The Primarch of Liberty

The command bridge of the Sweet Liberty hummed with activity, but Franklin Valorian's attention was fixed on the holographic casualty reports floating before him. The numbers were stark against the blue glow: 30 million Liberty Guard, either dead or MIA. 300,000 Liberty Eagles Astartes lost, missing, or so grievously wounded they'd need dreadnought internment. Each number represented sons and soldiers who'd followed him into the dark heart of Commoragh.

Dr. Hiromi Suzuki cleared her throat, her augmented eyes glowing softly in the dim light. "My Lord, regarding the Astartes candidates for internment – we've confirmed their wishes. Many have specifically requested Dreadnought internment over the Gemini Cyborg Chassis option."

Franklin nodded, a small smile crossing his features. "The sons of Liberty prefer their traditions, even if it means forsaking some mobility. I won't force the chrome on them, Doctor. Let them choose their path."

The war room's door hissed open, admitting Dr. Elena Vasquez, her arms full of data-slates containing their findings from the raid. The Head of Xeno-Tech Research could barely contain her excitement.

"The Drukhari tech, my Lord—it's fascinating! The similarities to Dark Age human technology are uncanny. In some cases, their efficiency surpasses our current standards." She spread the data-slates across the tactical table. "Sixty-five million years of Eldar history, plus several thousand more of Dark Eldar advancement... their abandonment of psychic powers for pure technological progress has led them down some... interesting paths."

Dr. Elara Chen, still examining a specimen container filled with what appeared to be living tissue, interjected. "The Haemonculi archives alone..." She shook her head in amazement. "Their biological engineering is absolutely horrific, yet brilliant. Given a millennium, I could potentially replicate and improve upon their techniques. Though I'd prefer to do so without the gratuitous torture," she added dryly.

Franklin chuckled, his deep laugh echoing off the chamber walls. "Magos Biceps will be ecstatic. Imagine his face when he sees the potential for new muscle augments." His expression turned thoughtful. "And Cawl... has already begun processing the Dark Eldar prisoners into servitors. I believe he's still bitter about his Ark Mechanicus, being blown up"

The mood shifted as Captain Steven Armstrong entered, his massive frame casting a shadow across the holographic displays. His expression was grim. "Lord Valorian, we've completed our sweep of the satellite realms. Asdrubael Vect is unaccounted for."

Franklin's jaw tightened. "Deploy the autonomous patrols through our secured Webway sections. If that snake tries to slither back to his ruined kingdom, I want him delayed and tracked." He turned to the central display, showing the burning remnants of Commoragh. "How are the automation protocols holding?"

Chief Engineer Amelia Cortez stepped forward, "The Reality Engine recovery is complete. The solar transportation technology is remarkable—with a proper Webway gate, not those Necron knockoffs, we could literally steal suns."

"Add it to the list for father," Franklin said, then noticed Dr. Chen fidgeting with a data-slate. "Something else?"

"We've acquired over a million and more unique Dark Eldar genetic samples," she said hesitantly. "With some modification and the right equipment, we could theoretically begin vat-growing our own Aeldari troops..."

Franklin raised an eyebrow, considering the implications. The potential advantages were obvious: warriors with all the Eldar's natural grace and speed, but loyal to the Imperium. The disadvantages were equally clear: potential genetic instability, moral questions, and the political powder keg it would ignite with both their Eldar allies and more conservative Imperial factions.

"File that under 'fascinating but requiring several committee meetings,'" he said finally. "For now, set course for Terra. Father will want to examine the Reality Engine personally."

As the Sweet Liberty prepared to depart, Franklin reviewed the final touch he'd left in the heart of the fallen dark city. The statue stood one thousand feet tall, crafted from adamantium and wrapped in fields that would make destroying it more trouble than it was worth. It depicted him in his favorite pose—flexing his muscles with his characteristic grin—while the base bore an inscription in both Gothic and Aeldari:

"Here Lies Pride, Slain by Liberty PS: Do not touch my boats"

Dr. Vasquez caught him smiling at the construction reports. "A bit theatrical, isn't it, my lord?"

"The Dark Eldar appreciate dramatic gestures," Franklin replied. "Besides, they started it by touching my boats."

Armstrong cleared his throat. "Speaking of boats, we've secured the captured Dark Eldar vessels. Their designs could very well Improve our smaller ships variants"

"Good," Franklin said, turning to address his gathered advisors. "Now, let's discuss the integration of this technology. I want proposals for how we can adapt these innovations without falling into the same moral pit the Dark Eldar did. Suzuki, start with cybernetics."

As the sessions wound down, he stood at the observation deck, watching the webway currents flow past the Sweet Liberty. The raid on Commoragh had been costly—perhaps the costliest single engagement in his Legion's history. But they'd struck a blow that would echo through the millennia, and the technological treasures they'd recovered could save countless Imperial lives.

"Was it worth it?" Denzel asked, joining him at the viewport.

Franklin gestured to the data-slates scattered across the tactical tables. "Ask me in a century, when we've turned their toys of torment into tools of salvation." He smiled. "Besides, they really shouldn't have touched my boats."

The Sweet Liberty continued its journey through the webway, leaving behind a burning Commoragh and a smiling statue that would irritate the Dark Eldar for millennia to come.

--------------------------------

The Sweet Liberty's massive form glided into port at Calastar, and Franklin Valorian watched from the viewport as his home within the Webway revealed itself. Some called it the Impossible City, and looking at it now, he understood why the name stuck.

Imagine a city where up and down are merely suggestions. Eldar wraithbone towers spiral endlessly upward, their pale surfaces catching impossible light. Bridges that should collapse under their own weight stretch across vast chasms, yet hold firm through a marriage of ancient Eldar craft and human innovation. Scientists, Engineers, Tech-Priests, Automatons, walk along roads that loop and twist.

The old Eldar touches remain everywhere. Graceful arches and intricate patterns tell stories in a language few remember, while weathered statues of their gods and heroes stand sentinel over the new order. Franklin had chosen to preserve many of these, seeing no reason to erase history – though some now bore subtle modifications, marking the changing of the guard.

But this was no mere museum. Between the ancient wraithbone structures stride the pinnacle of humanity's golden age – the Men of Iron. These towering mechanicals, their dark forms a stark contrast to the pale city, move with purpose and precision.

Drones buzz through the air like mechanical insects, each with its own vital purpose. Some tend to the city itself, their tools precisely melding human science with Eldar artifice to repair and maintain the ancient structures. Others hover vigilantly, weapons primed but dormant, ready to respond to threats at a moment's notice.

The FBI – Federal Bureau of Incantations – adds another layer to this impossible blend. Astartes-psykers, trained in both technological and psychic arts, walk the streets with glowing neural-visors and Augur Staffs. Under their guidance, the city lives and breathes.

In the impossible vastness of Calastar's docking arrays, the Sweet Liberty's true scale became apparent. The vessel's form seemed to merge with the webway itself, its dimensions challenging mortal comprehension. Yet even this behemoth was dwarfed by the surrounding city, whose spires vanished into the webway's ethereal light.

At the foot of the docking ramp, the Emperor waited, resplendent in his Golden Armor. The Custodians formed a golden honor guard around him, their perfect stillness making them seem more like statues than warriors. Behind them, the impossible architecture of Calastar spiraled away in all directions, wraithbone and Tyranimite forming a backdrop worthy of this reunion.

Franklin descended the ramp, his Secret Service flanking him. Behind them came a procession of Automatons and drones, carefully guiding the Reality Engine—a massive crystalline structure that seemed to bend light around itself, its true form difficult for even enhanced minds to comprehend.

"Father," Franklin said, dropping to one knee with practiced precision. Public ceremonies demanded such formality, even between father and son. The Emperor nodded, the gesture containing volumes of unspoken meaning.

"Rise," the Emperor commanded, his voice carrying both authority and warmth. "Walk with me, my son."

They began their ascent through Calastar's impossible geometry, their retinues following at a respectful distance. The Reality Engine was carefully transported along a separate path, its escort of Custodians and Liberty Eagles ensuring its safe passage to the secure laboratories deep within the city.

Once the doors sealed and the wards activated, Franklin's formal demeanor melted away like morning frost. He dropped into an ornate wraithbone chair, somehow managing to make even that elegant piece of furniture look casual.

"So," he began, grinning at his father, "funny story about how this all started."

The Emperor, still standing, raised an eyebrow. Even in private, he maintained his regal bearing, though a hint of amusement touched his ancient eyes.

"They touched my boats," Franklin continued, spreading his hands. "More specifically, they started raiding our trade routes. Which, fine, Dark Eldar gonna Dark Eldar, right? But then—" his expression darkened momentarily "—they took some of our scientists. The really good ones. The ones working on projects that could actually help people."

The Emperor moved to a viewing port, watching the impossible geometries of Calastar twist beyond. "And naturally, you responded with appropriate restraint."

"One thing led to another," Franklin spread his hands in a 'what can you do' gesture, "and suddenly Commoragh was on fire. A lot of fire. Like, all the fire." He paused for dramatic effect. "Did you know Dark Eldar architecture is surprisingly flammable?"

"The casualties," the Emperor interjected, His voice thoughtful. "They seem... limited, considering Commoragh's defenses. Terra aside, it was perhaps the most fortified city in the galaxy."

"Ah, well," Franklin leaned forward, his eyes twinkling, "that's where Sweet Liberty comes in. Remember how you always said I spent too much time tinkering with that ship?" He spread his arms. "Turns out, when you stuff enough guns onto something, it doesn't matter how fortified the target is. Physics is physics. Even in Commoragh, And in the places too tight for conventional warfare..."

"The Men of Iron," the Emperor finished.

"With Hemophage Swarms," Franklin added proudly. "The Dark Eldar thought they knew terror? They learned some new lessons that day."

The Emperor's expression grew thoughtful. "And the Reality Engine?"

Here, Franklin sat up straighter, his humor giving way to genuine excitement. "That's the real prize. We had them on the run, you see. They were desperate. This Archon—nasty piece of work, even by their standards—he tries to use it as a last resort. Probably would have collapsed that entire section of the Webway if he'd succeeded."

"But?"

"But he couldn't channel enough power." Franklin's eyes gleamed. "Slaanesh's curse. All that psychic potential, locked away for fear of having their souls devoured. The Archon could barely tap a fraction of the Engine's true capacity. But you, father..." He gestured at the Emperor. "You're the most powerful psyker humanity has ever produced. No Chaos God drinking from your cup. With you at the controls..."

The Emperor rose, walking to one of the impossible windows that looked out over Calastar and the Webway beyond. "The Old Ones' device. Their tool for shaping the Webway itself."

"According to our Eldar sources, My Eldar Sources" Franklin glanced at Anaris. "The Reality Engine was one of their masterworks. It could repair damaged sections of the Webway, create new passages, even move existing ones. Imagine what that could mean for the Imperial Webway Project."

The Emperor turned back to his son, and for a moment, Franklin caught a glimpse of the full scope of his father's vision—centuries of planning, millennia of preparation, all leading to this moment. "Show me," he said simply.

Franklin stood, his good humor returning. "Already got the egg heads setting up in the secure labs. Dr. Vasquez is practically bouncing off the walls with excitement. Pretty sure she hasn't slept since we found it."

"And the statue?" the Emperor asked, amusement coloring His tone.

Franklin's grin returned full force. "Well, I couldn't just leave without signing my work!"

The Emperor actually chuckled at that – a sound few in the galaxy had ever heard. "Your flair for the dramatic serves its purpose, I suppose. It sends a message."

"Several messages," Franklin corrected. "One: don't touch my boats. Two: definitely don't touch my people. Three: the Imperium can reach anywhere now." He paused. "Four: I look great in statuary."

Together, father and son left the sanctuary, heading toward the laboratories where the Reality Engine waited. Their conversation turned to more technical matters—the engine's power requirements, its control mechanisms, the potential applications for the Imperial Webway Project. But underneath it all ran a current of shared understanding. Today marked another step forward in the Emperor's grand plan, another piece falling into place.

And if that piece happened to come gift-wrapped in the ashes of humanity's enemies, well... that was just Franklin's style.

-----------------------------

A few weeks later, after hearing the news of Franklin sieging Commoragh, Rogal Dorn met with Franklin to discuss the details on how he did it.

In the grand meeting chamber of the Phalanx, Rogal Dorn stood as still as the fortifications he was famous for designing. His perpetually stern expression remained unchanged as Franklin regaled him with the tale of Commoragh's downfall.

"Yes. You burned down Commoragh," Dorn stated flatly.

"Sure did, brother! Want to hear about the statue I left behind?" Franklin grinned.

"No. I already know about the statue. It is you. Flexing. One thousand feet tall. Made of indestructible materials. With a message about boats." Dorn's delivery remained perfectly monotone. "It is excessive."

"Aw, come on, Rogal! Where's your sense of style?"

"I do not need style. I need fortifications. Which you destroyed. All of them. The entire city's worth." A pause. "That is impressive."

Franklin beamed. "See? You do appreciate my work!"

"Yes. Your destruction was thorough. Commoragh was the second most heavily fortified location in the galaxy. You made it the second most thoroughly destroyed location in the galaxy. This is symmetrically satisfying."

"What about the casualties? Pretty minimal for taking down a whole dark city, right?"

"No. Your casualties were significant. Thirty million Liberty Guard. Three hundred thousand Astartes. But." Dorn raised a single finger. "For the destruction of Commoragh, this number is surprisingly small. Your tactics were efficient. Your ship is very large. And effective."

"Sweet Liberty does pack a punch," Franklin agreed proudly.

"Yes. It is sweet. And provides liberty. Through overwhelming firepower. This is logical." Dorn's expression shifted microscopically. "Your statue, however, is still excessive."

"But memorable!"

"Yes. They will remember. Because you made it indestructible. And very large. And it is flexing." Dorn seemed to consider this. "Perhaps this is also logical. Terror through interior decoration."

Franklin burst out laughing. "Brother, did you just make a joke?"

"No. I stated a fact. Your statue will terrorize them. Through its permanent presence. And its flexing. This is psychological warfare through architecture. It is acceptable."

"High praise coming from you, Rogal!"

"Yes." A long pause. "I would like to see the detailed fortification plans of Commoragh. For academic purposes. To understand how you destroyed them so thoroughly."

Franklin's grin widened. "Want to help me plan the next raid?"

"No. Maybe. Yes." Dorn's face remained impassive. "It would be practical to understand these tactics. In case xenos touch my boats."

"That's the spirit!"

"That is incorrect. I am not a spirit. I am Rogal Dorn. And you are Franklin Valorian. Who burns cities when people touch his boats. This is now known throughout the galaxy." Another microscopic shift in expression. "Good."

As Franklin continued sharing the tactical details, Dorn remained perfectly still, occasionally offering observations like "Yes. That wall needed to be destroyed" and "The placement of your statue is tactically optimal for maximum psychological impact."

In the end, Dorn had only one final observation: "Brother. Your methods are excessive. Theatrical. Sometimes illogical. But." He placed a hand on Franklin's shoulder. "They touched your boats. Your response was justified. Also, your statue will annoy them forever. This pleases me."

"Thanks, Rogal. Want to help me design the next statue?"

"No. Yes. Maybe. It should be fortified."

"A fortified statue of me flexing?"

"Yes. This is acceptable." A pause. "Make it two thousand feet tall."

Throughout the Phalanx, Imperial Fists paused in their duties, swearing they heard something that sounded suspiciously like their Primarch chuckling. They quickly dismissed this as impossible and returned to their fortifications.