Chapter 67: Arrival at Parmenio
The room was dim. Nothing but the faint glow of cogitator array screens.
That light outlined two figures standing in the shadow, heads lowered over a data stream freshly pulled from the system's orbital defense nodes.
"The summary of the new arrivals is compiled." The shadow on the left spoke quietly. "There is a Colonel-Commissar. His promotion order was personally signed by the Lord Militant immediately prior. The stated reason is outstanding merit. The actual reason is unknown. Additionally, his unit's supply priority has been marked at the highest level."
The shadow on the right was silent for a moment. Fingers tapped lightly on the metal edge of the console.
"A Colonel-Commissar. The Lord Militant's direct endorsement. And a heavy armored regiment." A pause. "A degree of threat. This unit is an uncontrollable variable and needs to be dealt with before anything else. The other heavy armored regiments should be handled the same way."
"Let them land on the surface," the shadow on the left suggested.
"Justification?"
"The same as the others. Have them come down to verify identification and collect the new batch of armored vehicles. The Mechanicus' formalities are the best cover. No one questions the Machine Spirit consecration rites."
"And the fleets?" the shadow on the right pressed. "If they demand collective landing, we may expose ourselves ahead of schedule."
"Tell them the ground camp is approaching saturation and cannot accommodate all personnel. We only need to delay their departure. The Ascension Festival. It is nearly time."
"Go and execute."
---
By natural time reckoning, less than seven standard Terra Days of Warp transit brought Duvette's fleet clear of the Sea of Souls and into the Parmenio system without incident.
Through the viewport, Parmenio's outline materialized slowly out of the void. This world — which would one day become the site of Guilliman's return and his confrontation with his brothers — was quiet now, indistinguishable from any other agricultural world in the Realm of Ultramar.
The Ultramarines 2nd Company's vessels were not with them.
Before the fleet had finished its pre-jump preparations, those warships had already peeled away from the formation and driven at maximum speed into the deep void.
Duvette stood at an observation window on the lower deck, looking at the expanse of space outside. He had already formed his conjecture.
Working from memory and calculating the timeline: at this point, the Ultramarines should have already completed their first direct engagement with the Tyranid swarm. At Prandium. The Imperial fleet had suffered an unprecedented ambush there and been devastated. Chapter Master Marneus Calgar had ultimately issued the order to abandon that world — a cruel necessity, and a sign of how badly the engagement had gone.
That was why Titus and his company had left in such a hurry. The fall of Prandium meant the Tyranid advance was already closing on the heart of Ultramar. Every battle-brother the Ultramarines could reach needed to be at Macragge.
The plan from this point was straightforward enough.
The fleet would hold in high orbit above Parmenio. Supply vessels from the surface would transfer materiel up through the orbital elevator or large shuttlecraft directly to the Siren's Fury. When personnel and equipment were both fully resupplied, the fleet would immediately depart for Macragge.
Down on the lower deck, the air was full of the muffled sounds of exertion and boots hitting the deck plating.
Duvette stood on the improvised platform his soldiers had built from metal cargo containers and watched the 112th Regiment at their daily training. Under the effect of Veteran's Frame, the physical output of these veterans had reached a level that was honestly alarming to observe.
To put that energy somewhere productive, he had developed an extremely demanding conditioning and tactical coordination schedule.
The Eisenmark armoured troopers were working through combined arms drills with the 101st infantry — practicing close-quarters coordination in confined spaces. Without actual tanks available, they had constructed metal frame silhouettes to simulate vehicle profiles and were moving through the tactical sequences over and over again.
While Duvette was evaluating the training, the lift doors slid open.
A fleet command adjutant in a pressed uniform entered the lower deck, flanked by two armed naval provosts. His gait was stiff. The lower deck's characteristic blend of engine oil, sweat, and recycled air prompted a brief wince, and his gaze swept the training floor until it found Duvette on the platform.
Duvette jumped down as the adjutant came toward him. He had assumed this was trouble of one kind or another.
The adjutant reached him, gave a stiff salute, and produced a parchment writ sealed in wax, presenting it with both hands. He spoke quickly, in the manner of someone who had no intention of spending more time on the lower deck than the minimum his orders required.
"Colonel-Commissar Duvette. Given that your unit was involved in intensive close-quarters combat with Orks during the Saint Calais campaign, a potential biological contamination risk is assessed as present; and given that the 42nd Armoured Distribution Center on Parmenio's surface is currently at severe overcapacity, creating a bottleneck in materiel distribution..."
He paused and resumed reading from the parchment.
"The new batch of Leman Russ tanks is currently stored in the Sacred Machine Spirit Stasis Chambers under Mechanicus blessing. To prevent unauthorized personnel from profaning the Machine Spirits, with the approval of Parmenio's Departmento Munitorum Chief Administrator and Lord Militant Frederick: only yourself, a small personal guard detail, and the designated crew personnel responsible for receiving the tanks are authorized to land on the surface. All remaining forces are to remain in orbit on standby."
Duvette said nothing. He reached out and took the writ, his brow drawing together.
"Colonel-Commissar, a transport shuttle has been prepared and is ready in Hangar Three," the adjutant added, completing his brief. "You may depart at your convenience. Good luck."
Another salute, a sharp turn, and the adjutant left with the provosts at pace.
Duvette stood where he was. His eyes settled on the red wax seal. The Lord Militant's signature was genuine. The Departmento Munitorum's mark showed no sign of forgery. In terms of procedure, every element appeared legal and compliant.
Something was still wrong.
He ran through the logic of the order.
Was this level of complexity actually necessary? For Astra Militarum units receiving new equipment, this process was not standard. Under normal circumstances, barges would deliver tanks directly to the Siren's Fury's lower hull. Done.
Why did a Colonel-Commissar need to lead a party to the surface personally to sign for them?
And the justification: Parmenio's docking area severely overcapacity.
If this were some ordinary world in an outer sector — a world struggling under the sudden weight of wartime mobilization, its logistics overwhelmed by volume — Duvette might have accepted the explanation without question. Imperial bureaucracy was exactly this kind of institution in normal operations.
But this was Parmenio. This was Ultramar. Roboute Guilliman's own domain.
The most enduring legacy the Primarch had left the Realm of Ultramar was this: an administrative and logistics system of clockwork precision. Ultramar was renowned for exactly this — its efficiency, its organizational depth, its capacity to handle what would cripple any other sector.
Ultramar did not experience elementary failures of the "docking area overcapacity prevents tank delivery" variety.
Duvette narrowed his eyes and read through the parchment again slowly, every word. His fingers moved along the paper's edge.
Something on the surface had gone wrong.
He turned and looked at the soldiers on the training floor — tireless, burning with energy that would not diminish. His judgment was telling him the surface was a trap of some kind.
But his memory of how the campaign ended pushed back. Macragge had won the First Tyranid War. The battle had been devastating in the extreme, but the Imperium had deployed large numbers of mortal forces in the defense and those forces had held the line. Which meant the bulk of the mortal auxiliary forces assembling at Parmenio right now had ultimately reached Macragge. They had not been eliminated here.
"Probably nothing serious," Duvette said to himself. He tried to make himself believe it. "Perhaps the strain from Behemoth's approach is simply larger than even Ultramar's logistics can absorb without a brief disruption..."
History pointed one direction.
His instincts, sharpened by months of surviving things that should have killed him, pointed another.
In the end the instincts won.
"Evan!" He turned and called out.
His adjutant, supervising training nearby, was at his side in an instant, coming to attention. "Commissar. Your orders?"
"Go and get Stroud, Finn, and Anderson." Duvette folded the writ and tucked it into his coat's inner pocket. "And inform Major Kleist to bring his best crew personnel and assemble at Hangar Three."
He looked at Evan.
"Tell them to carry combat knives and autopistols. We are going to the surface."