Call to War
By author Patukov
The Tyrant's Citadel, on the planet Phanagoreia, the Helladic Cluster, near the northeastern boundary of the Imperium of Man
The year 959 of the 30th millennium
It was a rare day that Memnon could simply be—when the never-ending twin calls of crown and spear allowed him enough of a lull to shed bronze and silk and simply enjoy the moment.
It was a moment to be dearly treasured. And that was why the Tyrant was making the best of it by taking the long, winding path back to his personal workshop in the bowels of his Citadel. The entire complex had been built under his direct supervision and every single addition, if not personally designed by him, still passed through his desk for approval. And yet, he noted with some sadness, the Great Crusade had kept him from actually seeing the renovations and expansions in the flesh, as they say. He had pict-casts of it, of course, and his correspondence with his family kept him well aware of what they thought of them. Memnon had even added them to the scale model he kept in his quarters aboard the Lady Penelope. But still, it had been years since he was able to actually go back home and explore the new additions to his main palace and residence.
He had spent the morning walking through the new underground sections. Additional storehouses and shelters, backup control and communication rooms and more living space. The last grasp of the Citadel if the surface were ever to be stormed or levelled by orbital fire. A tour of the expanded sanitation system was followed by lunch with his father. And still Memnon tried to ignore just how old and frail the old priest had looked all through it. Aetes had already been an old man at the time Dyius Pater had emerged from the void to summon his son for the Great Crusade. But Memnon's father—not the Emperor, but the one who had found him, raised him and loved him without reservation—had always been a healthy and strong man. And Memnon had never spared any expense in ensuring that Aetes and all of his surviving family had access to the best care possible.
The Primarch knew, on an intellectual level, that his father was just a man. And as Aetes had never shown any interest in following his son to the stars like Astyanax did—and frankly was that not a relief? Old Aetes, for all that he might have looked otherwise, was a gentle, peaceful soul. The battlefield was the last place he should find himself in—Memnon knew that someday his father would die. He was doing his best to delay it as long as possible. But he had thought he had accepted the fact.
Obviously, not as much as he had hoped. And it was something that would continue to gnaw at his heart for a while yet. Of that, he was sure.
Bodily shaking his head to clear his thoughts, the Primarch stopped before the tall marble archway at the end of his path. Yellow and earthy tones with vines, giggling nymphs and playful goatmen carved into the entrance pillars. It was good work, he mused silently. The particular way the artist had carved and sculpted the nymph's figures and flowery hair told the Primarch the artist must either have come from Phanagoreia or taken much influence from their style, though the Satyrs, looking like actual abhumans, indicated some actual knowledge of their anatomy—perhaps they had lived or visited the Orlenian Reach?
The sound of rushing water and chirping birds greeted the Primarch as he stepped into the new garden.
It was a new addition to the Citadel: an octagon-shaped enclosure bathed by artificial light and blessed by advanced climate controls to ensure the best possible environment for the plant life. A brick path from each of the eight entrances converged in a large central fountain in the middle of the garden, each one of them branching out into smaller paths so a visitor could explore the extensive garden in full and appreciate the mosaics interspersed with the bricks. There were benches and marble statues. These, Memnon could tell, were made by different artists. Though all of them followed the classical Arkagan style, there were enough minute tells and quirks in the works of art that the Tyrant was convinced they must have come from different people. Perhaps a group of apprentices under the same master.
Memnon's leisurely stroll took him to the fountain, dominated by a painted marble statue of the spring goddess Khore, in her dress of leaves and flowers overturning her bottomless skin of water into the ground.
The Primarch ignored the ornately carved benches in favor of the soft grass, falling backwards like a crumbling mountain.
The rushing water, the smell of flowers and the chirping of birds and small animals. Even the insects wriggling under and around him were a balm for the Tyrant. It spoke of older, simpler days—before the Emperor, before the League, before even the Olympics—when he was no one but Aetes's son, who spent his days mastering everything he put his mind into and fixing roofs, working in the fields, raising walls, running numbers or a thousand other things his neighbors needed help with.
He missed those days more than anything.
It was then that his reminiscing was interrupted by the approach of footsteps. Memnon lazily propped himself to a sitting position and watched as his sister walked up to him. Dressed in old and faded work clothes and carrying an equally old but well cared for leather bag, Penelope looked ready for a day tending to the garden.
"It's been a while since I've seen you laying about like that," she said by way of greeting, stopping to stare at him. "Did you finish conquering the galaxy already?"
"It's not like you visit enough to see me much, Pen," Memnon replied, patting a spot besides him. "Come, sit. The plants will still be there."
Penelope dropped the leather sack in the grass and plopped herself down besides the Primarch.
"So, how long are you staying this time?" Penelope asked intently, black eyes boring into Memnon's own.
"I don't know," Memnon replied, feeling vaguely ashamed. "Not for long, I'm afraid. The galaxy is vast and the Emperor's dreams even larger." He paused before giving his sister a similarly disapproving look. "And it's not like you're ever around either. Last time I was home you were in Orlenia. And before that, you weren't even in the Cluster."
"I'm supposed to wait by the doorstep for you to return as if I were your sad, neglected wife?" Penelope challenged.
"You're the one complaining I'm never around," Memnon shrugged. And after a pause he added, "You could also come back to work. Just say the word and I will find you a position here. You did well before. I could use someone like you around."
Penelope laughed, long and loud. Memnon could not help but smile at that too. It would be his reaction too, had the roles been reversed.
"You signed my resignation. No takebacks. Besides, you don't need me, Memnon," Her face softened at that. "You have entire planets filled with people who worship the very ground you ask. People smarter and braver and more educated and cunning than I could ever bother to be." She leaned into his side. "But I miss you too. That's still a no to a sinecure here or following you around in your crusade."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Memnon replied quickly as he embraced her with one arm. "All that combat would ruin this masterwork," he said, patting her arm. "I would spend too much time rebuilding you again and again to do anything else."
"And I would rather not lose what little is left of my fleshy bits," Penelope agreed with mock firmness. "I'm what? A brain and some guts inside a metal body and a coating of synthskin. Any more and I feel like the Martian priests are going to start burning incense around me."
The joking helped a bit. But the thought still sent chills down Memnon's spine. Penelope had survived the disasters and wars and calamities that had come before the final unification of the Helladic Cluster, only to be afflicted by a degenerative disease. As a Primarch of the Imperium, he could have easily found the necessary resources and personnel to treat his sister. But that all had happened before the Imperium arrived in the Cluster. So Memnon had launched himself into a desperate project to save Penelope by building her a new body: a vessel that would not fall to the ravages of sickness and disease.
It had been a close-run thing. And he would hate to put her at risk by dragging her to the forefront of the Great Crusade. He hated it enough already. One sibling, one brother risking his life by Memnon's side was more than enough.
"Still, it would be great to have more times like this. The gods know we don't see each other half as much as we should."
"I've been here for a couple days already," Penelope replied looking up to her brother. "And you are a hard man to pin down, Memnon."
"I'm sorry. Next time I will make sure to tell the Emperor of Mankind to let you set my campaign schedule," Memnon replied with mock seriousness.
"You do that. And I will make sure to mention it next time I go to the temple," Penelope nodded, playing along. "I will even bring a fat ewe and the good incense."
"You should do that regardless," Memnon snarked. "You are rich enough to always give the gods the best."
"Forgive me, oh high priest," Penelope wrenched herself from her brother's embrace, snickering as she fell on her back, arms raised high. "I shall commission another giant marble statue of Dyius Pater's magnificent figure to atone for my blasphemy."
"I still can't believe you, of all people, raised such well-behaved boys," was all that Memnon replied.
"Not much raising, I'm afraid," Penelope shrugged as she made herself comfortable in the grass. "I'd wager you and yours did most of the work when you took them in your Crusade."
"I'm sorry. You know that, Pen," Memnon spoke afterwards. The good cheer in both siblings now drained away.
"I know," Penelope sighed, shifting to look at her brother. "And both I and Menelaos were so proud of them when they passed the trials. We didn't say anything because we wanted it to happen too. We knew the danger. Theoretically at least." She paused, recollecting herself. "But that doesn't really prepare you for when it actually happens. I don't hate you, Memnon. Not any more than myself for supporting this whole endeavour. But my Aga is still dead and I barely see Ajax these days. And every time I do get to meet him, he's more of a stranger."
Memnon dropped to his sister's side. And in a rare moment, he found himself quiet. No words of comfort or reassurance for his sister. He could not say that Agamemnon had died bravely, that her son's sacrifice had brought any kind of meaningful triumph for the Imperium, that it had benefitted the Legion in any way, because Memnon had never lied to his sister before and he would not start now. So all that he did was lay a comforting hand on her shoulder while she stared up at the sky.
Every single of his sons that died in battle was a painful blow. It was a necessary sacrifice—each and every one of them—because the alternative was far worse. And for all that he disliked the idea, the truth was that he was doing far more good for his people by taking to the stars and destroying any possible threats to them before they could reach the Helladic Cluster.
Still, he grieved for his sons. The fact that Agamemnon was his nephew, that he had seen the boy grow around him, made it worse. For the grief it brought his sister, for all that both of them did not like to bring the topic to light.
"Any more family tragedies you want to dig up while we are here?" Penelope asked, forcing some lightness into her tone. "Might as well dig up everything before we start digging up those flowers."
"There's Dad," Memnon replied after a moment. "He's not well, Pen. And I don't know what's wrong."
"Did you ask him?" Penelope asked, now propping herself up on her elbows. She was giving Memnon a look he could not quite decipher, and found himself disliking.
"Of course I didn't!" Memnon shot back, the outrage real this time. "I don't want him to worry more than he has to."
"Because he obviously won't notice anything amiss if you aren't there to point out?" It was a rhetorical question. And before Memnon could defend himself, his sister continued. "He's old, Memnon. Old, content and tired, I bet. He stopped taking all those drugs you made him take. And he has no interest in surgeries or prosthetics or anything else. That much I know because I asked him."
"Bu-but that means—" Memnon sputtered before his mind finally accepted the facts. "He is going to die. He wants to die?!" The Bronze Primarch was half risen by this point, and his voice had risen likewise. He did not knew exactly what he was going to do, how he was going to talk his father out of such reckless, suicidal stupidity but—
"Yes," Penelope had jumped to her feet. Her hands were enclosed around his wrist. "And you will let him do it. Because that's what he wants."
Had anyone else said that to him, Memnon would have lost his calm. And woe to the fool who dared insult him like that. But Penelope was not just anyone else. And just as Memnon had never lied to his sister, he was also fully confident of her own honesty.
That did not make anything alright. And the sudden terror of loss was back in full force. He still burned to run across the Citadel and reach his father. To talk to him and yes, try to convince him otherwise. But the reality of the situation was undeniable. And a part of him raged against the idea of forcing the issue.
He could see it clear enough even now. Aetes had seen enough, lived enough, loved and suffered enough. His children were all grown or dead. The galaxy he had been born in and lived in was long gone. His friends and peers were long gone too and there was little for the old priest to do besides wait for death. He was not like Penelope, who could fill her days with distractions and hobbies and pet projects, who delighted in the lifestyle afforded by her immeasurable privilege. No, Aetes was a simple, pious man, who lived to serve the gods and tend to his kin and people.
But priests and gods these days had to be hidden away. His kin did not truly need him, and the ancient village at the border of the Hethakes was long gone.
Objectively, Aetes had lived a great life. He had done excellently as a priest and a father. And if that was his wish, to let simple biology do its work rather than extending his life for no other reason than fear of death or to indulge his fearful son, then who was Memnon to deny him that?
He was a Primarch. The son of a god. As good as a living god himself. A divine ruler and almost peerless warlord. By rights he should… He should respect his father's decision. Because Aetes had raised him to be a good man. To love and care for others, to be mindful of his loved ones' feelings and desires, to be dutiful and all the other many things Memnon was so proud of learning and exercising.
To force his father to live on despite his wishes would be selfish. Normal men were not meant to live forever. Immortality was the province of gods, not meant for mortals. And still Memnon could not fully convince himself. He needed to talk with his father—not even to try and talk him out of this, but simply so they could have one last good father-and-son moment. Because suddenly, something inside Memnon's heart screamed at him to do it now, that this was going to be his last chance to do it and do it right.
The golden bracelet in his arm started vibrating. Memnon activated the device and Astyanax's voice, uncommonly worried and anxious rang out:
"Brother, come to Central Command as quickly as you can. We have a crisis on our hands."
The Primarch came out and the worried son went into the box. He looked down at Penelope and spoke:
"Ajax's Taxiarchy is in the Citadel. This might be a good chance to talk with him while you can—"
"The plants will still be here tomorrow," she finished, nodding. "Yes, yes. I know. See you around, Memnon."
Memnon gave her a quick wave and rushed away with the speed of a Primarch.
The war room was not close to the garden. But Memnon was not only a Primarch, but a Primarch that had made athleticism an integral part of his life. And so he ran, swerved, dodged and jumped his way through the halls of his Citadel, calling out warnings and shouting back apologies whenever he had to jump over a startled official or swivel around a patrolling guard or working menial.
The Primarch reached the great durasteel doors—each one of them gilded and bearing an imposing hoplite in bas relief—and took a single moment to run a hand through his messy hair as they slid open.
Inside was the main command room of the Citadel, a large, two-levelled room, equipped with the best and finest command and control gear Memnon could create and the Helladic League could get its hands on. If the League ever found itself under sustained attack, it was from this room that the defence would first be commanded.
Memnon noted with some trepidation the tension that permeated the air. The skeleton crew currently manning the stations looked as confused as the Primarch felt. But something had given them reason to start worrying. And now that their Primarchical ruler was here, whatever was going on must be serious.
With his own growing concern driving him onwards, the Primarch half ran through the room, almost forgetting to return the greetings from his sons deployed at the door to the briefing room.
Memnon stepped inside and found Astyanax standing by the holotable, looking far more worried and angered than he had seen in years. His ponytail was loose, strands of hair falling on his face, which lit up in relief at the sight of his adoptive brother.
Besides his brother, Heracles Python, the leader of the Sacred Band, stood with his back to the door and his Primarch. And yet Memnon could tell that he too was deeply unsettled. He soon turned his great armoured bulk to greet his gene-father, and Memnon could see the anger bubbling in his son's expression.
The other occupant was a mortal. Strategos Kleon, in the gold and purple uniform of the Phanagoreian Phalanx, was the commanding officer on duty at Central Command at the time.
"We have received a distress call from the Conquerors," Astyanax started without preamble, voice rushed, gesturing for Memnon to approach. "You have to see it to believe, Brother."
Memnon did as he was bidden and indeed he would not have believed it otherwise. This was a disaster. Unthinkable, except that it had happened.
"I took the liberty of summoning the full staff for the command room as soon as we got the message, Your Excellency," Kleon spoke. "But you got here first. We are waiting for your orders."
Of course, Memnon chastised himself. This was not the time for fear and pointless musings. They had a crisis on their hands. A crisis that called for immediate action.
"You have done well, Strategos," Memnon replied, nodding at the mortal. "We are close to the Naranjomundan Worlds. Perhaps the closest Legion at the moment. I shall take everything we can spare and march to Hernan's support. But that will not be enough, not nearly close to it." At that he turned to Astyanax and Heracles. "The entire Legion must be committed to this effort. Summon all Taxiarchies that can be spared. We shall leave the bare minimum at the Cluster. Just enough to man our fortresses and continue recruitment and training—which will have to be expanded." He let out a breath at that. "Gods be good, everything will have to be."
"Your Excellency," Kleon interrupted, his face creased in worry and some hesitation, "what about the defence of the Cluster? How can we make do if you take the entire Legion?"
"We will defend the Cluster at Naranjomundo. If the Conquerors' realm falls then we are sure to be the next target of these Orks," Memnon replied firmly. "I'm sorry to say this, Strategos, but I shall also be taking whatever units from the Defence Force can be moved on short notice for my vanguard. And likely many, many more in the coming months once mobilisation is in full swing."
Kleon deflated at that, sinking back in his chair, but accepting the orders all the same.
"We must mobilise the League for all that it can spare," Memnon continued, more noting things out loud than addressing anyone in particular. "I fear that this conflict will ask for us a level of commitment that we have yet to see. A level that I had hoped we would never need to reach. Yet it has reached us all the same."
"I shall summon the Assembly, then," Astyanax offered. "Your cabinet has already been informed and they should be reaching us soon. And so is Archmagos H4-1N."
"Tonight at the latest for the League's Assembly," Memnon ordered. "No later than that. Time is of the essence. And I will send word back to the Conquerors. Tell them that we stand with them and want constant updates on the situation at the front alongside all the information they have on those Orks."
"By your leave, my Tyrant, I will inform the rest of the Legion and make the necessary arrangements," Heracles spoke, drawing himself taller. A determined gleam was in his eyes.
"Go with my blessings, son," Memnon replied with a nod as he turned his attention towards the holo-table. Heracles left, the quick stomping of his feet echoing behind him. Astyanax had left too, to make the necessary calls and send the summons for tonight's emergency Assembly meeting.
For the moment only Kleon and Memnon were left in the room.
"Strategos, I want a list of all combat-ready units within two weeks of travel from Phanagoreia to the border of the Cluster."
"As Your Excellency wills." The Strategos snapped a salute and marched out of the room, duty overtaking whatever doubts and fears may hide beneath his skin.
Now alone, Memnon sat in the larger, Primarch-sized chair at the head of the holo-table. He spared a moment to dread and mourn the sheer scale of this unfolding disaster and all the destruction and sacrifice that they all would have to experience, before activating the hologram above the table and starting work on drawing up marching plans and mobilisation orders.