Imperial law had granted Francis Harlock freedom. Imperial politics sought to strangle it.
No sooner had the Arcadia returned from Port Helios than the emissaries followed. Their robes and banners changed, but their voices spoke the same language: power.
The Ecclesiarchy sent preachers to the Arcadia's docks, their hymns echoing through the steel corridors. They praised Harlock's victories as divine providence, yet every word dripped with warning. "All victories," they reminded, "belong to Him on Terra." A few suggested the Arcadia be consecrated as a shrine-ship. Harlock only inclined his head, hiding his contempt behind courtesy.
The Mechanicus came cloaked in red, machine-lenses clicking. They demanded rites be performed on the Arcadia's engines, their cogitators groaning for schematics Harlock would never surrender. Their prayers called the ship's machine-spirit a heretek ghost. Harlock refused them with silence, and the Arcadia thrummed beneath his boots as if in quiet defiance.
But it was the whispers of the Inquisition that cut deepest. He heard of a conclave where his name was spoken as both hero and heretic, savior and danger. Some demanded he be tested. Others suggested he be studied. One voice — never named — argued he should be erased.
Harlock slept little in those weeks.
It was then he met Lord Admiral Cael Rynmar, a man of Terra's Navy whose eyes gleamed with the sharpness of a falcon. Rynmar was no friend of the dead Rogue Trader whose dynasty Harlock had shattered. In fact, he despised the man and the rot of his line. It was Rynmar's signature, whispered through channels, that had helped secure Harlock's Writ.
They met aboard a Navy bastion-ship, flanked by banners of gold and blue. Rynmar raised a glass in toast, his smile thin.
"You've made enemies," the Admiral said. "Good ones. The kind that prove you're worth watching."
Harlock only sipped his drink. "And what do you want of me, Lord Admiral?"
Rynmar leaned close, his voice a whisper. "Survive. Embarrass them. The more they hate you, the more useful you are to me."
There it was: truth without ceremony. Rynmar was not a friend. He was an ally of convenience.
But in the Imperium, that was enough.
When Harlock returned to the Arcadia, he walked the training halls again. His people drilled with steel and las, their discipline sharper than ever. The children of Arcadia, and the outsiders who had chosen their banner, were beginning to resemble soldiers.
Still, he knew. The knives in the halls of power were sharper than any blade in the void.
And one day, they would come for him openly.