PRFS Chapter 38

Ten hours of nonstop marching and procedural fortifying later, landing zones had been fully secured and more troops and materiel were being landed. So, the initial waves continued outwards, battling any ork they came across with extreme prejudice and efficiency. If not for the relative scattered settlements of the greenskins, a more solid force would have been far, far more difficult to deal with, and the cost in lives would have been far higher than the current toll. As it was, those small groups that weren't partially vaporized into little pieces by lasgun fire were instead immolated by Hellspitters or disintegrated by Draka plasma cannon-fire.

As the Praelior under his command rounded a corner, Solomon's sensors picked up movement in the distance, the sensors packed into his Marionetta able to pick up a fairly wide range of energy readings and similar stimuli. The world's servitor population had likely been wiped out by the orks during their invasion, as the actual population had been either evacuated or slaughtered. However, if any servitors remained, they had likely gone mad or malfunctioned in the ensuing years without contact from the Imperium at large, meaning they could be hostile or worse. With that, the neural interface transmitted this data to the surrounding Praelior, their cloned brains quickly assessing the distance from the projected movement and required firing angles.

As one, the first line turned to the shapes as they rounded another corner, the shadows of a fallen hab block obscuring the rays of morning, dark shadows through which darker forms approached. The quick, jittering movements were far too small and not green enough to be orks or their kin. The glinting of metal was also a fairly dead giveaway.

"Halt!" Solomon called out through his Marionetta, his faux-head cables sliding up and into place. "Who goes there, in the ruins of Halfast Primus?"

"Servants of the Machine God, dwelling deep where greenskins dare not tread," one said, approaching as the others held back, the extremely tattered hood pulling back to reveal a weather-beaten, rusty facsimile of a human face. "Your masters, have they come to free us? Have the Scions of Mars returned to reclaim their world?"

"The Imperium speaks through this one, the others are mindless," Solomon said, his construct stepping past the Praelior cohort, their forms still but alert. The Mechanicum's rather independent nature within the Imperium was a necessary evil, given constraints and everything else that had happened over the last ten thousand years, but they were usually a bit more subtle about it. Clearly these were not the "subtle" type like Syngra, though where her loyalties eventually lay were becoming increasingly unclear.

The rusty face cocked slightly to the side, as if struggling to understand his statement. "Repeat, debased machine with flesh, you serve the Imperium?"

Solomon's sensors looked past at the small group behind him, huddled together and nervously chattering amongst themselves in binary. "This is no mere machine, it is a shell through which my will is shown. Yet it is by my will that I am here, as are my allies, to reclaim this world for the good of mankind. Tell me, loyal survivor, how many of your order still yet live on this planet save for you and your companions?"

The immediate silence was not a comforting one.

"Very few are left with whom contact remains," was the eventual reply. "I am designated as Unit 7482, previously known as Thrent, of Hab Block 478B. With whom am I speaking with, through this marvelous puppet?" The metallic face's eyes were, well, eying up the Marionetta like it was a particularly lewd toaster pinup.

"I am a Rogue Trader by designation, though to many I have moved far beyond such a simple title," was his own reply, giving a slight bow. "Captain Solomon, at your aid. Of your survivors, both known and no longer within contact, I presume you have the means of summoning them to safer regions? Our forces are securing this region to establish our base of operations for reclaiming the planet, but we are facing continuous, if unorganized, resistance from the greenskins."

As if on cue, a trio of orks rounded the corner far behind and, with roars of challenge, charged the group. The lightshow from the Praelior lines vivisected orks as they fell apart, the charred remains taking several more shots apiece from the enhanced lasguns until all that was left was ash and smoldering ruin.

The small group had barely reacted other than scurrying a bit closer, their hope and relief clearly far outweighing most of the survival instincts they had picked up during their solitude. "Of course," the pack's leader said. "By your leave, and with escort, I would gladly deliver such a message to those who hide in the halls of our forbears."

Solomon's vox flared to life as he called in what his data overlays told him were the closest forces other than his own. "Freeblade, Eye of the Storm, do you copy?"

A deep, warbled "affirmative" came back over the vox. "Clarification, identity?"

"Captain Solomon, reporting through proxy. I have encountered remnants of the planet's civilian population, who have the means of contacting other pockets of survivors in the immediate area. Rendezvous at my coordinates for escort."

The group moved behind his line of Praelior just as orks appeared over the horizon. A lot of orks. Actually, make that a veritable tide of orks, many of them wielding whatever scrap they had turned into weapons and armor, screaming and roaring as they ran headlong towards his position. Wherever they had come from was a mystery, none of the scans had shown any massed concentrations in this sector!

Solomon's frustrated sigh was rather grating through his Marionetta as he expanded his vox range. "This is Captain Solomon, broadcasting on all frequencies. Be advised, all available units, significant enemy push in Sector 2, reroute all available forces to my position. I repeat, significant greenskin push in Sector 2, reroute to my position with all due haste. Likelihood of being overrun, inevitable, I'll hold them back as long as possible."

With the group of survivors retreating behind him and his troops, headed towards hopefully far more reinforced ally lines, Solomon unslung his weapon as the pair of mechs behind him began to fire their Calamity lascannons. His rifle, rather experimental and more akin in size to a one-man missile launcher, carried in it a power core that would normally be hazardous enough to an organic soldier to require medication after a few hours of usage. The energy readings for it said it should do just fine against orks, the condensing rays determining which pathways the arcs of lightning would take upon firing.

He opened his private channel. "Pilots Darvid and Wale, if the situation is untenable, fall back to a better position. Do not worry about the Praelior or this shell, we'll hold as best we can."

Their affirmations were drowned out by the screaming of the onrushing orks.

The Eye of the Storm smashed through the remnants of some sort of old tracked vehicle as it trudged towards the given coordinates, servos thundering with restrained might. One on side flanked a small cohort of Imperial Knights, the scions of lesser houses hoping to gain glory and fame through righteous battle in the name of the Manperor. The seniority and greater size lent the Storm the credibility it required to assume command of the forces, and with these powerful constructs headed towards orks still utilizing melee weaponry, the slaughter of greenskins was an assurance.

On the other flank were the numerous armor columns of the landing forces, many of them veterans with their weapons as much as they were with the vehicles that bore them. Intermixed were the newer varieties of tanks and transport vehicles introduced by the same man whose forces they all rushed to assist.

Not out of any sense of loyalty, per se. It was said the good captain was on the planet, though none had seen him as of yet, and it would not do for a man giving so much to so many to be killed by orks whilst reclaiming a world for mankind. After all, this onrush of orks, a larger force that had appeared out of nowhere, was dangerous enough to an entire landing zone that sending all nearby units was, in essence, vital to this invasion.

Would the loss of the landing site, even if for a while, be a setback? Yes. Would it cripple the war effort to retake the planet? Not so much, unless the orks started scavenging whatever they could from the fallen soldiers and vehicles. Then, the fight would be a much more earnest and pitched one, likely requiring orbital support at the very least to stem the tide, nevermind turn it back.

The Eye of the Storm and its pilot didn't believe it mattered anyhow. With a mighty Reaper chainsword on one arm, a devastating Rapid Fire Battle cannon on the other, and the Ironstorm Missile Pod upon its back, the knight was a daunting weapon of destruction and death to the foes of the Manperor and his Imperium. All but the more armored and larger orks would provide little trouble for both pilot and machine, their neural signatures mirroring one another in great harmony.

As the leaders of the group crested over a small outcropping, the remnants of a collapsed hab block, a roar of bloodlust rolled over them like a great wave of carrion call, a challenge that rang deep into their minds and bodies. Ahead, surrounded on all sides by greenskins both great and small, many wielding wicked melee weapons and randomly firing scavenged shootas in every direction, the advance forces of Solomon were besieged. At the crest of their small hill, they continued to rain fire upon charging orks, but their numbers too few to hold them back for long, and the strange servitor-like constructs continued to fire point blank into orks as they were chopped and smashed to pieces.

The taller robed figure fired at every larger ork it could with a strange weapon, bouts of arcane lightning lancing out to course over their forms. Some orks simply fell, gouts of flame erupting from their eye sockets and mouths as their flesh charred within moments, while others seemed to merely shrug it off as if it were nothing more than a static shock.

The Eye of the Storm gave its pilot a series of calculations on firing angles and, within moments, began to pour devastating firepower into the ork lines from its cannon arm, round after round mulching orks into mist and punching holes in the bigger ones larger enough for a man to jump through. On all sides, the reinforcements began to open fire as well, deadly batteries of weapons both steel and plasma, laser and lead, chewing into the enemy masses with unmitigated disgust.

The massed gathering of orks, upon finding a new foe to battle, seemed torn as to what to do. Some continued their assault upon Solomon's forces, crushing his cohort with ease should they avoid the lancing energy beams ripping them asunder or immolating them to ashen chunks. Others took up the newfound challenge and began to charge through own lines towards the approaching Imperium forces, defiant in the face of overwhelming firepower as all orks were wont to do. A few even stood still, scratching their heads amidst the anarchy as if trying to figure out in which direction the better fight lay.

A particularly big ork, its armor slabs the size of small streetcars deflecting or absorbing damage from incoming rounds, plodded its way towards the line. Its thunderous roar was accompanied by the swing of an axe whose blade edge was taller than a grown man, and it sunk that wicked edge into the side of an advancing Draka tank, repeating the motion again and again. The Eye of the Storm moved to assist, being the closest walker, powerful pneumatics pushing its legs as it stomped towards its besieged ally.

The tank lurched to the side as the metal sunk in one more time, a mighty gash of shredded metal forming along the side, but the turret quickly swiveled its barrel directly into the big ork's chest, interrupting its next swing, and opened fire. The canister round that followed, in a shockwave visible even through the knight's various dampener systems, punched the torso of the ork from the rest of its armored body, sending torn arms and legs flying in different directions as the head plopped onto the front of the tank, as if it were a grotesque hood ornament. A bloodied mist swirled around like smoke, blanketing the area in slippery viscera.

Another large ork ignored the fate of its companion and smashed an armored shoulder into the side of the same Draka, sending it skidding sideways and punching a hole clean into its interior on a piece of fallen debris. This ork was hit by a gout of flame from a nearby Hellspitter, screaming and frantically patting at the flames that rolled over its body with sickly hunger. Yet another greenskin began peppering the tank's torn side with inaccurate yet armor-piercing fire, only for the Storm's chainsword to slice through it, from shoulder to hip in a spray of bone shards and pulped gore.

The tank belched smoke and leaked fuel as the crew continued to fire, the cannon spewing another canister round at a group of orks, pulping them into the ground at the base of the hill. Fewer and fewer troops remained by the side of the captain, and from the side, a pair of smaller mechs continued to pour lascannon fire into the ork flanks, falling back to partially shielded positions behind collapsed buildings. One stepped out to fire upon a trio of larger orks carrying very large chainclubs, the unusually bright bursts of laserfire vaporizing any ork it struck.

An ork rokkit streamed out of the huddled mass of xenos filth and struck the lascannon of this mech, the detonation scorching the left side of it and melting the lower half of the arm into a mixture slag and shrapnel, knocking it back in the process. The other mech, to the Storm pilot's surprise, kept firing with one hand on the lascannon, and pulled the mech to safety behind a larger piece of rubble with the other.

An ork suddenly leaped over the rubble to brawl with its foe, but was backhanded by the wounded mech hard enough to splatter it against a far wall, and with its good had, and a defensive posture beside its comrade, it drew a long sword that the knight's energy sensors told to be bristling with power. Another ork was bisected with a sword flourish quick enough to nearly be imperceptible to the naked eye.

Interesting.

As the last of the faux-servitors were felled by the greenskins, more and more armor and soldiers rolled over the hill, pouring more fire into the enemy lines. Burned, vivisected by lasersfire, ripped apart by chainsword and tank rounds alike, turned into smoking craters by missile fire, crushed beneath treads and splattered across the viewports of speeding tanks along the periphery, the advancing ork horde began to turn into a rout, not from a retreat, but from the orks running this way and that towards their enemies, rarely if ever reaching them before facing death from hundreds of different weapons.

The Storm beheaded another larger ork before blasting it in the chest with its cannon arm, spewing chunks of greenskin as other knights on its flanks unleashed rockets, lascannon blasts, powerful arcs of lightning and stomped greenskins underfoot into green and red mist. More tanks and vehicles continued their flanking and assaults, blasting apart groups of orks as soldiers unloaded from transports and added to the fire, various models of lasguns taking potshots at orks from firing angles unavailable to their armored brethren.

The Storm stomped through a pile of mutilated orks, their blood splashing against its legs as it came to the last place it had seen the hooded figure. Scores of its strange servitors lay in piles where they had stood until being cut down, never flinching in their preprogrammed duty, while others lay in piles where they had been ripped or cut apart by the greenskins, or stomped into piles of synthflesh and viscera. Weapons lay scattered everywhere, much of which advancing infantry began to pick up for themselves, along with the small slab shields, if they could lift them.

The hooded figure lay atop the small hill, a large choppa embedded in his chest with his strange lightning weapon shoved down the throat of a particularly large dead ork wielding the fiendish weapon, said ork emitting whisps of smoke from every orifice and skin beginning to char considerably. The Storm's pilot was saddened by the fallen man's demise. To lose a captain as seemingly noble and already legendary as Solomon was to be expected in this kind of war, but to have it happen so soon was-

A breeze blew back the robes to reveal a shining metallic form beneath, and confusing warring with curiosity, the Storm and its pilot watched as a passing soldier nudged the robes back further, they too intrigued.

It was not a man at all, but another servitor, this one far more robust-looking and built to a rather strange specification. If this was not Solomon, then where was-

A roar ahead sounded, and a lone ork, choppa held high as a stupid toothy grin spread across its vile face, charged the knight from behind a fallen pile of rubble, likely trying and utterly failing to be sneaky. Before it could cross even half the considerable distance, or nearby troops could fire upon it, a whoosh overhead was followed by a sleek pod plowing into it, splattering the greenskin like a ripe vegetable over the ground in a red and green streak.

With a hiss, the latch to the pod opened, another metallic form like the first stumbling out. The Storm's audio receptors managed to pick up the low "at least the LOAD system works" from the figure as it approached.

"Sorry about that," it said, walking past groups of startled soldiers as the tanks continued to advance, firing on distant ork groups attempting to approach the front line. Amidst craters and ork chunks, fallen weapons and the occasional disabled vehicle, it stopped before the Storm. "Seems like I might have to go back to the drawing board with Syngra on that one. Only worked some of the time, too many orks seemed resistant if not immune to its effects."

"Clarification requested," the knight told its pilot, activating the speaker.

"Who are you?" they asked.

"Ah, I used to be that," the figure said, pointing at the decidedly-destroyed faux-servitor. "Started losing power after that ork stuck that sword in my chest. I'll admit, I let that one get too close, and I didn't think sticking the weapon in his mouth would work, but I guess it did the trick this time. Captain Solomon, by the way."

"I did not take it that the Rogue Trader in the stories was a member of the Mechanicus."

"I'm not, this is just a little project of mine," the machine said with a shrug as cables snaked up the torso to form a facsimile of a face, complete with fake cheekbones and a chin. With a grating grunt, it wrenched the weapon of its former host body out of its grip, and the ork's toothy mouth. "Will have to disinfect that before I bring it back to Syngra, don't want those spores showing up on my ship or in my base."

"You are Captain Solomon?" one of the nearby soldiers asked, tanks and transports continuing to rumble past the sounds of battle grew more and more distant.

"Yes, but I don't know who you are," he replied, turning back to the knight, ignoring the others.

"The Eye of the Storm, a freeblade. We have met before, upon the surface of Caloris Primus, though our time together was short."

The machine was silent for a few moments, and suddenly, a private channel opened to the knight. "I meant the pilot within this mighty knight. A freeblade seeking atonement, a last survivor, or crusading?"

"Formerly the first, now of the latter two," the pilot replied, surprised that the knight had opted to accept the connection. Usually it would ask them first, or at least bother to tell them. "My home fell to an incursion of another sort a short time after our departure from Caloris Primus, and I believe I alone remain to carry that legacy."

"I'm sorry to hear that, it's one of those things we're trying to prevent out here." The captain's voice carried a clear tone of sincerity and even firm resolution. "With whom am I speaking?"

"How am I to know that you are trustworthy with such information? Many never learn the name of the pilot of any freeblade, for reasons too varied to name themselves."

"If you have need of me or my services, all you shall require are the confirmation codes I am patching through. I have need of allies both on and off the battlefield, especially experts in the fields of knights, and I saw how well you smashed through the orks. We'll be doing a lot of that soon enough, the further we reclaim this world, and other just like it."

True to his word, codes came in, along with a series of schematics and recordings the pilot mused might be important. Deactivating the voice scrambler, their true voice shone through. "Should you keep yourself to that oath, then I see no harm in some small measure of exchange. You may know me as Celenta," she replied. "Perhaps when this continent had been fully reclaimed, we shall meet, face-to-face." For now, there were orks to kill.

"I look forward to it," was the Rogue Trader's reply, before clambering onto the side of a passing Deliverance transport, a squad of Hellspitters riding with their weapons at the ready. "Good day, valiant knight."

"What an odd fellow," Celenta muttered to herself. Should they both survive the campaign that long, it would be interesting to spend time meeting with this unusual captain. Perhaps he could be the key to regaining the honor and prestige needed to establish herself as the head of her knightly house? Being simply the last of the bloodline alive was not going to be enough to earn such titles back.

All around, vehicles and weapons were proudly displayed and carried the likes of which Thrent's expansive memory banks could not identify. Communication had been lost for some time with Mars and the rest of its daughters, but surely things had not changed so much even out here?

Then he saw it, a fellow Adept setting up a field communication vox hailer, larger than an average one. "This is one is Unit 7482, child of Mars," he said. "Who are you?"

"I am Unit 65241," came the terse yet polite reply.

"Has Mars found more STC fragments to allow for such a plethora of unique armaments? I have never seen vehicles the likes of these before, or those," Thrent added, pointing to a group of Crimson Mechs helping to unload a series of supplies from the larger barges.

"Negative, these are the creations of Captain Solomon."

The Rogue Trader? "Has Mars not declared him a heretek for technological tempering?"

"Communication with Mars is spotty at best, and nonexistent otherwise," the other adept replied. "Representatives of the Supreme Forge have struck an accord with the good captain, whose adventures and little-understood background have given him access to, as well as knowledge of, unknown quantities of technological remnants and insights. In exchange for his continued survival, he has been providing the Mechanicum with every shred of information, invention and research he has been able to scrounge up."

Considering what usually happened to anyone who dabbled in technology, this was a very good deal. "What of your opinion?"

"Honestly?" the adept replied, mechandrites whirring as they retreated into his hunched back. "He must be divinely inspired."

"Truly?"

"Many share my sentiments. Despite his origins being shrouded in more hearsay than fact, it is reasonable to assume his innate knowledge of, as well as willingness to experiment with technology, as a sign of divine blessing. Some rumors, unsubstantiated mind you, paint him as being touched by the Omnissiah."

"I take it they accept no other explanation?"

"Few could come up with a counterargument that does not fall apart under closer inspection, even some of the most orthodox of our order have doubts as to his detractors, once they witness his results and receive the knowledge he bestows upon his friends and allies." A beep on the adept's personal vox incited a hurried bow, and off he went, replaced by a horribly unaugmented human who had been watching the proceedings with mild interest.

"You are certain the broadcasting relays have been properly put into position?" Thrent asked, acknowledging this new fellow.

"Exactly as you wanted, we've even managed to convince some of the other Admech boys to put out additional signals between ships to create a larger transmission area," replied a general whose name Thrent couldn't be bothered to remember at the moment. "Let your fellows know the Imperium is back for them, for this planet, and their salvation is at hand."

"Gracious thanks, sir, now if you'll leave us to it, we shall take it from here."

The rather egocentric general gave a stiff nod, though it was difficult to tell if he were upset or merely suffering from a bout of indigestion. Thrent's own stomach had long since been replaced with pouches of nanites for self-repair and an extra power generator for carrying more supplies.

However, his mind was in a frenzy of activity. He had seen for himself just what this Solomon had built, and while none of it seemed outright new, the manner of repurposing old technology for new uses was not something lost on the Mechanicum. Indeed, it had been the basis for their very survival upon Mars during the Long Night. Now, it would seem, one outside their order had managed to find something within himself to carry that same spirit. Had he ever been to Mars, felt the red sand beneath his boots and gazed into the depths of her storied history, second only to Terra and Luna's?

Adjusting the controls to the proper frequencies, Thrent plugged himself into the device, transmitting in binary to his fellow survivors as these thoughts coalesced into a newfound sense of wonder and resolve.

"This is Unit 7482, broadcasting upon all frequencies. Repeat, this is Unit 7482, broadcasting to all surviving children of the Omnissiah. Rejoice, for our bleak futures have brightened! A coalition of Imperium forces have been led to our world, to reclaim it in the name of the Omnissiah. Even now, their forces battle the orkish menace within the heart of the skybreaker elevators of Halfast Primus. As they reclaim territory, they will be fortifying their positions. Should a battle erupt near you, do not come between the greenskins and our compatriots, for it will be your death. Reveal yourselves carefully after the fighting has ceased, or you are confident you may travel to friendly lines."

"You may find yourself amidst servitors bizarrely armed and strangely built, led by others even more so. Do not fear, they are the creations of the Machine God, through the one known as Captain Solomon. A Rogue Trader he may be, but his blessing by the Machine God is clear to any who simply hear his voice and see his wondrous creations. There exists no doubt in the mind of this one that he has been sent to deliver us from the xenos menace, to end our days of bitter survival and hiding."

"Let it be known, survivors of Halfast Primus, that the captain, no, the prophet Solomon has come to rebuild our world, and return it to the shining jewel of efficiency and might it once was. Hail, for we have found a lost child of the Omnissiah, Solomon! Hail the works his hands have wrought, and those he will bring to us, to rebuild our world! For the Mechanicum, for Mars, and for the Machine God!"

Kaeravaesh sat in silent contemplation within her prison, for despite all the furnishings that was what it was. She was no guest, a stowaway turned prisoner, deep from the watchful eyes of her kind and far from the influence of those with greater seniority.

Yet she could not find it within herself to be terribly upset by this. Yes, she did have a long time to fritter away before the grating hunger of Slaanesh returned to grate on her soul, what with how many inbred cannibal tribes she had slaughtered and "feasted" after her escape from Solomon's chambers.

Solomon. A most curious mon'keigh in many ways, one whose destiny was no more exact than the tastes of an eccentric archon. Even for once whose psychic nature had dwindled as greatly as a Drukhari, Kaeravaesh knew it was easy enough to predict the demise of any everyday Imperial; not so with this strange captain. Yet one thing was for certain, the crux of all of his decisions, good and ill, was going to come to a head sooner than later, and as the voice in her head kept reminding her, in a sort of doting manner, she had a part to play in that event as well.

The Drukhari only hoped it did not end in either of their deaths, for his death likely meant her own, while his survival likely hinged little on her, unless the voice in her head was telling the truth. She was becoming a bit attached to not having to worry about Commoragh or those that dwelt within it. Despite their inferiority, living amongst the mon'keigh, even as a highly secured prisoner, wasn't all that bad. Sure, the food was often beyond subpar for her evolved taste buds, the lighting was often too bright for her sharp eyes, and the incessant prattling amongst her guards was always as grating as it was primitive to her ears, but through it all, she learned a great deal about herself, and of her surroundings.

There were Eldar on the ship, likely those whose ship her fleet had attacked. Survivors, perhaps, who had been captured? Or the rare guest? It was not entirely unheard of for mon'keigh rogue traders or powerful captains to meet with an Eldar once in a great while, though usually under the most dire of circumstances. Or was this Solomon's curiously lenient habits coming into play?

The guards spoke of his sphere of influence, and of allies being gained with every passing day. A player of thrones, perhaps, seeking to usurp the Imperium subtly enough to be able to pay lip service while ruling with his own might and ideas? Again, hard to say, the mon'keigh captain seemed too simple for that, but one never knew what lurked behind a friendly facade.

The machines she had seen were different enough of those she had already known of the Imperium to determine that either he had access to technology unknown or little understood by the wider galaxy, or more unlikely, was making it all himself. There could be no telling, half of the rumors of his past seemed too outlandish even for one such as herself. Should they meet again, she would have to ask him, just to sate her curiosity… provided he deigned to answer her of course.

Abdellada sighed in frustration. Having passed all the tests before her upon entering the service of Captain Solomon, she had been given the task of overseeing distribution of his self-styled lasgun pattern. As simple to make as any other, trimmed just differently enough to tell it apart from another, and very, very useful on the battlefield.

Being cut off from Terra directly had both perks and shortcomings, some more severe than others. Case in point, dealing with the Departmento Munitorum and the forces they supplied, in short, everyone. Pretty much every soldier, usually within the Imperial Guard but also amongst the PDF of more prosperous worlds, needed a lasgun. With it, many a regiment had held the line against untold numbers and types of enemies for thousands of years.

Solomon's inversion had made it far more lethal than before, almost ridiculously so, yet the damned thickheaded slugs within the local Munitorum needed to be convinced that they were worth their time.

Hence, the gathering on the open plateau on Talmanjir, within sight of the fortress that grew with every passing day. Munitorum leaders, navy captains, regiment commanders, lieutenant governors and every manner of representative, diplomat, or someone's patsy, from all across "safe" space, were here. The concentration of so many middlemen was as heady as it was likely to cause a spatial collapse from the sheer amount of egos throwing themselves around.

If not for her professionalism, Abdellada would have wanted a swig of amasec or three to deal with all this mess. Maybe after they all left.

"I do not see the reason to distribute lasguns to my troops when they are perfectly capable with the weapons in their current possession," a general whose name she could not be bothered to remember prattled amidst the gathering.

"The expense alone in replacing tried and true weapons of the Imperial Guard is ludicrous, let alone producing it in sufficient numbers to supply regiments within our region," a Munitorum official concurred.

"The production of these weapons can be done at any forge world or indeed any manufactorum that produces lasguns," Abdellada replied as her aides set up the demonstration. "To an extent, any lasgun can be converted into a similar weapon, though the additions made have made it far less prone to using too much energy per shot, as is the "default" fault within the weapon."

"So what? Any large enough amount of lasguns can be used to great effect on any target," another said.

"We shall see about that," was her reply as the equipment was brought forth, the two different lasguns and their targets. Human forms, both unarmored and fitted with the best facsimiles available, horrible caricatures of different xenos, some with armor, some without, most looking like orks, and even light vehicles cobbled from spare parts lying around the numerous workbenches and vehicle bays.

"Commence with the testing!" she barked.

In the end, her fears were mostly nullified. Most of the assembled were struck speechless by the destructive power of Solomon's lasgun on human targets, especially when Abdellada said the lascannons had undergone similar retrofitting. One general in particular, however, had remained adamant that the current lasguns his soldiers wielded were more than enough to deal with whatever enemies they might face.

He stopped talking when the lasguns were turned upon the armored orks facsimiles and left only burnt scraps of metal and sizzling chunks of detritus.

After that started the rush for orders, both from regiments and from the Munitorum itself. Abdellada had to hold back a vicious grin as the clamoring settled upon the nearest Crimson mechs stomping over to restore order. Sometimes, to get the gears of bureaucracy turning, all you needed was a little violent demonstration. Now hopefully these same former naysayers would be more apt to comply with Solomon's reasonable demands and his inventions.

Reboot cycle commencing…

Reboot complete.

Primary orders received.

Processing…

Orders, currently active:

Repel invaders of Halfast Primus.

Defend portions of strategic importance.

New directives incoming…

Processing…

Error, unable to receive, primary global transmitters damaged during incursion.

Repairs needed. Attempting to receive from secondary transmitters.

Error, unable to receive. All frequencies silenced by intruders.

Mandate requires continuation of previous tasks.

Commencing dissemination of orders to fellow units.

Transmitting…

Transmission completed.

Arming weapons systems.

Processing…

Task complete.

All weapon systems online.

Primary targets identified.

Hostiles utilizing synthetic mirrored servitors.

Commencing assault upon enemy formations.

For the Mechanicum.

Solomon scattered the different diagrams of the weapon before him, as frustrated as he was resigned. It had looked like it was going to work so well, the power core was light enough to be carried and wielded with ease, yet the discharging properties should have been more than capable of outright killing whatever orks that crossed into the fields.

Well, another one on the growing pile of broken ideas. Maybe he'd revisit it later with Syngra and some of her senior assistants on hand. She had a better head for some of this stuff.

"What to do next?" he muttered, pouring through a stack of parchment. Not enough ceramite, required exotic matter that needed way too much power to produce, didn't have access to macrocannon schematics, needed to get the assembly cruisers up and running before that could be a thing…

Oh, here was one. Matching the printed form to his DCD, he pulled up a set of schematics of the most recent addition to his potential future arsenal. Plasma, or more specifically, plasma bolts that weren't going to blow up the user as often as the enemy, unless of course a hit was landed on the cartridge.

Ionizing a selectively filtered gas and propelling it with a similar discharge should send it at appreciable speeds towards a target, and the heat of the plasma should do the rest. Now, for the tricky issue. Where was he going to get such a steady supply of such gas? Promethium refineries? No, too risky, a catastrophic failure at the gaseous compressors could jeopardize the entire facility, many of which were almost irreplaceable with the small window of time they currently had. In time, perhaps, they would be able to build more to both meet an increase in demand and decrease the inherent irreplaceable nature of those refineries.

Gas giants? Plenty of gas there, away from promethium sites, and there were literally gas giants in almost any system under their control. Hell, almost any uninhabited system in-between had gas giants aplenty, more than enough for such gas, to say nothing of settled systems with them as well.

Of course, then the issue was siphoning and transporting that gas. Sure, the ships themselves could both siphon and refine the stuff with onboard craft and manufactorums, as well as then transport it, but that meant a whole lot more Navigators would be needed, and already there was the issue of a shortage of those guys. A station or five built at each gas giant would work far better, each dedicated to harvesting, processing and storing vast quantities of gasses, to be visited by passing fleets, much like refueling stations. Most likely the inhabited system gas giants would be the first generation of such resource harvesting stations to be built, with others eventually being made as well to increase supply. Who was to say that mankind would also begin to spread across formerly uninhabitable systems in large space stations, much like the Saturnyne Ordo during the Age of Strife in the outer regions of the Sol system.

Thankfully, there was a promising development for Navigator shortage, last he had heard from Syngra. Finding which genes triggered to create a fully functional Navigator was still out of their reach, but transplanting the genes into other human embryos was showing progress, a sort of cloning mixed with transposition. Even if the end result was only one out of ten thousand embryos survived gestation without imploding in a mess of genetic dissolution, it meant a chimera of a human that was "mostly" normal except they could navigate the Warp. Whether they could then pass that trait on was up for debate, as it was all theoretical at this point, but an "artificial" Navigator was better than none.

Of course, should they find a way to simply trigger growth within a stem cell, "fertilized" with the genetic material from a Navigator donor, the end result being a genetically viable offspring with technically only one parent, then that opened up a whole new area of opportunities. Granted, Solomon's understanding of anything related to genetics was inherently underdeveloped by a wide margin, but the practices and methods used were remarkably similar to what he could recall. That, and the dreams from Adam and Eve were inspirational enough to help fill in at least a few gaps here or there, as a combination of his recollections and ideas were something none had either tried before, or had done so differently enough to be unsuccessful. Eventually, throw enough stuff at a wall, and something was going to stick.

Much like his ship designs that, according to his last report, were almost nearing the first rounds of completion. Pretty soon, the very first batch of vessel designed for defense of planets and star systems would be ready, thus freeing up many more ships that were still capable of Warp travel. No sense in using something that could bring the fight to the enemy if it was stuck defending some planet not in harm's way.

Come to think of it, Syngra had informed him that the Sol system had massive battlestations patrolling the Mandeville Point, as well as other regions of that system's space. Why not make their own defense platforms over planets, as well as perimeter ships along each system's Mandeville Point? This could free up even more ships, especially if the systems were capable of sustaining those stations. Each planet, depending on its initial or overall importance, would thusly then receive as many stations as determined to be needed. More industrialized worlds, like forge and hive worlds, would receive more powerful stations than, say, feral or agriworlds, which could likely support far more numerous but less powerful stations.

With a static defense to then work off of, the defense fleets could become the hammer against an invasion or raid, and the platforms would serve as the anvil. The question remained, though, how to supply these stations? An agriworld could not supply the minerals needed for the stations to process their own munitions, nor could a forge world provide the population needed to man the larger stations. Clearly, shipping different resources between stations would be optimal, yet the designs for each would likely be as variable as the cultures supplying them.

Clearly a variety of stations would be best, as relying on just one design was due to be exploited ruthlessly by any enemy smart enough to figure out some weak point and then use that on every station in the future. Stations with few but very large gun batteries, stations devoted to shooting down voidcraft and dispatching vast wings of their own, perhaps middling stations that served as reserves for either, or mobile enough to converge on besieged allies? Only time would tell how they might all come about.

He was getting ahead of himself. First he needed to establish a sort of polity for this Segmentum Bastionus to further expand its capabilities. Yet, choosing just one planet to host them was bound for failure, due to the inherent bickering nature of pretty much any person with power. A mobile fleet would cut down on that, but those were vulnerable to Warp accidents, among other things, and losing a huge swath of people that kept such a system running as smoothly as possible was a blow they could not afford.

Unless they made the fleet use far slower FTL tech that didn't dig deep enough into the Warp, but where were they going to get that? Old caches of old tech weren't just lying around, there was a reason the Mechanicus spent so many lives and materiel to retrieve every scrap of STC fragments and evidence of ancient technology that they could. Even finding a better way of making a blade stronger could end up with the discoverer being gifted the rulership of an entire planet as a reward. Finding a different, even less efficient means of FTL would still be damn near priceless.

Eventually, hopefully, they'd figure it out. They didn't have a lot of time to do so. It was, after all, their most precious resource, one they could not get back, no matter how hard they tried.

A/N: this took longer than I thought it would, simply because writing a really long action scene tends to start getting stale. New people introduced, new viewpoints, and new problems on the horizon. What else is new for Solomon these days?