Perturabo's return was enough to shock the Imperium, but the welcoming ceremony was pitifully sparse. Aside from Imperial administrative staff arriving on Olympia to notify him of procedural matters and the Mechanicum being en route, the Fourth Legion's fleet remained docked in the starport.
Perturabo did not choose to return to Terra, nor did the Emperor keep him by his side for tutelage. They had come quickly, and they prepared to leave just as fast. By the second day of their stay, the departure was imminent.
The sky above Olympia was never truly bright; it was perpetually shrouded by a dense web of satellites and several massive artificial rings. But Perturabo's eyes were not so easily blinded.
The Imperial fleet lay quietly in the starport. Standing on a high balcony outside his palace with his hands behind his back, Perturabo looked past the pinpricks of light toward the distance. His brothers and his sons were there.
What is Horus thinking aboard the Spirit of Eternity? Is the Lion still using those sharp eyes to scrutinize every defense on Olympia? Has Russ finished his flagon of ale and slumped into a Fenrisian deep sleep? Ferrus must still be in the forge, eyes gleaming at the plasma furnaces...
Perturabo imagined his brothers' activities. He turned and walked deep into the palace, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridors—precise, rhythmic, like a metronome. On either side, massive mathematical formulas and engineering blueprints shimmered with cold light under dim lamps. The murals and reliefs were silent. This was his language, his faith, his world.
He stopped as he passed his workshop. Everything inside remained as it was. On the workbench lay the selected material he had yet to process. The walls were lined with his works: bolters, power swords—weapons he would never admit were "artistic creations." In the innermost cabinet, his gaming pieces waited silently for their master.
Perturabo entered the collection room, his gaze sweeping over the familiar faces.
Horus stood atop the ruins of Cthonia, Warmaster's mace in hand, looking forward with conviction.
The Lion was in the forests of Caliban, sword and shield ready, the banner of the Dark Angels behind him.
Russ was mid-boast over ale, flanked by two giant wolves howling at the sky.
Ferrus Manus stood before a forge, metallic light flowing over his silver arms.
Fulgrim was at the Chemosian theater, adjusting his appearance in a mirror.
Vulkan held a young girl, his broad back turned toward enemy fire.
Dorn stood on a massive scaffold, clutching a roll of architectural blueprints.
Guilliman sat before a mountain of documents, his quill still moving across the parchment.
Sanguinius spread his wings, looking like an angel descending to earth.
Magnus held a great tome, the pyramids of Prospero behind him.
Perturabo's eyes drifted to his "Special Collection"—his little secret.
There was the Dorn on a Rickety Scaffold, the Guilliman Drowning in Paperwork, the Sanguinius Preening Narcissistically, the Lion "Hissing" at Guilliman... and the sinister "Dark King," that majestic and terrifying presence representing the unknown side of the Emperor.
Perturabo stared at the "Dark King" for a long time. Was tonight's outcome within your expectations as well? He didn't dwell on it. He locked the room and departed.
Olympian Standard Time 06:00:00.00.
Perturabo opened his eyes exactly on time. Neural cables automatically snaked to his head, locking into the interface with a seamless click. Status readouts flickered at the edge of his vision: Sleep time 4 hours 23 minutes... physiological indicators normal. No anomalies.
He sat up. An Iron Circle unit had already prepared his nutritional paste and daily briefing. He finished eating in 3 minutes and 47 seconds while scrolling through data summarized by the Logic Engines.
The Imperial fleet was still in port, but several ships were prepping for departure. The first to leave would be the Legions of Ferrus, Dorn, and Guilliman; they had Crusades to resume.
Ferrus had spent six straight hours in the forge. Logic Engines reported he had opened seventeen plasma furnaces, analyzed thirty-four alloy recipes, and engaged in forty-three technical exchanges with the facility's AI system.
Dorn's men were already waiting at the palace gates with a massive data slate containing the promised fortress designs. Dorn himself arrived shortly after. The Primarch of the Imperial Fists stood like a mobile fortress in unadorned brass power armor.
"You are punctual," Dorn said.
"As are you."
They looked at each other for a second, then looked away. It was the silent understanding of two men who would be irritated if someone were three seconds late.
Dorn handed over the data slate. Perturabo scrolled through the holographic schematics of the Phalanx. It was a tech-marvel from the Golden Age, a moon-sized starfort that humanity could no longer replicate.
After three minutes, Perturabo looked up. "The power core layout on the seventh level is flawed. Your reactor cooling pipes are only forty-seven meters from the main control room. In the event of a leak, the bridge will be disabled in three seconds."
Dorn's brow furrowed. "That is the safety margin. Imperial standards dictate no less than thirty meters."
"Imperial standards are minimum standards," Perturabo retorted. "They are not optimal. My standard is at least eighty meters, with three independent isolation layers and two backup cooling systems."
Dorn was silent for a moment. "I will consider it."
Perturabo then handed Dorn a data slate of his own—the full technical specifications for the geothermal systems and some weapon system calibrations he'd prepared.
"Our trade did not include this," Dorn noted.
"Consider it a gift between brothers."
Dorn looked at Perturabo, his stoic face betraying nothing. "Thank you." He turned to leave, but stopped after a few steps. "What you said last night... I don't believe it is entirely correct. Bureaucracy can be optimized and improved. We don't need to discard it; we need to make it better." He paused. "You've chosen another path. I won't judge it as right or wrong, but the gates of the Imperial Fists are open to you if you need help."
Dorn left and did not look back.
Next came the Gorgon of Medusa. Ferrus looked more animated than he had the previous night—a rare sight.
"Your forge," Ferrus said without preamble. "Who gave you the designs for those plasma furnaces?"
"I did."
"Impossible. The complexity would take the Emperor or the top Archmagi of the Mechanicum a decade to finalize."
"It took me three years. From scratch. Three years."
Ferrus froze. He stared at Perturabo with shock, then doubt, then finally, recognition. "You are better than I," Ferrus stated flatly, as if reporting a mundane fact. "At least in forging, I am not your equal."
"I appreciate the compliment."
"I like you. You aren't a hypocrite." Ferrus unbuckled a four-sided warhammer from his belt. Its head was forged from auric Adamant, the handle inlaid with Medusan runes. "I forged this myself. I meant to give it to Fulgrim, but he complained it was too heavy. It suits you perfectly."
Perturabo took the hammer. The weight distribution was perfect; the center of gravity was precise. He flicked the head, listening to the high-purity ring of the metal. "Fine craft."
"Thank you," Perturabo said. He genuinely liked the weapon, even if he possessed a hundred others like it. In return, he gave Ferrus a data module containing all his alloy research and forging techniques.
"I owe you one, brother," Ferrus said, his metallic hands gripping the small device with immense weight. "Perhaps you can handle more weapon production later; it would take the pressure off me." He nodded and departed.
Guilliman's fleet was already moving. A blue-armored officer of the 13th Legion arrived to deliver a beautiful scroll.
"Father—I mean, the Primarch—asked me to deliver this to you," the officer said respectfully. "A formal invitation to Macragge. The gates of Ultramar are always open to you."
Perturabo unrolled the scroll. The calligraphy was elegant and the wording careful, managing to be welcoming without being overbearing or arrogant. It was signed by Guilliman with a miniature laurel wreath seal.
"Tell my brother I will visit," Perturabo told the Astartes. "And tell him the gates of Olympia are likewise open to him."
He watched the blue ion trails of the 13th Legion vanish into the Mandeville point. Guilliman was a clever man. He knew how to express kindness without offense, and how to turn an invitation into a political gesture. A man of deep thoughts and many worries. Dangerous, Perturabo thought. But not someone I dislike.
Calliphone had finally woken up. Perturabo visited her, compressing his form to a human height of two meters to avoid making her uncomfortable.
"Did they leave so soon?" she asked.
"They have heavy burdens," Perturabo said. "But the Imperium has left staff here. Soon, trade and population flow will increase."
"That man in gold... your father," Calliphone whispered. "He seems... terrifying."
Perturabo was surprised. Most humans found the Emperor awe-inspiring or divine, not terrifying. He sat beside her. "Don't worry. He won't do anything to me."
"Why?"
"Because he needs me," Perturabo said. Calliphone looked confused, but she didn't press. She simply squeezed his hand.
That night, the Emperor appeared in the palace reception hall alone. No Malcador, no Custodes. He wore a simple white robe and a golden laurel crown, standing before Perturabo's engineering blueprints.
"Is this your fortress?" the Emperor asked as Perturabo entered.
"Yes. I'm constantly upgrading it. It took three years to perfect every flaw I could perceive. I don't want any deficiencies. If I do a thing, I do it to the best of my ability."
"You are stubborn," the Emperor said, turning to him. His golden eyes were no longer piercing but deep and weary. "I came to say goodbye. The fleet leaves tomorrow. But before I go, I wanted to speak to you alone."
He paused. "What you said last night was right. The bureaucracy is flawed. The Imperium has many problems that may never be solved. This Imperium is not perfect; I have limits, even with Malcador's help."
"But it is humanity's only hope. Against Chaos and the Xenos, we must be united. Unity requires order; order requires power; power requires sacrifice."
Perturabo frowned. "Are you trying to convince me?"
"No. I am explaining my reasons. Do you all hate me for treating you as tools?" The Emperor knew his sons had begun to realize the truth, but Perturabo saw it most clearly.
"I simply couldn't care less about you," Perturabo said bluntly.
The Emperor blinked.
"You created me, gave me life, and gave me knowledge. But that isn't enough for me to die for you. I don't live to complete your plan or be a screw in your 'Great Work.' I have my own ideals. I will fight for humanity because it is my choice, not your command. When a true threat comes, I will stand. But until then, I will live my own way."
The Emperor was silent. Then, he smiled. It was a look of genuine appreciation.
"You are the first among them brave enough to say that to my face. Horus seeks my favor, the Lion fears me, Dorn obeys, Guilliman tries to understand, and Sanguinius admires me. None of them have the courage to stand before me and say, 'I couldn't care less about you'."
He stepped forward and patted Perturabo's shoulder lightly. "I am proud of you, my son. Not for your strength or your inventions, but because you chose your own path and have the courage to stick to it. That is what a Primarch should be."
"Remember your promise. If the day comes, I hope you stand."
The Emperor's figure faded. Shortly after, the Spirit of Eternity began its slow crawl out of the starport. The massive fleet followed, their lights illuminating the planets of the Olympian system.
Perturabo watched the lights grow smaller and smaller until they finally winked out at the Mandeville point. He stood outside his palace on his world, with his family. He had a great deal of work to do—starting with the Mechanicum.
The rings of Olympia shimmered, like countless eyes watching over a solitary, powerful soul.