The Emperor of Mankind had not spoken directly to a mortal in ten thousand years.
This was not by choice. Well, it was partially by choice—most mortals were annoying and He had better things to do, like keeping the Astronomican lit and preventing the Webway from collapsing and generally holding the entire Imperium together through sheer psychic willpower.
But mostly, it was because direct communication required an enormous expenditure of energy. Energy that He didn't have to spare. Energy that was being used for slightly more important things, like keeping humanity from being devoured by the hungry dark.
Tonight, however, the Emperor made an exception.
Bartholomew was dreaming.
He knew he was dreaming because he was back in his mother's basement, surrounded by his unpainted miniatures and half-finished armies, with Chairman Meow purring on his lap and the familiar smell of plastic glue and acrylic paint in the air.
It was peaceful. Familiar. Safe.
"You miss this," a voice said.
Bartholomew looked up.
There was a man sitting across from him. A very tall man. A very golden man. His features were indistinct, shifting, as if his face couldn't quite decide what it wanted to look like. But his eyes—his eyes were clear. Ancient and terrible and filled with a light that seemed to come from somewhere beyond the physical.
"Who are you?" Bartholomew asked, though some part of him already knew.
"I think you know."
"You're... you're the Emperor."
"I am."
Bartholomew stared.
"You're supposed to be a corpse on a throne."
"Yes. This is a dream. In dreams, I can be somewhat more... presentable."
"Why are you in my dream?"
"Because you are the most confusing thing to happen to my Imperium in ten thousand years, and I wanted to understand you personally."
Bartholomew looked down at Chairman Meow, who was still purring contentedly.
"Is my cat part of the dream, or did you bring him?"
"He's a construct of your memories. But I admit, I find him charming. I always appreciated felines. They have a certain... independence."
"He was a jerk in real life. He knocked my Sanguinius figurine off the shelf like six times."
"Cats often are jerks. It's part of their appeal."
The Emperor settled back in his chair—a chair that Bartholomew was pretty sure hadn't existed a moment ago—and studied him with those ancient, terrible eyes.
"You know things you shouldn't know," the Emperor said. "You can do things you shouldn't be able to do. You have attracted the attention of entities that should not be capable of the emotions they are displaying toward you. And through it all, you remain utterly, magnificently confused."
"That's a pretty accurate summary, yeah."
"How?"
"I don't know."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have! I died in my world—fell on a hobby knife, very embarrassing—and woke up here. Since then, everything has been insane. I don't control any of it. I don't understand any of it. I just sort of... exist, and impossible things happen around me."
The Emperor was quiet for a long moment.
"You are not lying," He said finally. "I would know if you were lying. You genuinely have no idea what you are."
"Correct."
"That is... frustrating."
"Tell me about it."
"I have spent the last several weeks analyzing you. Every piece of data. Every report. Every scrap of information my servants have collected. And I have come to a conclusion."
"What conclusion?"
"You are impossible."
"That's not very helpful."
"I am aware. But it is accurate. You should not exist. The things you do should not be possible. The way you interact with reality should not work. And yet, here you are. Existing. Doing impossible things. Interacting with reality in ways that make no sense."
The Emperor leaned forward.
"You are, as far as I can determine, a bug in the universe's code. A glitch in the fabric of reality. Something that was never supposed to happen, and yet happened anyway."
"That's... that's a lot to process."
"I imagine so."
"So what happens now? Are you going to... fix me? Delete me? Whatever you do with bugs?"
The Emperor was quiet again.
"No," He said finally. "I am not."
"Why not?"
"Because you are useful. You have done more to destabilize the forces of Chaos in a few months than my Inquisition has done in centuries. You have united factions that should be at each other's throats. You have inspired faith in my servants that no amount of propaganda could achieve. And you have done all of this without trying."
"So I'm... useful?"
"Extremely. And more than that..." The Emperor paused, seeming almost reluctant. "You are interesting. I have been sitting on this throne for ten thousand years. I have seen empires rise and fall. I have witnessed the birth and death of stars. I have experienced things that would shatter lesser minds. And in all that time, I have never encountered anything quite like you."
"Is that good or bad?"
"I genuinely don't know. And that, in itself, is remarkable."
Chairman Meow chose that moment to jump off Bartholomew's lap and walk over to the Emperor, rubbing against His golden leg.
The Emperor looked down at the cat.
The cat looked up at the Emperor.
"Your cat likes me," the Emperor observed.
"He liked everyone who fed him. He was a mercenary like that."
"A pragmatic creature."
"He was a jerk."
"Those are not mutually exclusive."
The Emperor reached down and scratched Chairman Meow behind the ears. The cat purred louder.
"I am going to give you something," the Emperor said, not looking up from the cat. "A gift. A blessing, if you will."
"What kind of gift?"
"The ability to understand what you are doing. Not completely—I doubt anyone could give you that—but enough to have some control. Some direction. You have been stumbling through my Imperium like a blind man in a maze. I am going to give you a candle."
"That's... metaphorical, right?"
"Mostly."
The Emperor stood, and suddenly He was enormous—not just tall but vast, a presence that filled the entire dreamscape like a sun filling the sky.
"You will wake soon," He said. "When you do, you will find that things are... different. Your armor will have changed. Your abilities will have grown. Your understanding will have deepened."
"Why are you helping me?"
"Because you are useful. Because you are interesting. And because..." The Emperor paused. "Because I have not had hope in a very long time. And when I look at you—this absurd, impossible, utterly confused mortal who has somehow made the Chaos Gods argue like children—I feel something that might be hope. I am not certain. It has been a long time since I felt anything at all."
"That's really sad."
"It is. But it is also true. Go now, Bartholomew Thaddeus Jenkins III. Go and continue to confuse my enemies. Continue to inspire my servants. Continue to be impossible."
"I don't really have a choice, do I?"
"No. But you never did. That is what makes you special."
The dream began to fade.
"Wait!" Bartholomew called. "One more question!"
"Yes?"
"In the lore—in the books and games from my world—you made a lot of mistakes. The Primarchs, the Heresy, the way you treated your sons. Do you... do you regret any of it?"
The Emperor was silent for a long moment.
"Every day," He said quietly. "Every single day."
And then the dream was gone.
Bartholomew woke up.
He was in his quarters on the Space Wolves' ship—they had insisted on giving him proper accommodations after the great hall incident—and the first thing he noticed was that something was different.
The second thing he noticed was that his armor was glowing.
Not metaphorically glowing. Actually, literally glowing. The blue ceramite of the Ultramarine armor he had claimed was now shot through with veins of golden light, pulsing gently like a heartbeat. The aquila on the chest seemed more pronounced, more detailed. The entire suit radiated a warmth that was almost comforting.
"What the hell," Bartholomew said.
He got out of bed and walked to the armor stand where he had left the suit.
It had changed.
The damaged sections had been repaired—not by any visible means, but simply fixed, as if the damage had never existed. New components had appeared—a power pack that hummed with barely-contained energy, pauldrons inscribed with runes that seemed to shift when he looked at them directly, gauntlets that crackled with what might have been lightning.
And on the right shoulder, where the Ultramarines insignia had been, there was now something else.
A symbol he didn't recognize.
A symbol that seemed to contain elements of every faction he had encountered—the Aquila of the Imperium, the gear of the Mechanicus, the wolf of Fenris, even hints of other designs he couldn't quite identify.
"PRINCEPS," Deus Invictus's voice boomed through the ship's hull—he was still outside, still refusing to leave—"I AM DETECTING SIGNIFICANT ENERGY SIGNATURES FROM YOUR LOCATION. ARE YOU UNDER ATTACK?"
"No, Deus. My armor just... upgraded itself."
"THAT IS NOT POSSIBLE."
"I know."
"AND YET IT HAS HAPPENED."
"Also yes."
"I AM RECALIBRATING MY DEFINITION OF POSSIBLE. PLEASE STAND BY."
Word of the armor's transformation spread quickly.
Within an hour, Bartholomew had a crowd of Space Wolves, Mechanicus tech-priests, and assorted Imperial officials all staring at him with expressions ranging from awe to confusion to existential horror.
"The armor has been sanctified," one of the tech-priests whispered, his mechadendrites trembling. "Blessed by the Omnissiah Himself. The energy signatures are consistent with divine intervention."
"Or the Emperor's intervention," a Space Wolf countered. "This is the work of the All-Father."
"The Omnissiah and the Emperor are aspects of the same divinity. This is settled theology."
"No it isn't. That's Mechanicus propaganda."
"How dare you—"
"GENTLEMEN," Inquisitor Vorn interrupted, having appeared at some point during the commotion. "Perhaps we could focus on the more immediate question of what happened rather than whose god did it?"
Everyone turned to Bartholomew.
"The Emperor visited me in a dream," he said. "He said he was giving me a gift. The ability to understand what I'm doing, or something like that. And then I woke up and my armor was glowing."
Silence.
"The Emperor spoke to you," Vorn said slowly. "Directly."
"In a dream. But yeah."
"The Emperor has not spoken directly to anyone in ten thousand years."
"He mentioned that."
"And He... blessed your armor?"
"I think so? He was kind of vague about the specifics."
More silence.
"I need to sit down," one of the tech-priests said, and then did so, right on the floor.
The armor, as it turned out, was remarkable.
Not just blessed. Not just repaired. Upgraded.
The Mechanicus tech-priests spent three days analyzing it, running every test they could think of, consulting ancient data-files and communing with machine-spirits.
Their conclusions were staggering.
"The power output has increased by approximately three hundred percent," the lead Magos reported, his voice trembling with something between excitement and religious ecstasy. "The defensive capabilities are equivalent to Terminator-class armor, possibly exceeding it. The integrated systems include technologies that we do not recognize—technologies that may be of Dark Age origin, or possibly something even older."
"What does that mean in practical terms?" Bartholomew asked.
"It means you are wearing what may be the most advanced suit of power armor in existence. It means you could walk through a plasma barrage and emerge unscathed. It means you are, effectively, a one-man army."
"I don't want to be a one-man army."
"Want is irrelevant at this point. You are a one-man army. The universe has decided."
The universe, apparently, had decided several other things as well.
Because three days after the armor's transformation, three separate fleets arrived in the system simultaneously.
The first was an Ultramarines strike force, led by none other than Sergeant Titus Maximillan, who had apparently been promoted in the weeks since their last encounter.
The second was an Adeptus Custodes delegation, led by Shield-Captain Valdor Tiberius, who still had a hand-shaped dent in his armor.
The third was a Space Wolves great company, led by Wolf Lord Ragnar Blackmane, who had apparently decided that Bartholomew was too interesting to leave unsupervised.
They all arrived at the same time.
They all wanted to talk to Bartholomew.
And they all had very strong opinions about what should happen next.
"He should come with us to Macragge," Captain Maximillan said firmly. "He wears Ultramarine armor—modified, yes, but still Ultramarine. He should be trained in our ways. Guided by our Chapter's wisdom."
"He defeated a Custodian in combat," Shield-Captain Valdor countered. "He is clearly meant for greater things than being a Space Marine's student. He should come to Terra. Learn from the Ten Thousand. Perhaps even stand before the Emperor Himself."
"He's already spoken to the Emperor," Ragnar pointed out. "In a dream. Which is more than any of you have done. He should stay with the Wolves. We understand him. We appreciate his chaos."
"His chaos is exactly the problem!" Maximillan snapped. "He needs structure! Discipline! The Codex Astartes—"
"The Codex Astartes doesn't have a section on 'how to handle reality-bending mortals who are loved by daemons,'" Valdor interrupted.
"It should!"
"It doesn't!"
"Then we write one!"
"You can't just write new sections of the Codex!"
"Guilliman did!"
"Guilliman wrote the Codex! That's different!"
Bartholomew sat in the corner of the meeting room, watching the galaxy's most dangerous warriors argue about him like he was a particularly troublesome pet that no one could agree how to train.
This is surreal, he thought.
It is, the Warp-voice agreed. But also entertaining.
You find everything entertaining.
That is because everything you do IS entertaining. You have a gift for creating chaos. Not destructive chaos. Just... unpredictable chaos. The kind that makes ancient warriors argue like children.
I don't want to make ancient warriors argue like children.
And yet, here they are. Arguing. Like children.
The argument had evolved—or devolved—into a three-way shouting match about whose faction had the greatest claim to Bartholomew's loyalty.
"The Mechanicus has declared him the Omnissiah's Chosen!" someone from the Mechanicus delegation interjected. "He should be with us!"
"The Omnissiah and the Emperor are the same being! Therefore, the Emperor's institutions take precedence!"
"That interpretation is contested!"
"BY WHO?"
"By the Mechanicus!"
"THE MECHANICUS ISN'T THE ARBITRATOR OF IMPERIAL THEOLOGY!"
"NEITHER ARE THE ULTRAMARINES!"
"THE ULTRAMARINES ARE THE EXEMPLARS OF IMPERIAL VIRTUE!"
"ACCORDING TO WHOM?"
"THE CODEX ASTARTES!"
"WHICH WAS WRITTEN BY THE ULTRAMARINES!"
"THAT'S NOT—THAT'S COMPLETELY—STOP TWISTING LOGIC!"
It was, Bartholomew reflected, exactly like watching people argue about lore on the internet.
Except these people could kill each other with their bare hands.
And probably would, if someone didn't intervene.
"EXCUSE ME," he said.
No one heard him.
"EXCUSE ME," he said louder.
Still nothing.
He stood up, walked to the center of the room, and activated his armor's external speakers at maximum volume.
"EVERYBODY SHUT UP."
The room went silent.
Every eye turned to him.
"Thank you," Bartholomew said, deactivating the speakers. "Now, I have a question. Has anyone actually asked me what I want?"
Silence.
"I didn't think so." He looked around the room. "For the record, I don't want to go to Macragge, or Terra, or stay with the Wolves exclusively. I don't want to be claimed by anyone. I don't want to be the center of a political tug-of-war between factions that should be working together."
"Then what do you want?" Valdor asked.
Bartholomew thought about it.
"I want to help," he said finally. "The Imperium is falling apart. The enemies of humanity are everywhere. And somehow, I've been given abilities that let me make a difference. So I want to use those abilities. I want to help. But I want to do it on my own terms, working with everyone, not being owned by anyone."
More silence.
"You want to be independent," Maximillan said slowly. "Operating outside the normal command structure."
"Yes."
"That's... extremely irregular."
"Everything about me is extremely irregular. We've established this. Multiple times."
The debate continued for several more hours, but the tone had shifted.
Instead of arguing about who would claim Bartholomew, they started arguing about how to support him.
"He needs a regiment," Vorn said. "Mortal soldiers to provide support. He can't do everything alone."
"He also needs Space Marine advisors," Maximillan added. "We will provide a squad from the Ultramarines. Our best warriors."
"The Wolves will send a pack as well," Ragnar declared. "He needs brothers who understand chaos."
"The Custodes will assign observers," Valdor said. "Not to command, but to protect. And to report directly to the Emperor."
"The Mechanicus will provide technical support," a tech-priest chimed in. "Weapons, vehicles, repair services. Whatever the Chosen One requires."
"I'm not the Chosen One—"
"You are whatever everyone decides you are at this point," Vorn interrupted. "Just accept it."
Bartholomew sighed.
"Fine. I accept it. Whatever 'it' is."
By the end of the day, Bartholomew had been given:
One Imperial Guard regiment—the newly-formed 1st Jenkinsian Volunteers, consisting of soldiers who had specifically requested assignment to the "Emperor's Champion" (there were a lot of them; they had to turn people away).
One squad of Ultramarines—ten of the Chapter's finest, led by a veteran Sergeant named Marcus Aurelius (Bartholomew had to physically restrain himself from laughing at the name).
One pack of Space Wolves—eight Blood Claws and two Long Fangs, all of whom seemed personally excited to serve under "the most Fenrisian non-Fenrisian in history."
One Custodian "observer"—Shield-Captain Valdor himself, who had apparently decided that the only way to understand Bartholomew was to accompany him personally.
One Inquisitorial retinue—Vorn and her staff, who were officially present to "monitor for heresy" but were actually there because Vorn had become genuinely invested in whatever was happening.
One Titan—Deus Invictus, who refused to be separated from his Princeps under any circumstances and had started developing what the tech-priests nervously called "possessive behaviors."
One Mechanicus support contingent—tech-priests, servitors, and enough equipment to maintain all of the above.
And one very confused former miniature painter, who still wasn't entirely sure how any of this had happened.
"This is insane," Bartholomew said, looking at the deployment orders. "I'm one person. I don't need an army."
"THE ARMY NEEDS YOU," Deus Invictus declared from outside. "AND I NEED THE ARMY TO HELP PROTECT YOU WHEN I CANNOT BE PRESENT."
"When are you not going to be present? You follow me everywhere!"
"THERE MAY COME A SITUATION WHERE I CANNOT FOLLOW. IN SUCH A SITUATION, THE ARMY WILL PROVIDE PROTECTION. THIS IS BASIC STRATEGIC PLANNING."
"This is paranoia!"
"PARANOIA IS STRATEGIC PLANNING WITH BETTER MARKETING."
That night, as Bartholomew lay in his quarters trying to process everything that had happened, the Warp-voice spoke.
You have been given a great gift.
"I've been given an army I didn't ask for."
An army is a resource. Resources can be used to do good.
"Or they can be used to do terrible things. That's kind of the problem with armies."
But YOU are the one commanding this army. You are not cruel. You are not tyrannical. You are not even particularly ambitious. You are just... confused.
"That's reassuring."
It should be. Confused leaders are less likely to commit atrocities. They are too busy trying to figure out what is happening to plan systematic evil.
"That's a very low bar for moral leadership."
Most moral bars in this universe are very low. You clear them easily.
Bartholomew laughed despite himself.
"Thanks, I think."
You are welcome.
Elsewhere on the ship, a very unusual meeting was taking place.
In a secure conference room, Shield-Captain Valdor, Wolf Lord Ragnar, Captain Maximillan, Inquisitor Vorn, and a senior Magos of the Mechanicus sat around a table, staring at each other.
They represented five of the most powerful factions in the Imperium.
Under normal circumstances, getting them in the same room would be nearly impossible—political rivalries, theological disputes, and general mutual suspicion would keep them apart.
But these were not normal circumstances.
Bartholomew had, without trying, brought them together.
"We need to discuss what is happening," Valdor said finally.
"Agreed," the others chorused.
"The mortal—Jenkins—is clearly important. More important than any of us initially understood. The Emperor Himself has blessed him. The Omnissiah has claimed him. The Chaos Gods—impossibly—seem to like him. And he has no idea why any of this is happening."
"That is accurate," Maximillan said. "He is as confused as we are."
"More confused," Ragnar added. "He told me he still thinks he might be dreaming."
"He's been here for months," Vorn said. "How can he still think he's dreaming?"
"He said that accepting reality would require accepting that he's been blessed by multiple gods, befriended by daemons, and given command of an army. He finds denial more comfortable."
"That's... surprisingly reasonable, actually."
Valdor leaned forward.
"The question is: what do we do about him?"
"Do?" the Magos asked. "We support him. The Omnissiah has commanded it."
"Support him how? We don't know what he's going to do. We don't know what he's capable of. We don't even know what he is."
"Does it matter?" Ragnar asked.
Everyone looked at him.
"Does it matter what he is?" the Wolf Lord repeated. "He fights well. He inspires loyalty. He confuses the enemy. He makes daemons run away and Chaos Gods argue like children. Isn't that enough?"
"The Codex Astartes—" Maximillan started.
"Forget the Codex! The Codex doesn't have answers for this! Nothing has answers for this! He is something new, and new things cannot be understood by consulting old books!"
There was a long silence.
"He's right," Vorn said finally. "I've been trying to categorize Jenkins since I met him. He's not a psyker. He's not a saint. He's not a daemon. He's not anything in our files. He's just... Jenkins. And maybe that has to be enough."
"The Master of Mankind has blessed him," Valdor said slowly. "That, alone, should be sufficient. If the Emperor believes in him, then we should believe in him."
"We don't know what the Emperor believes," Maximillan pointed out. "We only know He gave him a gift."
"The Emperor does not give gifts lightly. He does not do anything lightly. If He has invested in this mortal, there is a reason."
"A reason He didn't explain."
"The Emperor rarely explains His reasons. We must have faith."
Another long silence.
"So," Ragnar said finally, "we are agreed? We support him? We follow him? We trust that whatever is happening is happening for a purpose?"
One by one, the others nodded.
"Then let us hope," Valdor said, "that we are not making a terrible mistake."
"And if we are?" the Magos asked.
Valdor's expression was unreadable.
"Then we are making a terrible mistake alongside the Emperor Himself. There are worse fates."
In the Warp, the Chaos Gods were still arguing.
"He has the Emperor's blessing now!" Slaanesh wailed. "That's not fair! We blessed him first!"
"THE CORPSE-EMPEROR'S BLESSING CHANGES NOTHING," Khorne growled. "THE MORTAL IS STILL MARKED BY US. STILL PROTECTED BY US."
"But now he's also protected by Him. It complicates things."
"Nothing is complicated," Nurgle said calmly. "The mortal is blessed by all. By us. By the Anathema. By the Machine God. By the Warp-sentience. He is, perhaps, the most blessed being in the history of the galaxy."
"Is that... good?" Slaanesh asked.
"It is interesting. And interesting is what we wanted."
"BUT HE MIGHT CHOOSE THE ANATHEMA'S SIDE!" Khorne roared.
"He might. Or he might choose our side. Or he might choose no side and continue to confuse everyone equally. Any outcome is entertaining."
"You're very calm about this."
"I am the god of entropy and acceptance. Calmness is my nature."
"Your nature is also disease and despair."
"Those are also calm, in their own way."
Tzeentch, who had been silent throughout the argument, finally spoke.
"The mortal is a nexus. A point of convergence. All paths lead through him now. All possible futures involve him in some way. He has become... central. To everything."
"IS THAT A PREDICTION?" Khorne demanded.
"It is an observation. I cannot predict him. His future is too chaotic, too variable. But I can see that he matters. More than any mortal has ever mattered. Perhaps more than any being has ever mattered."
"That's terrifying," Slaanesh said.
"IT IS EXCITING," Khorne countered.
"It is both," Nurgle said. "As most important things are."
"We should continue to support him," Tzeentch said. "Continue to bless him. Continue to protect him. Whatever he becomes, we want to be part of it."
"AGREED."
"Agreed."
"Agreed."
And so, impossibly, the Chaos Gods reached another consensus.
They would support Bartholomew Thaddeus Jenkins III.
They would watch over him.
They would compete for his attention and affection like the cosmic children they had apparently become.
And they would wait to see what happened next.
Because whatever happened next was going to be spectacular.
Back on the ship, Bartholomew finally fell asleep.
His dreams were strange—filled with golden light and laughing darkness and the distant sound of four voices arguing about who he liked best—but they were not unpleasant.
He was, against all odds, becoming comfortable with the absurdity of his existence.
He had an army now. He had allies from every major faction of the Imperium. He had the blessings of gods and the protection of cosmic entities.
And he still had no idea what he was doing.
But maybe, just maybe, that was okay.
Maybe not knowing was part of the journey.
Maybe confusion was its own kind of strength.
Or maybe he was just very, very tired and willing to accept anything at this point.
Either way, tomorrow would be another day.
Another day of impossible things.
Another day of being Bartholomew Thaddeus Jenkins III.
He could live with that.
Probably.
Sleep well, the Warp-voice whispered.
We are watching.
We are always watching.
And we are so very proud of you.
[END OF CHAPTER SEVEN]