Theft

By author StrenousActivity

Cyrus eyed the dataslate warily. He had been ushered into this backroom immediately after meeting his Legion, and while he trusted the judgement of his father and the Lord Sigillite, it irked Cyrus to be pushed around so frivolously. Though far be it for him to complain. And so it was that Cyrus kept a placid smile on his face as his elder sister, Nyx, circled around him, the Lord Sigillite sitting opposite.

"Read," was the only word that came from the modulated vox-caster of Nyx's helmet.

Malcador said nothing.

Nodding in a way he hoped would placate her, Cyrus looked down and scanned the contents of the dataslate, his smile souring into a frown as he read.

"A Fist vessel swung by today. Poor bastards looked proper wrung through, a lot worse than our last run in with the Emperor's Finest. They said they came to pick up a munitions haul, had the right transfer codes and everything. Wasn't until their Gellar fields kicked on and they were somewhere else before we realised the codes were forgeries. Command gave us a righteous whipping for the slip up."

"The Ninth Legion have become utter menaces to the Imperial supply chain. The Bloodied Fists' unceasing kvetching over their catastrophic logistics failures means little in the face of the petty thievery they call a solution. I would go as far as to say that there is no logistics failure and they are simply hiding a widespread syndicate of war profiteering. I will not elaborate on the veracity of my statement but I will demand that a formal investigation be made."

"The Bloodied Fist delegation arrived on Revidian III around two standard Terran months ago. Their representative, one Sergeant-Captain Amarind Crassel, stated their intention to requisition supplies from our garrison. We agreed, granted that they procured the correct access codes, which they initially appeared to have done. It was not until we received word from Imperial command that their codes were discovered to be fraudulent."

A running theme became apparent to Cyrus as he continued to read. His Legion had garnered a reputation as infamous as their consistently poor circumstances, and Nyx laid it before him to see how he would react, and the fact that the Sigillite was content to simply observe meant this was as much a test for Nyx as it was for Cyrus.

"I sense no malice from the crimes of my Legion," was his judgment.

Nyx's eyes burned behind her helmet. Cyrus could see the grip on her Power Mace tighten.

Malcador's lip curled, but his expression remained unreadable.

"You, so soon into your elevation as a Primarch, would so easily dismiss the crimes of this Legion? You believe more credence would be given to your word than that of the Imperial Army?"

"I would," said Cyrus, his voice like calm, cold iron, though it still carried the lilt of his Tuilean accent. "There would be no point in persecuting my sons beyond simple reprimand. The actions of my Astartes were done out of desperation. You give me the result of their circumstances when I have already seen the reasons."

Cyrus pulled out a dataslate from his breast pocket.

"I have read after action reports spanning decades of Ninth Legion service, logistics records that cover the Legion's first formal combat deployments against threats outside the solar system. I know their victories, I know their failures, and all of it was a matter of monumental equipment failure. I suspect that you understand that as well, Lord Sigillite."

"What do you suggest be done, then?" Malcador asked.

"Give me time to rehabilitate my Legion's reputation, to speak with the ringleaders. I know the spread of their misdeeds has been by word of mouth, but any official complaints will compound the issue," Cyrus pleaded lightly.

"You wish to handle the manner internally?"

"Ideally, yes."

Malcador frowned, not with his face, but with his eyes.

"What leads you to believe that your father, much less I, would give you such courtesy?"

"Is this not a test of my loyalty, to see if I have the will to condemn my flesh in the face of its crimes?"

Malcador said nothing, then nodded. The Sigillite slid smoothly from his seat at the table and motioned for Nyx to leave. The Primarch of the Black Nineteenth obliged, but Cyrus felt her eyes bore into him until the moment her frame disappeared from the door.

"You will have your leeway, Jonahn. Spend it wisely."