Chapter 2: Homeworld
[IMPERIAL DOSSIER: LEMNOS III]
Imperial Date: 672.M31
Designation: Lemnos III
Segmentum: Ultima Segmentum
Sector: The Maelstrom
System: Lemnos System
Population: ~1-3 Million
Allegiance: Imperium of Man
World Type: Feudal World
Tithe Grade: Quartus - Exempt
The Sword-class Frigate, The Ironclad, hung in the silent void, a scarred veteran floating in orbit above Lemnos III. The ancient warship had seen better millennia. It had been repaired and refitted countless times, long before it had been... acquired... by the Iron Warriors.
In the ship's equally battered command bridge, 22 Astartes of "The Forged Steel Brotherhood" warband were seated around the briefing table. Ship-thralls moved silently, pouring a goblet of dark blood-wine for each warrior.
Petros wasted no time. He activated the hololith, and a blue-and-yellow globe of the planet below bloomed in the center of the room.
"This is Lemnos III," he began, his voice a low gravel. "Third planet of the Lemnos system. No moons. Three primary continents, comprising 41.53% of the surface area. The geography is primarily mountainous. The main continent is ruled by a single feudal dynasty and its vassals. The head of that dynasty is the 'Planetary Governor.'"
He gestured to the globe. "The other two continents are irrelevant. One is a polar ice cap, uninhabited. The other is populated by savages—primitives in beast-skins, warring with stone clubs and bone-tipped spears. Total planetary population is estimated between one and three million souls. No obvious signs of Chaotic corruption or mutation. The main continent has just entered an iron age. In other words, the Planetary Defense Force—if you can call it that—is still armed with spears and bows. This... is Lemnos III. And it will become our new homeworld."
Petros scanned the faces of his warriors.
"Questions, brothers?"
A deep voice rumbled from across the table.
"My Lord, why did we travel so far from the Eye, only to find a world in the Maelstrom? The population is negligible, the tech is primitive, and it still belongs to the False Emperor."
Petros looked at the speaker. It was Brother Vornab, Sergeant of the Second Tactical Squad. He was a later addition to the Brotherhood, but he was sharp and knew how to read the mood of the room. He was adept at asking the questions the other brothers were thinking, even if he already knew the answer. It was why Petros had made him Sergeant.
"The worlds in the Eye are corrupted," Petros stated flatly. "The stock is tainted, useless for new recruits. The warbands are too many, and the few good worlds are all claimed. We lack the strength to take and hold a planet with void-shields and orbital defenses. But most importantly... the Imperium has likely forgotten this world even exists."
Petros tossed a badly damaged sheet of parchment onto the table.
"I found this in the Legion's archives. It's what led us here. This world was brought into Compliance by the Iron Warriors. The original Iron Warriors."
He leaned forward. "This was during the Great Crusade, before the Primarch was rediscovered. Our predecessors found this planet. A squad made planetfall, met the local 'king.' The rest is predictable. A few dozen Astartes facing tribals with wooden sticks. The king declared immediate Compliance. The Legion dropped off an Administratum team and left."
Petros felt a dryness in his throat. He picked up his goblet and drained a heavy draught of the blood-wine before continuing.
"At the time, the Imperium tried to levy the tithe. But this world provides nothing. No food tithe, no wargear, no industry. It might have mineral wealth, but there's no equipment to mine it. As for a troop tithe? It's easier to conscript from a nearby Hive World than to travel across the Maelstrom for a few million primitives."
"And that was that. It was useless as a supply point and untaxable. The Departmento Munitorum simply reclassified it as Tithed-Grade Quartus—Exempt—and forgot about it. The official documents are probably buried under a hundred meters of parchment-drift on Terra, or more likely, just burned during the Siege. If I hadn't found this file in the Legion archives, this world would have remained in obscurity. As for the Administratum staff left behind? After nearly a thousand years, their descendants have simply been absorbed into the local ruling class."
He gave a humorless grunt. "Wait for an Imperial fleet? You'd be better off waiting for death. At least you know it's coming."
A harsh, grating laugh came from Phelon, who picked a severed human finger from a pouch at his belt and popped it into his mouth. The crunch of bone was audible. The distorted steel mechadendrites coiling from his power pack marked him as the Warpsmith.
"I see, Lord!" Phelon's voice was jovial. "The Maelstrom is just as stormy as the Eye, but more... stable. And it's still the Maelstrom. Ripe for plunder. Easier to raid or build our own strength here. Why fight over twisted scraps in the Eye when we have opportunities like this, eh?"
Phelon was as distinct as his wargear. His skin was the black of void-coal, and his eyes were a solid, burning red, like indicator lights in the dark.
"Exactly, Brother Phelon. Any other questions?"
Petros waited. The room was silent for ten seconds.
"Next. Ship-Master Barnabas. Report on The Ironclad."
A warrior in a battered Mark II Crusade-pattern helmet spoke. "My Lord, she's worn. This ship was built on Mars at the dawn of the Crusade. It's a miracle she's still holding together. With only a few lance batteries and macro-cannons, we can chase off pirates, but that's it. We don't even have the torpedoes or virus warheads for a proper Exterminatus. If we wanted to purge a world, we'd have to sit in orbit for months, assuming it had no shields."
"And the crew?"
"We have enough corpse-starch for the ratings and armsmen. The slaves... are being processed into nutrient paste for the rest of the slaves. It is... sustainable. We're still short-handed, even after lowering our standards for the press-ganged."
Petros nodded. "We won't be getting a new ship anytime soon, Master Barnabas. We will have to endure."
"As you command, Lord of the Forged."
Petros turned to the Warpsmith. "Phelon. The Armory?"
Phelon quickly swallowed and set his goblet down.
"Lord, besides our personal wargear, the racks are thin. For the mortals, we have their standard-issue lasguns, plus a few combat shotguns, autoguns, and heavy stubbers. For flyers, one Aquila Lander, two Arvus Lighters, and a Valkyrie that's still under repair. We have no ground vehicles... except for the Warband's personal assets."
"The Warband's armory holds one Land Raider, one Rhino, and a Storm Eagle gunship. For small arms, we're down to our last forty cases of bolt-rounds, three spare bolters, two bolt pistols, seven chain-knives, three combat shields, and two boarding shields. We have one heavy bolter, one meltagun, twenty melta-bombs, and four crates of assorted grenades. But high-grade ceramite, adamantium, power cells, and cogitator wafers are critically low. It's all I can do to keep our current gear functional. The good news is, our promethium stores are full."
"And the bad news?" Petros knew his brother's dark humor.
Phelon grinned. "We barely have any vehicles left to burn it."
His face turned serious again. "If we run out of materials, I'll be reduced to forging carapace armor and modifying shotguns and lasguns for the... others."
"Do it. We'll need them for the new blood."
Phelon looked confused. "Lord, we have no new blood. We have no aspirants, no gene-seed, no implantation tech, and not even an Apothecary."
"The Apothecary and the equipment are on their way," Petros said calmly. "I will handle the matter of the gene-seed."
Phelon slammed a fist into his palm in understanding. "Ah! You mean Dioscorides! I knew you had a plan, Lord."
At Petros's left, a warrior spoke, his voice tight with anger. The left side of his face was a ruin of melted flesh. It was Antonius.
"Captain," he growled, his gauntlet clenching. "We bled for the Legion for centuries. And when we asked to leave, they treated us like thieves. The Primarch permitted us to form this warband, but they gave us nothing. I say they'd have preferred we left our ships, our bolters, and our armor behind. Better yet, that we'd just die and leave them our gene-seed!"
Petros let out a slow, cold breath. He looked at Antonius, his oldest friend—stocky, solid, and the most trusted man he had.
"They were never our brothers, Antonius. Think of our 'Father's' Iron Circle. He trusted his machines more than his sons, yet demanded we trust each other."
He pushed his chair back. "It is fine. If this is all our service was worth to them, then we owe the Legion nothing more."
He rose to his full height, his shadow falling over the table. "Antonius, Vornab. Take the First and Second Tactical Squads. Sixteen brothers. Full kit. Be in the launch bay in one hour. We are going to conquer our new homeworld. Ship-Master Barnabas, you and the other three brothers will remain here and guard this vessel."
Seeing he wasn't mentioned, Phelon immediately piped up. "Lord! What about me? Me!"
"You want to come planetside? Is the Valkyrie fixed?"
Phelon gave a sheepish grin, scratching the back of his neck. "Well, it's not that I won't fix it, it's just... the parts, you know? Besides, I want to see the new homeworld. I'm going void-mad cooped up on this ship."
"Fine. We leave on schedule. With or without you."
Petros turned to face his assembled brothers. He slammed his right gauntlet against his left breastplate, the impact a dull thud of ceramite on ceramite. He spoke the words, low and final.
"To the Forge."
The others rose, mirroring the salute, their voices a unified chorus.
"And We are Forged to Steel."