~Birthplace of the Golden Dream~
~797. M30~
~Segmentum Solar~
~Terra~
~Malcador the Sigillite, Aquilifer~
The construction of the Astronomicon was proceeding at paces deemed acceptable, if not actually ideal. The stupendous structure was built by carving out the near-full extent of the once-mighty Ever-Highest mountain, greatest mountain in the Himalazia mountain range, and capped with the great psychic sphere-chamber that now rested upon the highest point on Terra.
They did not have the labor force to construct it on their own, not after the Unification of Terra, not if they wanted to proceed on schedule. Those machine-cultists of Mars had been sufficiently pacified by a show of relatively simple psychic power, backed by the might of the few remaining Thunder Warriors and the currently small-in-number Custodes. It was unfortunate that the Dragon's livestock had to be brought into the fold with such a permissive treaty, but needs were what they were.
From his place on an observation-platform, suspended by a combination of anti-gravity and his own psychic power, Malcador could only see a small fraction of the overall build site. Around him for many miles, many tens of thousands of laborers and machines worked with religious fervor in order to assemble a device that they had no hopes of understanding. All they could do was intently study the thousands of documents and blueprints provided to them, and implement the designs as best they can, carefully overseen by administrators of the documents and kept in check by dogmatic instructions shouted in the strange and mysterious tongue of binaric.
This site was one of many hundreds scattered around Terra, each one assembling a small component of a much greater and much required machine. When the Astronomicon and all its surrounding city-sized emitters were finished, it would cover the entirety of the Himalazia. Much of that width was simply the miles of psychic-cable.
The fact that it was being built by cultists who worshiped the standard appliances of his youth was a nagging bother to him. The fact that humanity had fallen so far during the previous age was a wound he had since treated and bandaged.
There was no point in mourning. He had work to do.
"Take me back." He commanded in a gravely, old voice that he had long since grown used to. The warrior clad in golden plates obeyed at once, as was his indoctrination. Taken from one of many thousands of orphans during his late infancy, biologically and psychically modified during all moments of his development, and trained in every known tactic and strategy that could be acquired for such.
An orphan turned into a perfectly loyal weapon. A necessary act if the most strategically important domains and resources were to be kept safe during the duration of the conquest and restructuring. It was a shame their indoctrination left them with a few aggravating habits, predominantly their ritual of bestowing a new shamelessly congratulatory name upon each other for each minor accomplishment.
Yes Valdor, all 1930-odd of your names are very impressive, you whelping infant. Malcador grunted as the much more humbly 300-named Custodes Kytan drove the not-actually fully functional hovercraft back towards the fortress-chambers that were part of the pre-existing chambers where the new Astronomican is planned to go. Were it not for his constant will, this relic would collapse to the earth and result in inconvenience for the both of them.
Yet another thing that would need to be repaired, once the Astronomicon was finished. The various mason-guilds and technology-priests recruited for the task said it would be done in about a year. A year of further buildup would be required regardless, the astartes legions already operating as well as could be expected to finish purging the outer Sol system of the various upstarts that decided to set up shop in the region. They, too, were estimating it to take another year to complete.
It would already be done if they still had all the Primarchs on hand. Many of them would be grown enough to take to the field by now, and thus ready to bolster fronts as required of them.
Their protections should have kept them alive regardless. The expansions will have them found eventually, just sub-optimally. He grunted again, giving a baleful glare to the ceremonies of construction around him. Sub-optimal was the most common descriptor he had found in these times.
Over tens of thousands of teeming laborer teams and shouting cultists, a lone golden ship sailed through the air, headed for the interior of a fortress the size of a mountain. It carried a warrior eight feet in height and clad in gold and red, and a withered old man in brown robes, carrying a staff topped with a golden eagle wreathed in fire.
It was soon enough that they touched down at one of the side-hangars of the fortress, and Malcador departed from the craft followed by his currently assigned guardian. He moved deeper into the complex, until finally reaching an elevator that would take him down to one of the deeper chambers.
Kytan pressed the appropriate buttons, the doors opened, and the two figures descended into the earth. Kytan was good about not asking questions. All Custodes were, but most had such stiffy minds about their self-imposed silence. Kytan was usually distracted by thoughts of simple things like reviewing his schedule or freshly washed and dried sheets. It made his mind particularly tolerable to be in the presence of.
The indoctrination wasn't quite as effective on him, but it was within acceptable tolerances.
The shaft doors opened, and Malcador strode forwards. The various Custodes on this floor stood perfectly still as he passed… wait no, Garudo's left hand just shifted half a centimeter.
He let his glowering glance at the Custodes in question inform him of his minor failure. Malcador passed, not troubling himself with the sudden storm of self-loathing that erupted from Garudo's mind.
Finally, at the end of a hallway, a great doorway was opened by the two guarding it, allowing Malcador to stride in without pause. Behind him, Kytan moved to the side to wait for his eventual exit.
The doors closed, and Malcador looked upon the figure of his oldest friend, currently sitting at his enormous wooden desk and reading a series of letters with a contemplative expression. Malcador grunted as he noticed his friend had decided to grow larger through biomancy yet again.
Was three meters not enough for you, you great ape? Must you go to four? You look ridiculous.
Setting his staff off to the side of the chamber, Malcador made his way over to the stairs and balcony next to his friend's desk that would allow them to speak on eye level. Something that his friend had built specifically because he decided being physically larger was important to convey the message of his importance to humanity. A useful tool for morale and propaganda, yes, but Malcador knew he just liked being taller than everything else.
His friend looked up at him. A titanic man, mightily shouldered and deeply-chested, head capping a massive corded neck and heavily muscled limbs. Clad in silks and velvets given as gifts by the many weaver clans of Terra, Luna, and Mars, and a golden wreath framing a powerful face.
Low and broad brow over volcanic blue eyes on deeply tanned skin. High cheekbones, strong jaw, and thin lips only served to enhance the imperious barbarism that he favored. All of this was framed by a straight black mane that hung down to the center of his chest and back in several massive locks, cropped in front as to allow his face to be visible.
Malcador looked upon the face of the Emperor of Mankind. A very important title that neither of them cared much for.
"Malcador. The work proceeds as expected?" The voice of the great ape rumbled over him, something he had long gotten used to.
"Within expected tolerances, yes. The estimation was made with a 2 percent margin of error. The letter our current guest has brought?" He let his small disdain seep through as he brought up the arrival of that long-earned individual and the apparent important message.
Malcador had met many Eldar over the course of his long life, almost none of which were tolerable. Mercurial degenerates that wield great wonders of a by-gone age in the name of cheap and nonsubstantive sensations. His most common interaction with their race was defending worlds from their raiding parties during his military youth.
This was before they decided to cast the warp into a screaming hurricane of pain, the aftershocks of which had nearly doomed his entire race.
Malcador had no love for the Eldar.
He was simply glad this apparent messenger had complied with being captured and monitored while his message was reviewed and debated upon.
The Emperor glanced down upon the comically small letter in his massive hand, before handing it off to Malcador with a meaningful look. "Tell me what you think."
The letter, comically small in the Emperor's hands, was equally comically large in Malcador's own. Leaning back from it and raising his left brow, Malcador began to read the small efficient script, curiously written in Imperial Terran.
Emperor of Mankind
The name I am using is Malum Caedo, I am the Thirteenth Son.
I am building an empire. I intend to join the Imperium if possible.
I will be massing an army to support against the Rangda in the early 840s.
They will arrive from the north-east of the galaxy. I will prepare to arrive in 845.
They will almost break the Imperium. They will not be the greatest threat to the Imperium.
I have allied with the Exodite faction of the Eldar. Please restrain your legions on my behalf.
Attached are copies of my personal notes on the state of the galaxy.
List Alpha is the most important. It lists information about my now-sisters.
I have rescued three of my siblings from poor conditions. I intend to rescue a total of 5.
I have lived through the consequences of leaving them to their fates already.
Ten-thousand years of suffering. For everyone.
I will not allow it again.
Below this brief introductory message, three long lists scrawled. Alpha, Beta, Gamma. Each one was sparse with proper nouns, but contained more than enough descriptions for Malcador to recognize or understand everything listed. On the margins were numerous maps of the galaxy, marked with dates and arrows that were labeled with letters and numbers that correspond to separate sections of the letter.
"What else was sent?" Malcador asked, not coming to any definite conclusions yet. The Emperor reached over to tap a small pile of leather-bound books, and then another stack of over-large papers. Spreading the three books across the table for him, Malcador could read the titles.
Codex Administratum, Codex Lingua, Codex Immaterium.
"The memories of the messenger?" Another question asked, to which the Emperor inclined his head forwards. Malcador did the same, and images of a tall figure in Aeldari armor carrying a very familiar sword and shield flowed into his mind. He leaned back, reached up, and rubbed his chin.
"You didn't break their mind, did you?"
The Emperor's eyes narrowed slightly. "I am capable of finer control than you, Malcador."
"Your bad habit of wielding your power like an overlarge club tells me otherwise." He drawled out, raising the letter and pretending to read it to hide his amused expression from his old friend. From the slight growl in his next sentence, Malcador knew that his friend had noticed.
"No, I did not break the Xeno's mind, they hardly noticed my presence."
"Ah, good, you're learning."
"Malcador. The letter. Your thoughts." Ah, the ritual was done then. A shame.
Malcador let his amused glint fall from his eyes, as he began to speak more seriously. "There are two possibilities. If the writer is who he says he is, or this is a trick. If the writer has done what he says he has done, or if he has not. If the writer is or is not who he says he is and hasn't done what he says he has done, then this is an elaborate scheme to guide our expansion. If the writer is who he says he is, and has done what he says he has done, then that means our current plans of expansion and consolidation will fail sufficiently for some manner of great time-manipulation to be called upon roughly ten-thousand years from now to send him back."
"If he has been sent back, then we need to rewrite our current plans."
Malcador grunted, recalling the great stacks of paper and databases of code that will need to be reviewed for such, and side-eyed the pile of papers and books this message came with. More headache inducing tedium in his future then. "Low-risk confirmation of the data given. If it proves inaccurate enough, we can discard it and continue as normal. If it proves accurate enough, we will use it to its fullest extent and prepare for the possibility of needing to put down a rogue empire at a later date."
"And if my supposed son is being entirely truthful with his messages and information, then we have just gained a great deal of strategically actionable intelligence, a new and experienced ally, and a potential empire to easily subsume in the future."
"We will need a way to monitor it as it expands."
The Emperor nodded, reaching up to rub at his own chin with man-sized hands. A frown settled on his face. Malcador continued. "An emissary, sent back with the messenger. Which among the Custodes are best suited for forty six years of deployment so far from Terra?"
The Emperor's frown deepened at those words, but nodded all the same. More importantly was the question of which Custodes could they easily afford to lose should this turn out to be base deception. This explained the scowl on the Emperor's face, loathe as he was to spend lives of his personal projects wastefully. "Shield-Captain Kytan is sufficient and expendable enough for the task."
…Malcador would miss having that particular one around. Malcador continued in his low, serious tone. "What gifts shall we send with him?" It was simply customary to do such to a foreign power that was giving potentially useful intelligence and trying to open diplomatic channels like this.
The Emperor leaned back in his great metal chair, and began to think aloud. "Knowledge of the most basic manufacture of gene-seed should already be encoded, if he is who he says he is. Nothing related to the creation of Astartes."
Malcador retrieved a quill and sheet from the Emperor's desk, calling them to him with a small expression of will, and began to inscribe notes.
"The Thunder Warriors were decommissioned, otherwise I'd send them to him. The Eldar would have sufficient knowledge to stabilize their biology and we had no more use for those men."
"The incidents were only increasing, we couldn't have them around civilian populations anymore." Malcador reminded, causing the Emperor to grunt and continue. He was still rather sour about that unfortunate affair, consequences of the solutions they were forced to use due to their earlier situation on Terra.
"We will need every ship and warrior for the crusade. Along with every war machine and every factory. Nothing can be spared from that."
"He already bears weapons of my hand, that aids him none."
"...It shall have to be knowledge. What can be spared that will not significantly hinder us should he prove to be a deceiver?"
"...He is intending on creating an empire, most likely through similar means as we." Malcador began, going back over the days of his youth spent memorizing schematics. "Most Knight-Worlds should still be standing, his future army will surely incorporate them. A manual of their construction and repair is a token that he will be able to leverage to significantly benefit himself against his neighbors, but will ultimately not be any great threat to the legions of Terra or titans of Mars."
"Potent if leveraged correctly, immensely beneficial in expansion, ultimately not difficult to defeat with our own forces. We will send seed-packets and farming manuals as well."
A way to make the potential asset more useful when subsumed then. Both were acceptable. "Implications of this one's existence?"
"...potentially a great asset, will need to confirm his intentions and identity."
"Assuming they're all true, think about it, friend!"
"Then I have one more Primarch than I intended to have, one that is already grown and acting to secure humanity's future, well within the parameters I would expect from Thirteen."
"You have a male and twenty females." Which meant a potential subrace of transhumanity that would inevitably come to dominate baseline humanity, just as it did during the Age of Technology.
And both of them saw how that Age ended.
The Emperor paused for a moment. Slowly his hand rubbed against his chin. His frown turned into a deep scowl, but he ultimately slowly shook his head.
"A potential long term problem, but not immediately urgent to address." He ultimately dismissed. "Much of their potency comes from my personal handiwork, a baseborn example would be within the ability of a standard man to defeat, should he be clever and prepared enough. Simply another abhuman strain, albeit one that is particularly dangerous, but with small enough numbers to safely corral and control. Not a great to wider humanity in the short term, and manageable in the long term."
"I will prepare countermeasures." The beginnings of a new order to handle particularly dangerous rogue individuals had already been planned for some time, pushing its creation up on the schedule was not a great burden.
"I would ask you to do so regardless, yes."
It never hurts to be prepared for a potential issue, even if that issue never arrived.
Malcador stood from his chair, moved down off the balcony, and then out the doors of the chamber again. His staff flew to his hands as he moved, and the small pulse of psychic energy was his primary farewell from the giant reviewing documents. As moved through the doors, he spoke.
"Custodes Kytan. The Emperor has a duty for you."
"I live to serve." Kytan replied through the vox-audio of his helmet, completely serious in that statement. He was still a Custodes, after all.
They were weapons more than men. As they all had to be for the coming catastrophes.