demonstration of a single servitor-controlled vessel was clearly a deception. No mere servitor could coordinate such complex operations with such efficiency.

A fresh data-burst: the Knight squadron and Titan detachment sent to neutralize the Parliament's shield generators - all lost. The final pict-capture showed a strange Knight- pattern he'd never encountered in any STC database. More Independence Sector interference! His mechadendrites lashed out, destroying a nearby monitoring station in a shower of sparks. "HERETEK!" he broadcast across all frequencies. "Cawl and his supporters corrupt the pure machine with xenos-tainted innovations!"

The reports continued their merciless cascade. Melgator, another irreplaceable advisor, confirmed destroyed along with his entire God-Engine detachment. The battle had started so promisingly - 600 Titans including 20 Imperator-class engines against Cawl's mere 400 Titans and 10 Imperators. The arithmetic of victory had seemed absolute.

Then, defying all logical calculation, 800 additional Titans had appeared on the battlefield. Kelbor Hal's cognitive engines nearly seized trying to process the impossibility. Only one faction in the galaxy could manufacture Titans in such numbers while Mars was consumed by civil war - the cursed Independence Sector.

"The data cannot be correct," he muttered, his vox-caster spitting static. "The production timelines impossible... unless..." His processors worked furiously. "Unless they had been building them in secret for years. Preparing. Waiting."

Through his command links, he observed his blockade fleet engaging Cawl's forces in orbit. Another impossibility – ships appearing from nowhere, weapon systems that didn't match any known patterns. Every tactical advantage he'd carefully cultivated was being systematically neutralized by technology that shouldn't exist.

"TECH-HERESY!" His scream of binary cant overloaded several nearby cogitators. "The Omnissiah's pure knowledge corrupted by innovation! Mars defiled by progress!"

In that moment, as his carefully constructed plans collapsed around him, Kelbor Hal's sanity began to fragment like corrupted data. The pure, logical certainty that had driven him to this rebellion fractured under the weight of technologies he couldn't comprehend. His mechadendrites thrashed wildly, destroying equipment as his rational processes gave way to machine-rage.

Through mad eyes, he saw the truth - he wasn't fighting just Cawl and his loyalists. He was fighting the past itself. The Independence Sector and their pet Archmagos were introducing corrupted innovation into the pure machine cult. Each impossible weapon, each unknown design, was a dagger in the heart of tradition.

Another explosion rocked the pavilion. Through the smoke, Kelbor Hal's augmented vision caught sight of one of the bombers passing overhead.

"I am the true servant of the Omnissiah," he broadcast, his words degrading into scattered binary. "These innovations... these heresies... they cannot be allowed to corrupt the pure machine!"

But even as he raged, his tactical cogitators delivered their merciless conclusion: his forces were being systematically destroyed. His time was running out. The position he had fought so hard to attain was fading away, carried on the wings of machines he could barely comprehend. In his madness, Kelbor Hal could no longer distinguish between innovation and heresy, progress and corruption. He saw only the death of everything he believed in, delivered by weapons that defied his understanding of what was possible.

Kelbor Hal was not fighting against the present, but against humanity's past-a past that sought to cast him aside, and a future that he was determined to control, no matter the cost.

The ancient halls of the Martian Parliament echoed with the heavy tread of Skitarii boots and the whirring of countless mechadendrites. The chamber, carved from Mars' red stone and lined with holy circuits, bore the scars of recent conflict. Through shattered dome viewports, the rust-colored sky bore witness to the final act of the Schism of Mars.

Kelbor Hal, once the brightest luminary of the Mechanicum, now stood bound in restriction fields before his peers. His once-pristine mechanical augmentations were battle-damaged, sparking occasionally with damaged circuits. The proud Archmagos who had led the rebellion was reduced to a prisoner in the very chambers he had sought to control.

Belisarius Cawl's towering form stood at the center of the triumvirate of judges, his ancient frame bearing fresh battle damage that somehow made him appear even more imposing. To his left stood Koriel Zeth, her mechadendrites moving in precise, measured patterns that betrayed no emotion. On his right, Fabricator Locum Zagreus Kane's augmented visage surveyed the chamber with calculating precision.

"Archmagos Kelbor Hal," Cawl's vox-caster resonated through the chamber, each word laden with binary cant undertones that spoke of both victory and sorrow. "You stand accused of tech-heresy, rebellion against the legitimate authority of Mars, and the murder of countless servants of the Omnissiah."

Hal's response came as a burst of angry binary, his vocal synthesizers crackling with damage and fury. "I name you all hereteks!" His mechadendrites strained against their bonds. "You, who follow this agent of the Independence Sector!" He fixed his crimson optical sensors on Cawl. "You parade him before us as a visionary, but he corrupts the pure machine with the Ideals of the Independence Sector!"

The gathered Magi stirred, their own mechadendrites writhing in response to the accusation. The noosphere around them crackled with tension and competing data-bursts. "The Parliament sees progress," Hal continued, his voice rising to a screech of binary static. "But I see corruption! You embrace the tools of the Independence Sector, taint our traditions with their tech-sorcery! And worst of all - you bow to a Techno-Barbarian, declaring him

Omnissiah!"

Koriel Zeth stepped forward, her voice cutting through Hal's ravings with mechanical precision. "The evidence stands against you, Kelbor Hal. Two weeks of warfare have left Mars scarred. Your forces employed forbidden weaponry, violated sacred protocols, all in the name of preserving tradition through destruction."

"The Arsenal Birds!" Hal's optical sensors flared. "The impossible Knights! The Titans that appeared from nowhere! You speak of forbidden weaponry while embracing these

abominations?"

Zagreus Kane raised his staff, sending a pulse through the chamber's noosphere that commanded silence. "The Parliament will now vote on the fate of Archmagos Kelbor Hal. The options stand thus: Imprisonment in the deepest data-vaults, death by ritual decommission, or freedom under strictest surveillance protocols."

The voting commenced in silence, data-packets flowing through the noosphere like digital rain. Each Magos present registered their choice in the ancient tradition, their decisions written in strings of binary that would determine the fate of one who had once stood among

their highest ranks.

As the votes were tallied, teams of tech-priests were already moving through Hal's conquered fortress-pavilion, securing data-cores and weapon schematics. The knowledge he had hoarded would be analyzed, catalogued, and judged for compliance with Mechanicum

doctrine.

The final tally resolved itself in the chamber's central hololithic projector. Death by ritual decommission held the majority, with a smaller faction advocating for permanent imprisonment. Not a single vote had been cast for freedom.

Kelbor Hal's laughter echoed through the chamber, a sound of pure binary madness. "You

condemn me while you condemn yourselves! The pure machine cannot coexist with innovation! You will see - the Independence Sector's influence will be our undoing!"

Cawl stepped forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over the condemned Archmagos. "Your death will serve the Omnissiah, Kelbor Hal. Your components will be recycled, your knowledge preserved, but your consciousness will be deleted from the noosphere. This is the judgment of Mars."

"I die a true servant of the Omnissiah!" Hal's final words rang out as the Skitarii moved to escort him to the ritual chambers. "You all live as hereteks!"n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

Kelbor Hal's final scream of binary cant was cut short as his systems were systematically shut down, his consciousness fragmented and dispersed into the void of digital oblivion.

The ancient halls of Olympus Mons resonated with potential as Belisarius Cawl's mechadendrites caressed machinery that had slumbered for millennia. Each touch sent cascades of data through his enhanced consciousness - the machines spoke to him of their history, their capabilities, and most tantalizingly, their potential for improvement. Steam hissed through vents older than most civilizations, yet Cawl saw not decay but opportunity. Where others might have been overwhelmed by the sheer sanctity of this place, his mind raced with calculations, improvements, and innovations. The Arsenal Birds soaring above Mars were just the beginning - a proof of concept that melded the best of Martian tradition with Independence Sector ingenuity.

His cognitive engines processed the memory of Franklin Valorian's "gift" - not just the mighty aerial fortresses, but the fresh Titans that had turned the tide of civil war. The Primarch's casual explanation still caused small anomalies in Cawl's logic engines: the Independence Sector had taken sacred Martian Titan templates and integrated them into their own production lines, treating these god-machines as mere tools for sector security. "Mass-produced Titans," Cawl mused aloud, his vox-caster carrying undertones of both awe and amusement. "The Collegia Titanica would have declared it tech-heresy if they ever knew." Yet here they were, proof that innovation need not mean corruption.

The Castigator Titans, reserved for the 11th Legion's use, represented an even more radical departure from tradition. These war engines incorporated technologies that pushed the boundaries of what the Mechanicum thought possible. In any other context, such deviation from standard templates would have been grounds for immediate censure. But results spoke louder than doctrine - the god-machines performed beyond all theoretical limits. Cawl's mechadendrites interfaced with another ancient console, his consciousness expanding through the forge's systems. He noted: "Stay close to the 11th, the Industrialist among the Emperor's sons." The Independence Sector represented a bridge between Mars's ancient knowledge and humanity's potential future.

Steam clouds parted as Cawl moved deeper into the forge complex. The Armored Core STC

data represented perhaps the most valuable gift of all - a perfect fusion of human pilot and machine that could challenge even the mighty Knights of the Questoris families. Another piece of "impossible" technology that somehow worked, somehow expanded the boundaries

of what was possible.

"The Golden Age," Cawl broadcast in binary cant, his excitement bleeding through the mechanical tones. "Not just remembered, but surpassed." This was what the Machine God truly demanded - not blind adherence to ancient forms, but understanding and improvement. Innovation in service of humanity's ascension.

The evening sun cast long shadows across the Imperial Palace's western balcony, painting the

restored greenery of Terra in hues of gold and amber. The planet's rehabilitation had been one of the Emperor's greatest achievements-second only to the creation of the Primarchs themselves. Where once toxic wastes and sprawling hive cities had dominated the landscape, rolling hills and crystalline lakes now sparkled under a pristine blue sky. Franklin Valorian, Primarch of the Liberty Eagles, sat sprawled in a reinforced chair that

creaked beneath his massive frame. Before him lay the remains of what had once been an elegant feast, now mostly decimated by his legendary appetite. His latest conquest: a pizza larger than a Land Raider's wheel, of which only two slices remained. In his hand, a specially fabricated cold-fusion-chilled can of cola looked absurdly small, like a thimble in the grip of a giant.

The Emperor of Mankind sat across from his son, his perpetually shifting features currently settled into something resembling a distinguished man in his fifties, with deep golden eyes that held millennia of wisdom. Malcador the Sigillite completed their trio, his ancient frame supported by his iconic staff, though he seemed more relaxed than usual in the family setting. "The Schism's resolution exceeded even my expectations," the Emperor stated, his voice carrying the weight of ages even as He reached for a glass of aged amasec. "Belisarius Cawl's ascension to Fabricator General will ensure Mars remains firmly within humanity's grasp. The Mechanicum's transformation into a second Suzerain state..." He paused, golden eyes flickering with amusement toward Franklin, "was an... interesting parallel." Franklin, having successfully conquered his pizza slice, reached for his cola - a beverage he had insisted on recreating from ancient templates to the bemused horror of countless tech- priests. "Hey, if it works, it works. Better to have them as Subjects than Partners who might

rebel. Kelbor-Hal never understood that."

"Indeed," Malcador interjected, his ancient voice carrying the whispers of millennia. "The former Fabricator General's corpse still smolders in the depths of Mars, Yet the Ruinous Powers are nothing if not persistent. They seek new vectors of corruption, new souls to turn against the light of reason, Particularly Horus."

"Hence why you're keeping him close," Franklin observed, reaching for another slice. "Classic 'keep your friends close, enemies closer' play. Though it feels weird calling Horus a

potential enemy."

The Emperor's expression darkened slightly. "Every possible future must be considered, no matter how unpalatable. Horus's potential for both greatness and catastrophe is... significant."

Franklin nodded, then suddenly paused mid-bite, a thought striking him with all the subtlety

of a Titan's footfall. He looked at his father with an expression that caused Malcador to immediately reach for his amasec.

"Hey Dad," Franklin began, in that tone universal to children about to ask an awkward question, "I know I'm vat-grown and all, but do I even have a mother?" He gestured with his pizza slice, sending a few pepperoni slices flying. "Like, it can't be just your DNA, right? Because you're a scientist too-one cannot make a child with only one DNA source..." The balcony fell silent. A gentle breeze rustled through the restored trees below, carrying the

faint sounds of the palace's daily activities. A servitor dropping a tray somewhere in the distance echoed like a thunderclap in the awkward quiet.

"Well," the Emperor began, with the careful measure of someone navigating a minefield,

"the process of creating the Primarchs was... complicated."

Franklin leaned forward, pizza forgotten. "Complicated how? I mean, there had to be some female genetic material involved, right? Unless..." His eyes widened. "Wait, did you use

xenos DNA? Is that why you kept it secret? Am I part Aeldari or something? That would explain the whole Khaine connection-"

"No!" The Emperor said quickly, perhaps too quickly. "No xenos DNA was involved in your creation. The process was purely human, I assure you.'

"Then where'd the other chromosomes come from?" Franklin pressed, his tactical mind now fully engaged in this new mystery. "Because basic genetics says you need both sets. Unless..." He gasped dramatically. "Did you clone yourself and modify the clone's DNA to be female and then-"

The Sigillite cleared his throat with deliberate precision.

"I believe," Malcador said with careful dignity, "this particular conversation falls somewhat

outside my advisory purview." He lifted his staff slightly, as if preparing to make a strategic withdrawal. "Perhaps I should-"

"You will do no such thing, old friend," the Emperor commanded, though a hint of resignation colored His tone. After a moment's pause, during which the Master of Mankind seemed to wage an internal debate, He spoke again. "Your mother's name is Erda. She was - is - a perpetual, like myself. One of the oldest. She followed me for centuries before

leaving...The last to leave, actually."

Franklin's eyes widened as pieces of a cosmic puzzle fell into place. "The perpetuals... they

were supposed to be what we became, weren't they? Before you decided to create the Primarchs?"

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken histories. In the distance, a flock of

restored Terran birds wheeled against the sunset, their calls carrying across the renewed atmosphere of humanity's cradle world.

"If you wish to know more," the Emperor finally said, His voice carrying an uncharacteristic

note of what might have been uncertainty, "you will have to seek her out yourself. She walks her own path now, as she always has."

Franklin nodded slowly, processing this revelation as he reached for another slice of pizza.

The casual gesture belied the weight of the moment - a son learning of a mother he never knew, a father acknowledging a past He rarely spoke of, and an ancient advisor doing his very best to appear deeply fascinated by his own staff.

The sun continued its descent behind the peaks of the Palace, casting the scene in hues of gold and crimson. Below them, Terra continued its renaissance, its restored ecology a symbol of humanity's potential to rebuild and renew. The three continued their meal in a silence that was somehow both comfortable and charged with meaning, each lost in thoughts of paths taken and choices made.

Finally, Franklin spoke again, his tone deliberately light. "So... any chance she likes pizza

too?"

The Emperor's response was lost to history, but some swear they heard Malcador the Sigillite, one of the most powerful psykers in human history, snort into his wine glass. A/N: Finally! I am done with this Sub-plot of the Mechanicum, back to the Primarchs!