The Eighteenth Delivers
By author Poach
To call it a rare sight would be an understatement. The men and women currently being ordered out of the rather run-down entertainment establishment by the spaceport enforcers, only to stumble past a Custodes Orion gunship sitting on the ground outside, guarded heavily not only by the spaceport enforcers but also by two Custodes themselves, would tell their children and their grandchildren of this. Family tales to be retold for generations were born on that dreary Martian morning.
Within the gunship, not to emerge until the area was already deemed secured, sat Malcador the Sigillite, here on business, to speak with the Emperor's most wayward of sons. In this he entertained the Eighteenth Primarch. The man had come to Mars, summoned by the Sigillite, and sought to make some petty point by setting the meeting place himself. Malcador had many more pressing issues than arguing over where the summoned Primarch would make his appearance.
The all-clear was given, and Malcador strode into the now heavily garrisoned establishment, flanked by two more Custodes. They crossed the public floor and entered the back rooms of the establishment: various offices, store rooms, a kitchen, the same fare found in any of the hundreds of establishments that catered to spacers on every Imperial world. Eventually they reached the back office area, garrisoned by half a dozen large men sporting facial tattoos, shrouded in baggy clothing, heavy cloaks, and civilian (in appearance, at any rate) rebreather masks. To the untrained eye they were particularly large specimens of every underworld brute, but Malcador and his Custodes escort were not untrained: under the baggy clothes sat carapace armour and beneath the heavy cloaks sat bolters. These were Astartes of the XVIII Legion, albeit of the unofficial side of that Legion. Two of their number opened the large double doors to the establishment's main office room, usually in use by the owner, as the trio approached. They had been forewarned that their master was expecting guests.
"This was unnecessary. You are a Primarch; behave like one," said the Sigillite as he entered the room, addressing the figure at the other end, who stood looking out a window at the nearby landing pads, bustling with activity. Like his men outside, he wore nondescript civilian clothing, though as a Primarch his size meant he stood out anywhere regardless.
A moment of silence.
"I take some measure of… pride in coming and going unannounced," came the response.
"Would that you took such pride in your sons, who alone suffer the ignominy of being a Legion without a Primarch."
"The terms of my agreement with your Emperor—"
"Were that you would not be required to command your sons. You have taken liberties."
"Liberties I shall continue to take. Vague wording in any contract is free to be interpreted."
Another moment of silence. No doubt, thought Malcador, the Eighteenth thought himself clever in this, uncaring as to the shame he inflicted upon his own progeny daily. To any other Primarch, to every other Primarch, these actions would be beyond the pale.
"Deliver what I have asked of you, then," said Malcador, breaking the silence.
The Primarch left his window and placed a dataslate on a table in the room's centre, before activating the hologram that sat upon it, displaying a map of the galactic west, highlighting a string of Imperial worlds that constituted the rough maximum extent of Imperial expansion in the region.
"I've continued to investigate a possible wider connection existing between the reports I had originally sent about too-similar tales emerging all across the western fringe of your empire, as requested. The stories and reports differ from region to region, but all contain the same basic themes and descriptions. We've interviewed a number of men who've claimed to have seen these creatures: many are liars, or are describing any number of already-known specimens of local wildlife that end up aboard transport vessels. But the concept of a brain on legs appeared often enough, spread across the whole front, which match up to reports of men found dead, their skulls smashed and their brains missing. I assess it is too coincidental to be ignored, but my organisation has yet to encounter a specimen ourselves. If they are sentient, this is an infiltration campaign on a grand scale. If they are not, this is an infestation on an equally grand scale."
Malcador produced a dataslate of his own, handing it to the Primarch. Upon it was footage of Astartes, of the XXIII Legion, the "Chainbreakers", doing battle with previously-unseen creatures, timestamped as being rather recent, alongside an analysis putting the Shadow Legion's reports, other reports, and the footage shown, together into a single threat assessment.
"Your reports give credence to reports coming from elsewhere, and go some way to creating a unified understanding of the extent of the threat we may face."
Malcador let the Primarch watch the videos and digest the text, a process that took a short time, as all Primarchs digest information at superhuman speeds.
"Unfortunate that your Emperor and the bulk of his Legions are engaged elsewhere. These creatures look to be beyond the capabilities of the Imperial Army," said the Primarch as he watched the combat footage.
"Our Emperor is as yet unaware of these reports. The matter of the Twenty-Third's contact report will be discussed at the War Council on Terra. You shall attend to corroborate these reports with your own."
The Primarch moved around the table. The Custodes with Malcador made ready, imperceptibly to any mere man, but all too clearly to the Primarch and Malcador. The Primarch, however, strode past Malcador towards the doorway.
"I have other business on Terra. I have upheld my end of the bargain; I take my leave."
Malcador did not move to stop him. He had not expected him to agree to attend to begin with. The Emperor's instructions for the Eighteenth were clear: his loyalty was tenuous, and as long as his actions continued to be broadly useful to the Imperium he was to be tolerated, but occasional reminders of where power truly lay should be issued as opportunity presents. On this occasion, all had been achieved: authority had already been established by compelling him to Mars, usefulness through these reports, and the Eighteenth's own ego maintained by allowing him some measure of rebellion. Malcador would update the War Council himself.