Chapter 297: The Culture of Surrogacy is a Vicious One
A sliver of arcane metal danced between his fingers, its arcing light a stark flare in the gloom of the mine shaft.
Ramesses noted the looks from the Custodian and the Grey Knight—a shared expression that screamed, 'Primarch, something is not right with you.' Judging by their complex micro-expressions, he could tell they were making more than a few subconscious comparisons between him and the Emperor.
'This is precisely why I detest showing my face,' he grumbled internally. 'At least old Romulus has the decency to have red eyes.'
With a quiet sigh, Ramesses raised a hand and locked his helm into place.
Once the mask had concealed his features, he spoke, his voice a crisp baritone through the vox-emitter.
"I do not believe my physical resemblance to the Emperor is anything worthy of commendation."
It wasn't a bad thing, not entirely. Just as the Dawnbreakers' acceptance of their primarch-progenitors had granted them greater operational freedom across the Imperium, this likeness had its uses. Ramesses never hesitated to offer guidance to the lost and confused psykers of the Imperium, but the inherent danger of the Empyrean often made such tutelage an exercise in futility, a struggle to gain trust.
This facial advantage undeniably made it easier for Ramesses to earn their confidence, a critical asset when his work involved the Imperium's most volatile subject: psychic research.
After all, their experiences since arriving in this universe had taught them a simple truth about the Imperium's more extreme and sensitive members: to gain their trust, you either needed a good face or a good temperament.
Or, ideally, both.
Ramesses did not have a good temperament. But he had, at least, a good face.
The only real complication was that this 'shortcut' created certain difficulties in his 'personal life' and for his 'reputation.' The Emperor's most fervent devotees, aside from suffering from fits of zealous prostration, had a profound love for finding surrogates.
This tendency was particularly acute among the Astartes, his fellow Primarchs, and especially the Adeptus Custodes.
One has to wonder where they inherited that from…
Ramesses's mind briefly flashed to the memory of Ollanius Persson, the first Warmaster, and then to a far more obscure Terran legend involving 'thirty years, a gilded centaur, and a ring of blackest gold.'
Ah. The Emperor himself was like that.
Never mind, then.
"Shield-Captain," he said, addressing the Custodian directly. "This image is merely a tool to avoid repetitive and time-consuming explanations. Our work is urgent, and our time is limited."
There was one point Ramesses felt compelled to stress. In matters of politics or grand strategy, he was no expert and would not dare make pronouncements. But in the simple art of being a person, he considered himself vastly superior to the Emperor.
For a start, he was no cryptic riddler. He knew how to speak plainly.
"Furthermore," he added, his tone dry, "to my knowledge, the last person to be widely remarked upon for resembling the Emperor was Lorgar."
The words hung in the air, instantly shattering the solemnity.
The Custodian Shield-Captain and the Grey Knight Justicar, who had been exchanging meaningful glances, were plunged into an awkward silence. When one looked past the stereotypical image his face conjured, Ramesses did indeed have classic Terran physiognomy. He looked like the Emperor, yes. Pity he had a mouth.
"My apologies, my lord," the Shield-Captain said at once, his voice a low rumble. "We were wrong to make assumptions about your nature."
The unspoken meaning was clear: Whatever you say, my lord. I will not argue.
Even after ten thousand years, it seemed the Custodes had not lost their mastery of interacting with their superiors. Trazyn, observing from the shadows, couldn't help but make a quiet clicking sound of appreciation. You see? This is why the Emperor took his Custodians everywhere. They might have been of questionable use in their actual protection detail, but they provided emotional validation in spades.
Clenching his fist around the metal shard, Ramesses felt the psychic resonance of its brethren across the planet. He had no desire to dwell on the matter any longer.
"Good," he said, his voice all business. "Whatever I say, goes."
After the Daemon Primarch Angron was banished, the myriad fragments of his rage-forged essence had left behind an altar deep beneath Armageddon, a spiritual anchor. It was a crimson rift in the fabric of the Immaterium—imperceptible and untouchable by physical means. This anchor could be activated whenever the Blood God willed it, projecting the Daemon Primarch or his other chosen minions onto the world to achieve his ruinous goals.
In the future, when the Great Rift tore reality asunder, this tear in the veil would expand to cover half of Armageddon's surface, plunging the warring humans and Orks into a conflict of even greater, bloodier madness.
And now, Ramesses could use this shard to establish his own connection to Angron. Communicating with the walking atrocity that was the Butcher's Nails was a fool's errand, but he could use this link. He could track Angron's movements, perhaps even capture his True Name after his daemonic ascension. He could even perform a ritual to summon the beast.
The Dawnbreakers knew a major conflict was brewing for them in the Veiled Region. For the sake of the Imperium's fragile unity, they could not make the first move, but waiting for the enemy to strike was not an option either. Recognizing the hand of Chaos and utterly fed up with the sclerotic bureaucracy of a thousand worlds, Ramesses and Arthur had begun a proactive campaign. They were systematically cleansing worlds along the direct strategic corridor between Vigilus and the Dawnstar Sector, using the intelligence they alone possessed.
Angron was just one piece of that puzzle.
"Our mission is to apprehend the daemonic entities lurking within this rift, interrogate them for intelligence, and understand the Daemon Primarch's current state. We will establish a connection, attempt to acquire his True Name, and then, depending on the situation, we will close the fissure."
Ramesses stated his objectives with cold clarity.
"If necessary, I will perform the ritual. I trust you are already aware that we possess the means to grant true death to entities of the Warp?"
This information was hardly a secret. From the moment they had begun to engage Chaos head-on, it was a characteristic they could not hide.
"Yes, my lord Ramesses. We understand," Kaldor Draigo replied, glancing at Hyperion, who still seemed lost in thought. The Supreme Grand Master sighed softly.
"Excellent." When it came to duty, Ramesses embodied the Dawnbreakers' signature trait: swift, decisive action. "We will proceed to the rift coordinates. Astartes of the First Legion and a contingent of Null-Maidens will establish a cordon. I will require the combat strength of the Custodes and Grey Knights to secure the immediate tactical situation."
"My lord, we have brought ninety-one Grey Knights, three Custodians, and a Vigilator cadre of the Silent Sisterhood," Draigo reported immediately.
The Shield-Captain maintained a tactful silence. In joint operations, matters pertaining to the Warp were typically ceded to the Grey Knights. Though a crisis of faith had erupted between the two orders over the sheer scale of the chaotic threat on Terra itself more than a decade ago, the unavoidable necessity of cooperation had forged a new trust between them, tempered in the fires of constant battle.
When one looked deeper, the threats were staggering. The underhives of Holy Terra swarmed with xenos and mutants, and even the ranks of the Adeptus Administratum had been partly infiltrated by Genestealer Cults. These insidious creatures, master tunnellers, had carved deep pathways beneath the Throneworld, some coming perilously close to the outer edges of the Imperial Palace itself.
This was a profound embarrassment for the Adeptus Custodes. It made it difficult to hold a grudge against the Grey Knights, a chapter perpetually understrength from a constant war of attrition. The Custodians had adopted a more pragmatic approach: they joined forces and began the silent, grim work of purging the filth. The problem was, once they began, they discovered the filth was endless. It was a miracle Terra hadn't already imploded, a fact many attributed solely to the Emperor's grace.
And so, the famous Blood Games were suspended. The Eyes of the Emperor were recalled from their lonely vigils across the galaxy. It was all hands on deck.
"Good. Deploy them all. Here are the coordinates." Ramesses manipulated his data-slate, swiftly marking the rift's location he had just divined. He turned to the Astartes at his side. "Once Armageddon is settled, you two are next."
His tone seemed to be calming their impatience.
"Understood," the two Space Marines responded in unison, their voices distorted by their sealed helms. They were among the few Astartes who had remained stone-faced during the Primarch's joke. Compared to the Librarians with their psychic amplifiers, these two radiated the aura of pure warriors.
The warrior in storm-grey plate stood ramrod straight, his crimson right arm catching the faint light. The other was even more recognizable; the opulent purple and the gleaming Imperial Aquila on his chest were the heraldry of a Legion that should have been long dead. Beside them stood an even taller warrior, clad in the blue and white of the War Hounds.
Lunar Wolves, Emperor's Children, War Hounds. The livery of the Great Crusade.
Draigo and the others had noticed this long ago, but if these warriors stood by a Primarch's side, it was not their place to question it during an active operation.
"Do you have any objection to psychic translocation?" Ramesses asked the Shield-Captain.
"None," the Custodian replied, his posture rigid.
While the Custodes were, in a sense, anathema to the Warp, their deepening collaboration with the Grey Knights had made such travel preferable for most. Especially for missions off-world. Because in these moments, amidst the swirling psychic phenomena that surrounded the Knights of Titan, they might catch a fleeting glimpse of the Emperor's presence in the Immaterium.
Compared to the silent, broken corpse upon the Golden Throne, the cold sun of the Empyrean was infinitely more active. This fact stirred a sliver of jealousy in the hearts of the Ten Thousand, for the Master of Mankind now rarely answered their silent prayers.
"We will proceed to the target area and secure the situation." Seeing everyone's cooperation, Ramesses was in a fine mood. With a grand sweep of his hand, he tore a shimmering portal into reality itself and strode through without hesitation.
"As you command, my lord," came the chorus of voices, as they followed the Primarch into the breach.
It feels as though we've forgotten something.
The thought flickered through the Shield-Captain's mind as he coordinated the final deployment of their warship's assets, his gaze fixed on the Primarch's departing back.
He dismissed it instantly. He continued his focused observation of Ramesses.
After all, if it could be forgotten, it was of no great importance.
'Those damnable sorcerers, and those damnable Custodians! Where in the warp did they go?'
After turning another corner into a vast, open cavern, the Sister of Silence finally lost her patience. Since disembarking the shuttle, she had been lost. The language barrier had cost her precious time as she navigated the labyrinthine mine, only to arrive at the rendezvous and find it empty.
In three swift strides, she planted herself directly in Trazyn's path.
Her iron-gauntleted fingers moved in a rapid, intricate dance. Above the rebreather that masked the lower half of her face, her slender eyebrows twitched with every gesture. Her expressive grey-blue eyes burned with undisguised emotion.
She was, to put it mildly, furious.
As a learned collector, Trazyn understood the sign-cant of the Silent Sisterhood perfectly. After all, the Null-Queen, Jenetia Krole, had long been a coveted piece for his collection. Alas, that legendary figure, a veteran from the Unification Wars to the final days of the Horus Heresy, had met her end fighting the Khornate champion, Khârn.
The most infuriating part was that Khârn, lost in his bloodlust, hadn't even realized his casual backhand had extinguished a living legend. Such an ignominious end for a historic figure was a dark, cosmic joke—an outcome Trazyn, busy with his 'salvage' operations across the galaxy at the time, had never anticipated.
"They have already departed," Trazyn replied, his own metallic fingers forming the signs with flawless precision.
The Sister of Silence froze in momentary shock. Her fingers paused, her eyelashes fluttered, and then, as the information sank in, the shock was swiftly consumed by incandescent rage.
She raised her hands again, knuckles white.
Corinne—postulant of the Void-Maidens, aspirant to the Vigilator cadre—began signing at Trazyn with furious speed.
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