Chapter 507: I Truly Do Not Wish to Work Overtime
"Insolent curs, daring to invade the galaxy. Such arrogance from Warp-born yokels."
"Neverborn peasants, having scrounged for scraps of godhood after the Old Ones fell. They clearly do not understand that Mankind is guarded by our invincible Emperor!"
"O Emperor, grant me Your world-shattering strength! I shall give these Empyrean rubes a lesson they will never forget!"
The booming, self-referential voice of Ramesses triggered a visceral sense of déjà vu in the Emperor. It reminded Him of the days—forty thousand years ago—when He spent His hours navigating the data-tides of the 21st-century Noosphere.
In that era, Humanity had yet to step beyond its cradle. The nations of Earth were fragmented, consumed by localized wars and vast disparities in living standards. Yet, it was an age of explosive thought. Rising prosperity and education had allowed the masses to look toward the heavens. Faced with the glittering star-sea and the infinite unknown, they used their burgeoning entertainment media to forge a thousand works reflecting their beautiful, naive hopes for the future.
Now, Man's footprint covered the galaxy. They had built an empire of unparalleled scale, perhaps the greatest to ever exist. They could directly observe the most esoteric physical phenomena; they stood face-to-face with the alien horrors of their old fantasies. Yet the modern human had lost the spark to create such works of wonder.
Are these boys treating Me like some ancient hololithic superhero?
The Emperor cast a subtle glance at Arthur and then at Ramesses. He knew perfectly well that they didn't expect Him to act as a "suicide-vessel" to delay the Dark King's awakening. Rather, they were using his power as leverage to pile more burdens onto His pauldrons.
You're so powerful, You can send the Dark Gods to the ICU? Excellent. Then You can oversee the implementation of the Wormhole Project. You're already monitoring the local AI hubs? Perfect. Then as a 'Heavyweight Player,' You should supervise the local governments' response to Warp-taint. And over here—
Look at this research on the Pantheon and the construction of the Foundation-Framework. Emperor, You are the King of Ages. In the past, You were the focus of every human myth and creed. You are the Dark King, and You are the God-Emperor. This job is made for You.
We cannot simply 'borrow' the Eldar Pantheon from Slaanesh, can we? And it's not like we haven't done 'Bootleg Tech' before. First, You helped human scientists bootleg the Webway; now, You'll help 'Human' Psykers bootleg a Pantheon. It's perfect.
This was the filth of politics!
This was an aggressive, clinical interrogation of His limits! A relentless, unblinking demand for more!
If you show you are willing to work, the work will never end.
What happened to the reverence for the 'Greatest Sacrifice in Human History'? Where is the charisma that once brought millions to their knees, eager to solve My every problem? I have endured ten millennia of agony. I returned to be an Emperor. How has this path led Me into becoming a high-tier administrative drudge?
The Emperor recalled the look of hollowed-out despair on Malcador's face after he took over the Imperial administration. Cold sweat—or the psychic equivalent—broke out on His brow.
The quotas. They were infinite.
He had to find a way to dodge this assignment.
"Abba... abba..."
"Stop pretending to be senile. The link is still live."
Faced with Ramesses' "Administrative Conditioning," the Emperor found his act of "Divine Fugue" to be ineffective.
As the clear voice of the Formless Lord resonated in His ears, His consciousness did not slide back into the safety of the "Cold Sun"—that psychic anchor formed of the collective hope and misery of the Warp. He didn't get His "smooth cut-scene transition" back to the Throne. He was effectively locked into the girl's body.
Cursed stars. He's actually anchored Me.
Wiping drool from his chin—still shocking the world-view of the young woman who had worshipped Him as a deity for her entire life—the Emperor looked at Ramesses with a questioning gaze.
"A dedicated line. And a stress-test of Master Art's 'Null' capacity," Ramesses said, patting Arthur on the shoulder while looking at the bewildered Emperor. "Seems to work perfectly. We can guarantee You're on the shift twenty-four hours a day now."
"..."
The Emperor felt a disturbance in the Force.
He immediately thought of the Dawnstar's rigid obsession with "Human Rights" and prepared to argue for a "Shift Rotation" to reduce His time on the clock.
But Ramesses, as if anticipating the play, spoke first.
"We've already accounted for the logistics. Occupying the girls' bodies indefinitely is a violation of our labor protocols. It isn't 'Sane'."
"The mortals capable of hosting Your essence are unique. They are either fragments of Your humanity or entities born under Your direct psionic influence. They are rare. We can't use them like 'Plug-and-Play' Legion of the Damned units. But the research department has already initialized the 'Extraction Protocols.' Master Art has spoken to each of them individually. They've all agreed to the Dawnbreaker Directive."
"Since we're eventually going to initiate a 'Clean Cut' from the Dark King anyway, we'll start with these individuals. We will peel them away from Your influence, one by one."
Ramesses produced a tablet containing a sequence of administrative drafts and a series of warrants he had requisitioned from Arthur.
To these mortals, being a vessel for the Emperor was a source of staggering pride. Most looked ready to offer their lives as a sacrifice on the spot.
Arthur had spent a considerable amount of effort convincing them that the situation wasn't that terminal. No one needed to die. The Dawnstar would utilize this "opportunity" to achieve their strategic ends while maximizing the rights and longevity of the citizens involved.
Wait. Weren't you on the road with us this whole time? the Emperor thought.
He remembered what Arthur had been doing during the transit. Coordinating the Primarchs. Deploying the Astartes. Negotiating with the Mechanicus to audit the forge-output and engineering timelines. Organizing the Navy to secure the Maelstrom while using Eldar guides to seize every Webway gate as a forward operating base. Balancing the "Short-term Fire-brigade" duties with "Long-term Strategic Infrastructure."
And you still found time to micromanage the vessels' labor contracts?
Ramesses drafted the plans, and Arthur coordinated the personnel in minutes?
Arthur offered the Emperor a flat, stoic gaze.
I am the Warmaster. If I cannot coordinate the logistics of an Empire built for war, I am unworthy of the title.
"Does Your Lordship not find it... exhausting?"
"We prioritize the individual. Everyone has their own path. We cannot simply consume their time without compensation if there are alternatives," Arthur replied.
The Emperor stared at the Dawnstar crew.
Look at them. Listen to this rhetoric!
What do you mean 'everyone has their own life'? Human Rights? The value of a mortal's time?
The Emperor felt an unprecedented level of discrimination.
Am I not human, too? I should have been the heir to a minor tribe in Ancient Ur. I should have had a loving father, a kind uncle, and a hard-working people. I should have watched the wheat harvest and walked with my peers. I shouldn't have had to face the wars, the famines, the plagues, and the desires of the galaxy alone.
I should have been able to trade a sheep with the neighbor and stay the night, looking at the moon and talking about the future...
I am at the age where I should be collecting a pension on a Paradise World, enjoying My twilight years.
WHO STOLE MY LIFE?!
"Forty thousand years is the prime of a man's working life. How can You sit still at Your age?" Ramesses said, clapping the Emperor on the shoulder and waving a data-slate in His face.
"Look. The plan is here. The staff is coordinated. We just need Your signature. This 'Decoupling' process might not be the final solution, but it's invaluable data for understanding how to handle the Dark Gods."
To put it simply: Romulus felt the Emperor's "Shift-Coverage" wasn't broad enough to keep up with his and Guilliman's administrative pace. Ramesses happened to have a "Personality Extraction" thesis he wanted to test. Arthur asked around, and they decided to roll it into a single executive order.
One word from you boys and the Imperial High Command goes through a dozen cycles of 'Restructuring', Inquisitor Aglaia thought, watching the record. She felt the Lords should really give the Emperor a more "Imperial" title than "Golden Geezer."
The "Version Update" was moving at terminal velocity. The Astartes, who had dominated the galaxy for millennia, were becoming localized assets now that the Primarchs were back. Even the Four Gods, once viewed as unfathomable nightmares, were becoming clinical data-points as the Dawnstar's understanding grew.
It was like Cegorach's "Jester" status. As long as you don't fight, everyone thinks you're a god. Once the masks come off, everyone realizes you're just a man with a very loud mouth.
"I'll sign. I'll sign," the Emperor grumbled, picking up a stylus. He watched his "Mandatory Overtime" double on the spot. He added a final clarification:
"And for the record: I am not a God."
The Chaos Gods? He preferred to call them "Empyrean Scavengers."
They were opportunists who ate the scraps left by the Old Ones and the mess made by the C'tan. They had spent millions of years acting like kings of a mountain just because the lions were away.
They are not 'Sacred.' They are not 'Inevitable.'
"There you go. The road is winding, but the future is bright," Ramesses said. After a century with Romulus and Arthur, he had mastered the art of the "Bureaucratic Platitude."
"Excellent. One more task settled. Initialize the sequence."
He "vented" the file into the Warp-link. Within the "Formless Manse," a cadre of Eldar staff began the professional coordination of the project—drafting the specific protocols, running the simulations, and preparing for the oversight of Ramesses, the Emperor, and the Laughing God.
Under Ramesses' "Active Leadership" (administrative pressure), the process moved with terrifying efficiency.
"By the way, Father... since You can actually trigger a 'Mutual Annihilation' move against the Four, we should really have a roadmap for the 'Plan B.' You in the Warp, Master Art in reality—The Double Insurance. I've already got a name for it: Emperor Versus All. Let's call it the EVA Protocol."
The Emperor blinked. The density of the jests was beginning to outpace His cognitive filters.
"That 'Protocol' has always existed," He said, waving a hand dismissively. "If you four hadn't appeared, that was My only remaining option."
"Good to know. I'll go check the performance metrics," Ramesses said, his consciousness "hanging" as he entered a trance of data-mining.
"You know," the Emperor said, turning to Arthur as Ramesses began "spinning" the souls of daemons like tops. "This reminds me of the old days."
He looked like an old man reminiscing about the glory days of the firm.
"The past?" Arthur offered, playing the part of the attentive listener.
"Back then, we were like this. An idea would spark, we would test it. A thought would lead to a plan. A goal would lead to a crusade. Millions of us, gathered for a unified, magnificent purpose."
The Emperor's voice was thick with nostalgia, capturing the Inquisitor's full attention.
She prepared her ledger, ready to record the lost history of the Emperor's companions.
The Emperor shook His head.
"But as for the present... the less said, the better."
Arthur fell silent.
He knew who the Emperor was referring to.
He glanced at the Master of Mankind, who was currently working His way through a tray of high-calorie snack-rations from an ancient Terran recipe. Arthur narrowed his eyes.
He thought of the Crusade era. Erda, who provided the genetic matrix. Amar Astartes, who led the research. The Selenar Gene-Cults. The Terran Warlords. Every one of the Emperor's "Founding Partners" had either rebelled or fled, leaving only Malcador to hold the bag.
Arthur maintained a "conservative" opinion on why the Emperor's friends always seemed to run away.
"You must hold the line, Arthur," the Emperor said, patting the knight's gauntlet. He sounded like a veteran speaking to a successor.
Truthfully, when I see these four, I want to 'slack off' myself. Even when they're 'grinding' and forcing Me to do the same... it's a relief to not be alone.
Imperial administration had been "coarse" for ten thousand years simply because there weren't enough hands. No one to educate the Primarchs. No one to assign them. He had to lead the Crusade and build the Webway. Malcador was a solitary figure drowning in paperwork. The old friends wouldn't return. The Custodes were wasted on guard duty. It had been a disaster of management.
But were there truly no "talented" humans left? Not exactly.
There was a host of Perpetuals who had started the firm with the Emperor. Any one of them could have ruled a Sector. But the Emperor's "Credit Card" was maxed out. In the 30th Millennium, He had only managed to trick Erda—a mental liability—into the fold. No one else would take His calls.
The "Old Guard" were simply... done.
They had tried to build the world with Him a thousand times. Each time it was a cycle. Each time it ended in a crash. Many had opted to use their infinite lives to pursue mundane goals or hide from history.
Even the Emperor had almost given up during the Old Night. He had been a degenerate wreck in Commorragh, wallowing in the Dark City alongside the Farseer Eldrad, until the "young" Malcador invited Him to step back into the light.
The Terran Warlords and the Pocket-Emperors of the galaxy were rarely Perpetuals.
Baseline humans are driven by the realization that their time is limited. Infinite life leads to terminal procrastination—a disease that afflicted every Perpetual the Emperor had ever known.
Forty thousand years ago, the Emperor and His peers were relatively equal. A first-generation Warmaster had even come close to stabbing Him to death.
But over the eons, the ones who could stand as His equals had dwindled. Erda could follow His logic, but even she—an immortal older than Him—could be ended by a dagger in the hands of an Erebus. They lacked the "Active Agency."
Time had alienated them.
But the Dawnbreakers were different.
They possessed a primal "Origin-Drive." And because they held a "Standard Understanding" of the Warp and had lived through a social history that should have earned them a "Medal of the Heart of Terra"...
They weren't like the Emperor, rushing to "skip the plot" and accidentally skipping His own life. And they weren't like the other Perpetuals, procrastinating on an assassination because they had "forever" to do it.
The Emperor sincerely hoped the transmigrators would hold onto that trait.
"Hm," Arthur nodded.
"We will prioritize consistency."
A century in this universe hadn't changed their habits. Their pace remained the same as it had been during the first twenty years of their lives.
They didn't see the "grind" as a burden. If you don't swim fast in the Warp, you drown in the filth. They knew the metrics.
And their "Origin-Drive"...
Arthur looked at the star-chart, his gaze settling on the most radiant icon in the galaxy: the Throneworld.
He blinked.
For a heartbeat, a familiar blue light flickered in his vision.
It wasn't the glow of the star-map. It was something deeper, more distant—a memory of a sapphire planet.
Home.
"Good," the Emperor said, noticing that His "Administrative PUA" had achieved the desired effect. He began scouring His memories for more tricks to keep them motivated.
"Then let us labor together."
Arthur slapped a fresh file onto the table before the Emperor.
"Regarding Armageddon."
Arthur's voice was like ice.
"The Organization has a task that requires Your assistance in field-testing."
"?"
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