Chapter 8.3 – Malcador The Hero
Rogal Dorn watched as Omegon organized the last line of defence. A handful of Custodes, Sisters of Silence and those Astartes he had managed to bring back through the Webway Portal. It was a pitiful sight. A few hundred left of over a quarter of a million. Omegon reported a significant force remained in the Webway, but cut off from Terra and with reinforcements and resupply unavailable they were doomed.
Mortarion reported he was on his way, but Rogal knew it was a fool's hope. A single Primarch, even with the most elite warriors of the Death Guard, would not turn the tide of this battle, even if he had arrived in time which was looking increasingly unlikely. They were outnumbered and out matched. At least the Primarch would be nearby during the next phase.
Sigismund was reportedly dead, as was Valdor. Valdor, Dorn had respected as a warrior, but Sigismund caused a heartache that was almost unbearable. Sigismund had been the best of his sons, the most loyal and most skilled. There would never be another like him. There were forces of the Imperial Fists around the Palace or on the Phalanx that made him proud, but the finest had died in the Webway beyond.
"A fitting name that… Odessey," said Malcador quietly. The Praetorian broke out of his thoughts and addressed the Sigillite.
"You could still come with us…" replied Dorn, turning to the small figure beside him. Malcador shook his head.
"I cannot. The collapse of the Golden Throne and Terra is inevitable, but if I can buy you but a moment's reprieve from the end I shall do it. You will need to get Him away from here as quickly as you can. There is a part of Him that may wish to fight. You must not let Him. You will need to regroup, rebuild and restore the Imperium. He must remember he is a rallying figure and do what is whatever is necessary to preserve our species."
"Will it really be that bad?"
Malcador turned a sad face to the Praetorian and smiled a weak smile.
"Yes. The cradle of humanity will be lost to us forever. The works of ancient masters. The soil that birthed our kind. The psychic memory of our ancestors burned into the very atoms that make up the air we breathe. That alone could destroy our species forever. Our only hope is that the idea of Imperium will survive, that your Father remains the uniting figure we need to survive this tragedy."
"Humanity will survive," pointed our Rogal, "The species will endure. Each of us Primarchs grew up on worlds far beyond here."
"But a part of its soul will be lost," sighed Malcador, "Humanity will be forever a species without a home. Destined to wander the galaxy, surviving but unable to return back to the place of its birth."
"A pain we know too well," said Eldrad, joining the Mon-keigh in their observations, "Be thankful you will still command a thousand worlds. This fall will be much smaller than ours. You stand a chance of recovery. It might take Millennia, but your species will likely rise again. You will have the numbers, unlike us."
"I hope you are right," replied Rogal, "Our enemy is also unmasked. It will be easier to fight the forces of Chaos and the Immaterium now we know its name."
"Knowing its name merely makes it stronger," said Malcador, scratching his cheek, "Your Father will need to develop new weapons to win this war. We will lose worlds to Chaos before a restoration can be attempted. More than just the Rebel Legions, you will have to fight that part of humanity that becomes corrupted by the forces of Chaos. I cannot even begin to conceive what will be necessary to win this war now."
"We can but hope Fulgrim's work will bear fruit," answered Dorn with a smirk, " I trust whatever the Emperor's Children create in the labs will be worthy of our Father."
"The broken Duke lies in pieces beyond. Midnight comes upon us," whispered Veilwalker softly from beside Eldrad, "Soon the Terrible Sagittarius shall breathe once more, and screams of the Dove will rend reality itself."
"It is almost time," said Omegon, approaching the group. In his hand he grasped the teleport beacon Dorn had provided to him moments ago. The beacon remained dormant for now, but it would be the key component for what was about to transpire.
"Operation Odessey, eh?" murmured John Grammaticus, joining the collective, "I'm pretty sure my friend Oll was part of the original one."
Malcador gave John an odd glance, to which John gave a shrug.
"He is a perpetual as well," he explained, "He might well have once known the Emperor long ago."
"It is regrettable I never met him in person," sighed Malcador, "The stories he could have shared. My friend has shared much with me over the years, but I have always had a taste for the Classics."
"He doesn't like to talk about it much anyway," admitted John, "Never likes talking about the past."
"They never do," said Malcador sagely, "Not the parts that didn't go well at any rate. I wonder if I will be permitted to have a chapter in history, or whether this darkness will need to be swept away."
"I will ensure you are remembered," promised Rogal.
"As will I," agreed Omegon.
Rogal glanced over at Omegon. His brother's armour was worn, damaged and covered in blood of various enemies. In comparison the Praetorian's plate was pristine, golden, and unsullied. It ashamed Dorn to see himself so clean whilst his brother had spent an age fighting alone.
"What now?" asked John, glancing at the teleport beacon in Omegon's hand.
"I committed everything we could to the Webway," replied Dorn, "From the most loyal of my sons, to those questionable warriors of the Sons of Horus and Sanguinius. Or should I say Lunar Wolves and Blood Angels. Death Guard, Imperial Fists and World Eaters held the line for as long as they could. But our time is expended. No one else will arrive in time to aid us. There is only one command left to give."
Dorn pulled the vox unit from about his person. He pressed the activation and uttered a single phrase.
"Commence Operation Odessey."
All across Terra, on every screen and every vox, the pre-recorded words of the Praetorian flowed forth to concerned populace.
"People of Terra," it began, "This is your Praetorian, Rogal Dorn. For months now you have sat in patience, waiting for an enemy long warned about. It is with my deepest regret to inform you the enemy is here. Our defences have failed. Our lines have been broken. Soon these forces will overwhelm Terra, and we no longer have the forces to resist them."
A mixture of confusion, ignorance and panic began to spread across the population as the message continued.
"The enemy intends to target the Imperial Palace as part of their first strike, however we cannot be certain of their actions after. To this end, I give the order as Praetorian to all loyal subjects of the Imperium. Flee. If you can make your way off of Terra, it is advised you do so. Take what provisions are necessary for you to make safe habour. I also beg of you to think of your fellow subjects, and where possible assist each other in making your escape. Forces of the Imperium will be commandeering ALL personal transport craft for the purposes of evacuation. Attempts to resist the seizure of transports is considered a capital offense with the punishment of execution."
In the wealthy quarters, the rich and the noble fought to gain passage upon their own transports. The most argumentative of the lot found their bodies dumped unceremoniously into the trash as Imperial Fists and Death Guard ferried civilians onto the lifesaving vessels.
"To the loyal forces of the Imperium, your orders are to evacuate civilians and join with the Phalanx as it departs the system. Save as many lives as you can, but your duty to follow and defend the Phalanx regardless of cost. Know this, all subjects of the Imperium, be you civilian or enlisted. This is not the end. This is not defeat. This is a strategic retreat. We will continue to fight. We will continue to stand against the enemies of the Imperium. If you find any fear or doubt in your heart, remember this one simple fact."
The message of Dorn took a deep breathe.
"The Emperor Lives. I repeat. The Emperor Lives. The Phalanx will convey our beloved Emperor away from treasonous forces that threaten his life, to a new sanctuary where he shall rebuild and restore our glorious Imperium. Go with him. Go with your Emperor. Join his Odessey, from the soil of our home world, to the safety of our next great design. One day, far from now, we shall return to Terra. We shall reclaim our birthright from those that seek to despoil it. But until that day, fight on. Live on. Join the Emperor as he preserves the Imperium, and may your sons and daughters one day walk again on Terra's soil once more. May good fortune keep you safe, and Long Live the Emperor."
Dorn listened to the incoming reports from across Terra. They weren't good, but they were as he expected.
Evacuating an entire planet, especially the core of the Imperium, was always going to be a near impossible task. Billions would be left behind. Many would die in the panic, stampedes and the gangs that would rise in ruins. But there was no choice.
Worse still, the promise of a return. With the consequences of the failure of the Golden Throne... There would be no grand return to the home world of the Human Species, just a memory of a world which would slowly fade with time.
"It is time," muttered Rogal with a heavy heart.
Together, the last remnants of the room's occupants ascended the dias of the Golden Throne. Those warriors down defending the Webway Portal watched as Demi-Gods, Xenos and Mechanicus experts approached the Emperor of Mankind like a pilgrimage approaching a shrine.
All the remaining Astartes, Sisters of Silence and Custodes volunteered to remain. They knew they would die. They simply needed to buy as much time as possible to let the Master of Mankind escape.
Malcador approach first, resting upon his staff as he looked for one last time upon the Emperor's face.
"Goodbye, my friend," whispered the Sigillite, "Live. Make right what we have made wrong. And do try to be happy."
As Malcador withdrew, Omegon stepped forward, teleport beacon in hand. He stood before his Father, the pain and agony twisting the Master of Mankind's features constantly. Behind him, one by one, the other figures laid a hand upon the Primarch of the Alpha Legion, or someone else in contact. The physical contact would be enough for the Phalanx's teleport circuits to beam the entire group aboard as a single unit, reducing the risks associated with such a teleport.
Rogal Dorn laid his hand upon Omegon's clenched fist holding the beacon. He glanced at his Father, a single tear shedding from his face, and then turned to Omegon. A tear was running down his brother's face as well.
Reaching out with his free hand, Omegon touched the shoulder of the Emperor. Standing aside from the group, Malcador with a small collection of psykers and Xenos who had volunteered for sacrifice projected a protective field over Omegon's hand. It was barely enough. Pain coursed through Omegon's arm, almost causing him to flinch and withdraw. But he did not. He could not. He would not.
With the connection established, Rogal Dorn said the final words.
"Phalanx, engage teleport."
In that last moment, Rogal Dorn withdrew his hand from Omegon. The Primarch looked up at the Praetorian with confusion.
Dorn simply smiled as his brother and other survivors vanished from the Imperial Dungeon, along with the Emperor of Mankind.
The smell of ozone filled the air as the Golden Throne began to scream in mechanical rage at the loss of its core component.
As he hobbled forward to the Golden Throne and his final fate, Malcador gave Dorn a nod of understanding.
"We need to buy more time," said the Praetorian to no one in particular, "Alpharius will keep him safe. Those who aid him now are those I trust with that person I love more than my own life. But every extra minute will aid them in their voyage. I will be the Last Wall. No one else can be."
Malcador took his seat upon the Golden Throne, and immediately his eyes and mouth shot open and a white light speared forth from them. The psykers and xenos pushed all their psychic might into the Sigillite, their bodies collapsing where they stood. It would help. The Golden Throne would hold together a little longer. But the failure of the device was now assured.
With that, Rogal Dorn turned and walked down the dias to join the other Loyalists in their Last Stand.
The clock began to count down the minutes to the end of the world.