The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 39: Downtime



In the heart of the Eagle's Nest, the private sanctum of the Liberty Eagles, a scene of camaraderie unfolded that few outside the Legion would ever witness. The room, bathed in warm, amber light, was a stark contrast to the cold void of space visible through the reinforced viewports. The air was thick with the rich aroma of Amasec and the pungent smoke of Terran cigars, creating a haze that softened the hard edges of the military decor.

The room a part of Eagles Nest, affectionately dubbed the "Vintage Area," was a blend of futuristic technology and vintage Americana. Holographic displays flickered with strategic maps of the sector, while the walls were adorned with posters of Old Terran rock bands and movie stars from the 20th and 21st centuries. The soft glow of neon signs reading "Liberty or Death" and "E Pluribus Unum" cast a warm light over the gathering.

At a circular table sat Franklin Valorian, his massive frame dwarfing the specially reinforced chair beneath him. To his right was Denzel Washington, the First Captain, his dark skin gleaming in the low light, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. Steven Armstrong, the Second Captain, sat opposite Valorian, his muscular arms folded across his chest as he leaned back in his chair. John Ezra, Head of the Primarch's Honor Guard, completed the quartet, his vigilant eyes never quite losing their alert quality even in this relaxed setting.

Before them, a holographic battlefield sprawled across the table, miniature units representing various factions locked in eternal, silent combat. Yet, for the moment, the strategic movements of these digital soldiers were secondary to the flow of Amasec and the thick smoke of Terran cigars that wreathed the gathering.

Valorian, dressed in a loose-fitting Hawaiian shirt that somehow managed to complement his superhuman physique, raised his glass. "To the Luna Wolves," he said, a hint of irony in his voice. "May their victories over the Orks be as numerous as the trees in a jungle."

Steven Armstrong scoffed, adjusting his mirrored aviator sunglasses. "Please. Give me one company of Eagles, and I'll show those wolf pups how to really clean up an Ork infestation."

Denzel chuckled, his laughter rich and warm. "Easy there, Steven. We all know you'd just punch the problem until it went away."

"And what's wrong with that approach?" Armstrong retorted, flexing an arm that rippled with nanomachines. "I have yet to encounter a problem that couldn't be solved with the right application of violence."

John Ezra, ever the voice of reason, interjected calmly. "Violence has its place, but let's not forget the principles we fight for. Liberty, justice, the right of all sentient beings to determine their own fate."

Valorian nodded approvingly. "Well said, John. It's a fine line we walk, isn't it? Between the necessary force to secure peace and the potential for that force to become oppressive."

The conversation shifted, as it often did in these gatherings, to matters of governance and philosophy. Valorian leaned forward, his eyes alight with passion.

"You know, I've been thinking about the end of the Great Crusade," he mused. "What comes after, when the galaxy is united under the Imperium's banner?"

Armstrong snorted. "Knowing you, you'll probably retire to some agri-world and take up farming."

Valorian laughed, a booming sound that filled the room. "You're not far off, Steven. I've given it some thought. Maybe I'll step back, be more of a hands-off leader for Nova Libertas. Let the people govern themselves more directly."

"And what about you, Steven?" Denzel asked, arching an eyebrow. "Planning to trade in your exo-suit for a senator's robes?"

Armstrong grinned wolfishly. "Why not? 'Senator Armstrong' has a nice ring to it, don't you think? I could really shake things up in the Libertas Senate."

"Force of nature that you are, I don't doubt it," Valorian chuckled. "And you, Denzel? John? What does peacetime hold for my right hand and chief honor guard?"

Denzel's eyes took on a distant look. "I've always fancied the idea of passing on what I've learned. Maybe open a dojo, teach the art of the sword to the next generation. There's more to combat than just swinging a blade, after all."

John nodded thoughtfully. "For me, I think I'll always be a soldier at heart. The ICDF could use experienced drill instructors. Keeping our defenses sharp, even in times of peace, that's a worthy cause."

Valorian raised his glass again. "To the future, then. May we all find purpose when the guns fall silent."

As they drank, the conversation turned to the annals of history, specifically the presidents of Old Terra. Valorian, ever the history buff, launched into an animated discussion.

"You know, there's a lot we could learn from studying the approaches of past leaders," he said. "Take George Washington, for instance. The man who could have been king but chose to step down, to ensure the principles of democracy would outlive him."

Armstrong nodded, uncharacteristically thoughtful. "Or Theodore Roosevelt. Now there was a man who understood the balance of soft words and big sticks."

"Franklin D. Roosevelt's 'Four Freedoms' speech," John added. "Freedom of speech, freedom of worship, freedom from want, freedom from fear. Principles that still resonate, even after thirty millennia."

Denzel chimed in, "And let's not forget Lincoln. 'Government of the people, by the people, for the people.' Isn't that what we're fighting for, in a way?"

Valorian beamed at his sons, pride evident in his eyes. "Exactly. It's not just about conquest or compliance. It's about building something that will last, something worth fighting for."

As they talked, the background filled with the smooth sounds of Old Terran jazz. The melodies of Miles Davis and John Coltrane wove through the air, occasionally giving way to the upbeat rhythms of 80s and 90s pop and rock. Valorian found himself tapping his foot to the beat of "Livin' on a Prayer."

The Primarch and his gene-sons were a sight to behold, each in their own interpretation of vintage Terran fashion. Valorian's Hawaiian shirt was paired with cargo shorts and flip-flops, a look that would have been comical on a lesser being but somehow worked for the demigod. Denzel sported a sleek black turtleneck and gold chain, reminiscent of the Motown era. Armstrong had fully embraced the 80s with a leather jacket, torn jeans, and a band t-shirt. Even the usually austere John had gotten into the spirit, wearing a denim jacket over a plain

white tee.

As the night wore on, their attention returned to the holographic battlefield before them. The game they played was a far cry from the simple tabletop wargames of Old Terra. Three- dimensional holograms shifted and moved with incredible detail, responding to voice commands and gesture controls.

"You know," Valorian mused, moving a unit of Liberty Eagles into a flanking position, "I sometimes wonder what the wargame enthusiasts of M2 and M3 would think if they could see this. Their little plastic figurines brought to life, every detail perfect down to the last rivet"

Denzel chuckled, countering Valorian's move with a deployment of armored units. "They'd probably think they'd died and gone to hobbyist heaven. Though I imagine the price tag on one of these setups would give them a heart attack."

"Speaking of old hobbies," Armstrong interjected, his units laying down a barrage of simulated artillery fire, "whatever happened to those ancient data-slates? The ones people used to carry around to play games and make calls? Pip-boys or something?" "You mean smartphones, Steven," John corrected, his own forces taking a defensive stance against Armstrong's assault. "And I believe there's still a collection of them in the Terran Museum of Ancient Technology. Fascinating devices for their time."

Valorian nodded, his strategic mind never fully disengaging from the game even as they bantered. "Indeed. The seeds of our current technology, primitive as they were. It's humbling to think about, isn't it? How far humanity has come, and yet in many ways, how little we've

changed."

As the night deepened, the conversation flowed as freely as the Amasec, touching on everything from battle strategies to favorite Old Terran movies. The bonds between Primarch and gene-sons, forged in the crucible of war, were strengthened in these moments of peace. In the end, as the holographic sun rose over their simulated battlefield, Valorian looked around at his companions - his sons, his brothers-in-arms, his friends. In their faces, he saw the future of the Imperium, a future worth fighting for. A future of liberty, of justice, of the indomitable human spirit.

And as they raised their glasses in a final toast, the words of an ancient Terran song seemed to

echo through the ages:

"For auld lang syne, my dear

For auld lang syne

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet

For auld lang syne"

A few days later,

The clash of steel against steel echoed through the training halls of Sweet Liberty. Two figures danced in a deadly ballet, their movements a blur to all but the most enhanced eyes. Franklin, stood toe-to-toe with his First Captain and closest friend, Denzel.

Franklin's blade, imbued with the essence of an Aeldari war god, sang through the air, meeting Denzel's twin blades with precision. The Primarch's face was a mask of

concentration, but his eyes sparkled with the joy of friendly competition.

"Come on, Denzel!" Franklin goaded, a grin breaking through his facade. "Show me what that

'Two Heavens as One' style can really do!"

Denzel, his dark skin glistening with exertion, responded with a flurry of strikes that would have overwhelmed a lesser opponent. "Careful what you wish for, my lord," he quipped back, his blades weaving a net of steel. "You might just get it!"

As they sparred, a presence observed, unseen by mortal eyes. Khaine, the Aeldari God of War, watched through the shard of his essence contained within Franklin's blade. The ancient deity marveled at the display before him.

*This Black warrior... perhaps I have underestimated him,* Khaine mused. *The skill of this human, Denzel, is... impressive. His style, this 'Two Heavens as One'... it speaks of a depth I had not thought possible in such short-lived creatures.*

Franklin, sensing Khaine's curiosity through their bond, chuckled internally. *You see, old friend? Humanity may surprise you yet.*

Aloud, Franklin called out to Denzel as they disengaged for a moment. "You know, in ancient

Terra, they would have called you a samurai. A warrior of unparalleled skill and honor and

loyal to a fault"

Denzel raised an eyebrow, parrying a thrust from Franklin. "I'm flattered, my lord. Though I

doubt those ancient warriors had to contend with genetically engineered demigods in their

sparring sessions!"

Franklin laughed, the sound booming through the hall. "True enough! But then again, they didn't have the benefit of DAOT tech in their blades either. Speaking of which, where did you learn that style of yours? It's... remarkable."

For a moment, Denzel's eyes took on a distant look, even as his body continued the intricate dance of combat. "It was my old master," he said, his voice tinged with reverence. "He traced his lineage back to the Terran swordsman Miyamoto Musashi. Can you believe it? Thousands

of years, and still the art persists."

Franklin nodded, genuinely impressed. "The human spirit, always preserving what's important. Though I have to say, our track record with libraries is less impressive. Do you know how many great repositories of knowledge we've lost over the millennia? The Library of

Alexandria alone..."

He trailed off as Denzel launched into a particularly complex series of strikes, forcing the

Primarch onto the defensive. For several heartbeats, Franklin found himself hard-pressed to

counter the onslaught.

*Impressive,* Khaine's voice echoed in Franklin's mind. *This one's skill speaks volumes. To

force even a Primarch to defend...*

*Indeed,* Franklin agreed silently. *Denzel is one of the finest warriors I've ever known. A

true brother in arms.*

The bout continued, neither combatant able to gain a decisive advantage. It was a demonstration to Denzel's skill that he could match a Primarch, even one holding back for the sake of practice. Finally, after what seemed like hours but was merely minutes, they came to a mutual halt, blades locked together.

"A draw, I think," Franklin declared, stepping back and lowering his weapon. "Well fought,

my friend." Denzel bowed slightly, a gesture of respect rather than subservience. "As always, my lord. Though I have to say, your swordsmanship has come a long way. It wasn't that long ago that you could barely hold a blade without tripping over it."

Franklin's laughter filled the hall once more. "Oh, don't remind me! I still remember that first lesson. I think I spent more time apologizing to the training automatons than actually practicing." "And now look at you," Denzel said, his tone filled with pride and a hint of awe. "From novice

to master in just a few years. Truly, Primarchs are built different." Franklin's expression softened, and he placed a hand on Denzel's shoulder. "Maybe so, but never forget that it's the people around us who shape us. I wouldn't be half the swordsman I

am without your guidance, old friend and maybe with my dashing looks and godly talents

too."

As they moved to put away their weapons, Franklin couldn't resist one last quip. "Besides, if I'm going to keep calling myself the Liberator, I should probably know how to use something other than being a Walking Weapons Platform, right? Can't liberate the galaxy with just

bullets and witty one-liners."

Denzel chuckled, shaking his head. "I don't know, my lord. I've seen you talk your way out of some pretty tight spots. Your wit might be sharper than any blade."

As they exited the training hall, Franklin's mind turned to the battles ahead. "Come on," he said, throwing an arm around Denzel's shoulders. "I think we've earned ourselves a drink. And maybe you can tell me more about this Musashi fellow. Sounds like my

kind of guy."

In the dimly lit strategy room, Franklin Valorian and Steven Armstrong sat across from each other, separated by a low table adorned with a holographic display of the Imperium's territories. The air was thick with the rich aroma of Terran cigars, their smoke curling lazily towards the ceiling. This was no formal briefing, but rather a moment of quiet contemplation between a Primarch and his Second Captain.

Franklin took a long draw on his cigar, savoring the complex flavors before exhaling slowly.

"Alright, Steven," he said, his tone light but his eyes sharp. "You've got that look. The one that says you've been thinking dangerous thoughts again. Let's hear it." Armstrong grinned, a predatory expression that had sent many an enemy fleeing in terror.

Here, in the presence of his Primarch, it was merely the prelude to a spirited debate. "Well, my lord," he began, leaning forward, "I've been considering our position within the Imperium, particularly in relation to Mars." Franklin nodded, encouraging him to continue. The relationship between the Mechanicus and

the Independence Cluster had been a point of contention for some time.

"The fact is," Armstrong continued, his voice taking on a harder edge, "Mars is trying to

undermine us at every turn. They see our production capabilities as a threat to their monopoly on technology. But they can't deny that we're producing 80-90% of the quality gear and ships for the Imperial war machine."

"While they focus on quantity," Franklin mused, blowing a perfect smoke ring. "A balance, of sorts."

"A balance that's tipping in our favor," Armstrong pressed. "Which is why I think we need to take more aggressive action to secure our position." Franklin raised an eyebrow, a silent prompt for elaboration.

Armstrong set down his cigar, his hands moving animatedly as he spoke. "We should start building dependent planetary systems, my lord. Forge worlds, agri-worlds, hive worlds - all tied directly to the Cluster. We create our own supply chain, our own sphere of influence

within the Imperium."

"Hmm," Franklin hummed thoughtfully, his mind racing with the implications. "An interesting proposal, Steven. But doesn't that play into Mars' accusations? They already claim

we're trying to set up a rival empire within the Imperium." Armstrong waved a hand dismissively. "Let them claim what they want. The fact is, we're vital to the Great Crusade. The Emperor himself recognizes our value. As long as we're providing the best equipment and ships, they can't touch us."

Franklin chuckled, shaking his head. "You know, sometimes I think you missed your calling.

You should have been a politician instead of an Astartes."

"Why choose?" Armstrong grinned. "I can punch things and plot political maneuvers. It's

called multitasking, my lord."

The Primarch laughed outright at that, the sound filling the study. As his mirth subsided, his

expression turned thoughtful. "You're not wrong about our position, Steven. But I think we need to be more... subtle in our approach."

He stood, moving to a large star map that dominated one wall of the study. With a gesture, he

brought it to life, holographic representations of planets and systems springing into existence.

"Instead of creating dependent systems," Franklin said, his voice taking on the tone of a professor giving a lecture, "what if we taught them to fish, so to speak?" Armstrong tilted his head, intrigued. "Go on."

"We set up a trade system," Franklin explained, his fingers dancing across the map, highlighting various systems. "These worlds have resources we need. We offer them technology in exchange, but not just any technology. We give them the means to improve their existing infrastructure, their production capabilities."

"But how does that benefit us more than simple trade?" Armstrong asked, his tactical mind

already seeking the advantage.

Franklin's grin was positively mischievous. "Because we control the exchange rate. We establish a point system, where the value of their resources is measured against the technology we provide. The more they trade with us, the more points they accumulate, the

better tech they can access."

Understanding dawned in Armstrong's eyes. "And the better their tech, the more valuable

resources they can provide, creating a feedback loop that ties them closer to us without direct control." "Exactly," Franklin nodded approvingly. "We're creating dependents, we're creating partners. Allies who rely on us by choice, not by force." Armstrong stood, moving to examine the map more closely. "It's brilliant, my lord. But won't

Mars see through it?"

Franklin shrugged, taking another puff of his cigar. "Probably. But what can they do? We're not violating any Imperial edicts. We're promoting growth and development across the Imperium. Hell, we could even spin it as us doing our part to spread the Imperial Truth." "The Emperor's son, spreading enlightenment and technology to the far reaches of the galaxy," Armstrong mused, his tone half-mocking, half-admiring. "It's a good story." "The best stories are the ones with a grain of truth," Franklin winked. "Besides, by the time

Mars figures out how to counter this, we'll have a network of allied systems that rivals their own forge worlds."

Armstrong nodded slowly, his mind already racing with the possibilities. "We'll need to set up a dedicated division to manage this. Maybe expand the role of our Techno-Seers?" "Good thinking," Franklin agreed. "Have Vladimir look into it. His boys are already experts at interfacing with different types of technology. This is right up their alley."

"It's brilliant, sir," Armstrong admitted. "But won't the Emperor have something to say

about this? It's a pretty big shift in how things are done." Franklin's expression turned thoughtful. "The Emperor... he's playing a long game, Steven. One that I'm not sure any of us fully understand even for me. But I know this - he values progress, innovation. He wants humanity to reclaim its lost glory. This plan? It aligns with

that goal."

"And your brothers?" Armstrong pressed. "Horus, Leman... they might see this as a power play."

Franklin chuckled. "Horus is too focused on his own conquests to worry about our tech policies. As for Leman..." He trailed off, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Well, as long as we keep supplying him with quality ale, I don't think he'll raise too much of a fuss." Both men laughed at that, the tension of the earlier discussion dissipating. Armstrong stubbed out his cigar, a look of determination on his face. "It's a big undertaking,

sir. But if anyone can pull it off, it's you."

Franklin laughed, the sound rich and full. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Steven. But

you're right, it is big. Which is why I'll need my Second Captain fully on board. Think you're

up for rewriting the Imperium's technological future?" Armstrong stood, snapping to attention with a grin. "Sir, for a chance to stick it to those tech-

priests and forge a brighter future? I'm all in."

"Good man," Franklin said, rising to clap Armstrong on the shoulder. "Now, let's grab Denzel and John. If we're going to start a technological revolution, we might as well do it over a goodn/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

drink."

As they left the study, Franklin's mind was already racing with possibilities. The road ahead would be challenging, fraught with political pitfalls and potential conflicts.

The chronometer on John Ezra's augmented retinal display ticked over to 0400 hours.

Without a sound, he rose from his meditation mat, his massive frame moving with a grace that belied his Astartes physiology. The spartan quarters of the Secret Service Director were

dark, but John needed no light to navigate. As he donned his Mechsuit, each piece clicking into place with practiced precision, John's

mind was already racing through the day's schedule. Training exercises, threat assessments, coordinating with Liberty Guardsmen, briefing Gene-Father Franklin... the list was endless,

but John wouldn't have it any other way.

0430 hours found him in the Secret Service's private training hall. Here, Astartes and mortal

agents alike honed their skills under John's watchful eye. Today's exercise: neutralizing a

genestealer infiltration.

"Again," John's voice rang out, firm but not unkind. He watched as a mixed team of Astartes and human agents moved through the holographic simulation. Their coordination was

improving, but it wasn't perfect. Not yet. As the team reset for another run, John's mind drifted to the unique nature of Franklin's Honor Guard. Many expected it to be solely Astartes, like other Primarch's bodyguards. But Franklin, in his wisdom, saw the value in diversity. Astartes might be superhuman, but mortal agents brought their own strengths: ingenuity, adaptability, and a perspective that sometimes eluded their transhuman brothers.

The simulation began again. This time, John noted with satisfaction, the team moved as one.

Astartes strength complemented human intuition. Within minutes, the holographic

genestealers were neutralized, the "Primarch" safely evacuated.

"Better," John nodded. "But remember, in real combat, there are no second chances. Dismissed."

As the agents filed out, John's thoughts turned to his brothers. Denzel, now First Captain and Legion Master, with his idealistic fervor. Steven Armstrong, Second Captain and head of the SEALS, always ready for a fight. And himself, the silent guardian, ever-watchful. 0600 hours: Threat assessment briefing. John stood before a hololithic display, surrounded by

his top analysts - both human and Astartes.

"The Laanath Sector remains a concern," a human analyst reported. "Our intelligence

suggests growing unrest, possibly Chaos-influenced."

Their Incursions with the Ruinous Powers were a constant ever since their Primarch had 1st

made contact with them Years ago.

The briefing continued, covering everything from potential xenos incursions to internal Imperium politics. John absorbed it all, his transhuman mind categorizing and analyzing each piece of information.

As the meeting concluded, John's thoughts drifted to the recent Tyranid incursion. The public had seen Gene-Father Franklin's glorious duel with the Swarmlord, but few knew of the Secret Service's role. John and his agents had held back waves of smaller Tyranid creatures, allowing Franklin to focus on the greater threat. It was their way - to serve from the shadows, unsung but vital.

Midday found John in his office, poring over intelligence reports from across the sector. Threats to Franklin Valorian came in many forms - xenos incursions, political machinations, even potential discord within the Imperium itself. John's role was to anticipate them all.

A knock at the door interrupted his concentration. One of his senior agents, a woman named

Natasha, entered with a data-slate in hand. "Sir, we've intercepted communications that suggest a potential threat to the Primarch

during his upcoming diplomatic mission to Coronid Deeps."

John's eyes narrowed. "Source?"

Unclear, sir. But the encryption patterns suggest... Well, sir, they're consistent with

Mechanicus protocols."

John leaned back, his mind racing through possibilities. The Mechanicus, threatened by the Independence Cluster's technological autonomy, making a move against Franklin? It was

bold, perhaps too bold. But not impossible.

"Increase surveillance on all Mechanicus operatives in the sector," John ordered. "And prepare a briefing for the Primarch. He'll want to know about this before he departs." Elena nodded and left, leaving John to his thoughts. He recalled the conversation he had with his Gene-Father and the Captains, discussing political strategies to counter Mars' influence. At the time, he had remained silent, as was his way. But now, it seemed, more direct action

might be necessary.

The afternoon saw John overseeing advanced combat drills with his most elite teams. These were the operatives he would trust with the Primarch's life in the direst circumstances. Astartes and mortals moved in perfect synchronization, their mechsuits and augmented

bodies pushing the limits of human capability.

As he watched, John Prided himself. This was his legacy, the fruition of years of planning and training. A force capable of safeguarding not just a Primarch, but the very future Franklin

Valorian sought to build.

The day's final hours were spent in quiet contemplation. John stood at a viewport, gazing out

at the stars. Somewhere out there, threats to his gene-father, to the Liberty Eagles, to the

entire Imperium, were taking shape. It was his duty to be ready for them all.

A ping from his neural interface alerted him to Franklin's approach. John turned,

straightening imperceptibly as the Primarch entered the room. "John," Franklin greeted him warmly. "I hear you've been putting our people through their paces today."

John nodded. "Constant vigilance is our best defense, my lord."

Franklin chuckled, clapping a hand on John's armored shoulder. "Always the serious one,

aren't you? Well, I'm glad you're on our side. I sleep better knowing you're watching over us

all."

As Franklin turned to leave, John felt a rare smile tugging at his lips. "Always, my lord," he murmured. "Always."

The chronometer beeped again, marking the end of the ship's day cycle. But for John Ezra, Director of the Secret Service and guardian of the Liberator, the vigil never truly ended. In the shadows, in the spaces between heartbeats, he and his agents would be there, ensuring the

light of liberty continued to shine across the stars.