Chapter Text
Beans came in more colors and shapes than Six had expected.
He had valiantly, but only barely resisted the impulse to spread them out on the rim of his plate.
It would have seemed unseemly and he didn't exactly want to be thought of as simple or strange.
Some part of him felt regret. If the rim had been just a bit wider, he might have been able to discreetly push aside a specimen of each type, without spilling the sauce surrounding them onto the white tablecloth.
The Deliverer's table cloth.
Six hastily placed his spoon in his mouth, removing from sight the object of inspection.
As he looked up, he saw himself reflected in the Lord Corax's full-black eyes. "Is everything alright?", the Raven Lord asked, "There are other options."
Six did not choke. "No. It's good!"
The Deliverer wasn't convinced. "You have said that of every dish we have had."
Six was still chewing.
"Maybe, that's because everything we have had so far was pretty good.", Lord Nuon said, "The cooks know what they are doing."
Six nodded empathically.
"They are doing good work, but I wouldn't fault you for still avoiding some ingredients. If you ever come across some ingredient or dish you don't like, please say something.", the Primarch said.
Six could have left the conversation die there. It would have been easiest to do so. He took a breath. He had been granted so many privileges. The least he could do was to reach out from time to time. What purpose else had these meals in the Primarch's private halls, on a table with chairs in three different sizes and away from prying eyes?
"I was just looking at it.", he said, "I didn't know they can have colors. It's pretty. They are all so varied."
"It is a diverse type of crop", the Primarch said, encouragingly.
Six nodded. It was one of these many pieces of luxury that he now was surrounded by: Food that wasn't uniform, that was slightly different with each bite. Some of the beans were harder, some were softer. Some separated into halves beneath pressure, some into thirds or quarters. Some had a thin, soft skin, others not.
"We have entered distance vox-range of Deliverance a few hours ago.", the Primarch said, "Me and the Shadow Wardens will visit both the moon itself and Kiavahr. The people have to see that word of my return is true. We will likely stay up to a month. Is there something you'd like to see?"
"I have heard the Raven Spire is... amazing.", Six said. It was true, even if an understatement. He had never dreamed of stepping foot into a system as holy as the origin-place of a Primarch, the fated ground of the Deliverer's first victories.
He would have to burn a candle for all of the martyrs that had died in the uprising. There had to be so many shrines... he'd never be able to visit all of them. Which would be the most important ones?
He held himself back from asking the question.
The Primarch had probably valued those people. He didn't want to remind the Deliverer of what he had lost. Especially not, when Six himself was such a poor substitute.
At first, Six thought that one of the serfs had forgotten the outfit.
Maybe, they had fetched it for some important person, and then been distracted, leaving the fine fabrics neatly folded upon the white sheets of the bed Six was allowed to use.
There was a polite knock at the door, and Six might have nearly deluded himself that the mistake had been noticed. The Illusion held only as long as the door needed to open.
"Hello Six", said Cordae, "What are your preferences for the Primarch's arrival?"
"I... am sorry?"
"There will be a parade and many acts of ceremony. Do you want to be escorted directly to the Ravenspire?"
"I.", Six said, sounding very smart here! he chastised himself, "Escorted?"
"The population will be celebrating, there will be a parade and most of the infrastructure will be shut down or employed to ensure the security and direction of the masses. The streets will be full. You will need the authority provided by the Chapter to pass the checkpoints."
"Will Lord Nuon be with me?", Six asked, "Or maybe Champion Cyban?"
"Moraki is responsible for your safety. He will be with you in any case. Kasati will be in attendance to the Primarch. Lord Corax desires to make it very clear that there will be no questions to his loyality."
"Oh.", Six said.
Cordae frowned. "What are you thinking? Please talk to me."
"If I don't go, will that be inconvenient to Lord Corax?"
"I wouldn't expect that.", Cordae said, "Nuon will be a lot less palatable to the Imperium than you. There isn't the stain of a traitor's geneseed to you."
That might have been true, but Six didn't have anything approaching Lord Nuon's heroics, rank or power.
For all that might have spoken against Lord Nuon, at least there arguments speaking for him.
Would the Primarch decide to hide away Six forever? It would have been kind of him.
But once Six agreed to such a favor, how often would he be able to see the Primarch? Why should the Deliverer send away his attendants, put a halt to his important tasks? Six shouldn't fear being forgotten. He did.
Six imagined the Raven Spire. He imagined rooms like the ones he used currently, and strange faces.
He imagined waiting. These parades, they probably took a while.
Would there be people attending to those rooms?
What was he supposed to tell them?
Wouldn't they wonder why he wasn't celebrating the Primarch's return?
"Can I stay with the Pr- Lord Corax?"
"You can.", Lord Cordae carefully studied Six, "He will be the center of attention. Are you sure you still want this? He does not demand this of you."
"Does he not want to be seen with me?"
"He wants you to be where ever you will be most comfortable."
"I want to be with him.", Six said, "I. I mean. If that's okay. I know I am not very useful, or much to look at or... If. If. It is okay, and if I am not going to... be annoying."
"You won't.", Lord Cordae said, "I will tell the Primarch."
Six wasn't sure that he had made the right decision. If he had only known what the Raven Lord required of him!
It made little sense that a mortal, so deeply flawed man like Six should be bound to the Primarch. Yet, if the Emperor had in the incomprehensible reasoning of divinity decided that Six was to serve a Primarch, Six had to try and leverage his whole being to accomplish the task.
To try and hide away would have made him worse than useless, it would be cowardice and blasphemy.
"So. Uh." Six gestured towards the clothes, "Am I supposed to wear these, then?"
Lord Cordae took a moment to study the outfit. "I suspect so.", he said, "The astartes will be in parade uniform or ceremonial armor. Is something wrong with it?"
"No. Just. I was given a nice set already. Now this one, too... It looks expensive.", Six said. The jacket was made from black on black brocade, the hundreds of heraldic ravens formed by the chapter only visible if the light reflected the on the smooth silk threads.
The buttons and decorative needles looked very much like true silver. There was a completely new pair of shoes made from jet-black, impossibly smooth leather. Six had never before in his life bought shoes without his current pair being completely worn out.
"Well", the Chaplain grinned, "The chapter can afford it. Though if there are things you'd like to have changed, you should probably inform the serfs soon. I suspect the craftsmen will be very busy in the next days."
It was raining on Kiavahr.
The water fell down in think sheets, hurried along the ground by gusts of wind.
It pooled in the streets, and the lines of splash back hurried along the ground, driven in whichever direction the wind blew in that moment.
The grandiose structures of the city were grey and black, the blocking or forcing airflow along facades or edges in chaotic patterns. It was impossible to tell in which angle the rain would fall just three feet further.
Decorations had been raised, their colors or designs were mostly lost in the storm. Flags hung sodden and darkened from poles or buildings.
More than one garland had been ripped from their place, and was lying crumbled beneath the unwavering threads of the astartes.
Six walked directly behind the Primarch, next to Lord Nuon. Lord Cyban and a line of Shadow Wardens followed, then a block of dignitaries.
The astartes marched before as well as after them, each captain leading his own neatly arranged company, standards and signs of honor aloft.
Six did not know how many astartes there were, and who would walk before or after them.
He was grateful for the force field which, anchored to a series of servitors, protected the Primarch and the dignitaries from the downpour. He hoped that the ceremonial armor would keep the astartes marching in the rain dry.
The roar of the crowds at the sight of the Primarch was earth-shattering, like a titan powering up its engines and canons at the same time. Six could sympathize. He imagined a benevolent smile on the noble face of the Deliverer, greeting the people of this first planet he had brought into the light of the Emperor.
A Primarch's approval was like being injected a stim at utter exhaustion, electrifying, addicting, strengthening the body and at the same time separating the soul from such worldly concerns as pain.
Before the parade had taken off, the most merciful of The Emperor's sons had smiled at Six arriving to participate in the procession, and for a moment, Six had felt as if an anti-grav speeder had hit him in the hollow of his knees.
And still, Six found himself wondering how far their destination was. The crowd was an organism of grasping hands and shouts, and Six found himself observing the arbites securing the street, fearful that this strange beast might slip their wall of shields. He wasn't even sure what it was he dreaded so much, but he felt himself drifting closer to Lord Nuon, desperate to turn and confirm that Champion Cyban was still present.
There was a cry, and Six saw the burn-scars of electricity in the air, a baton arcing down. He shuddered, and turned away.
All along the way, people were swaying, falling to their knees or against their neighbors.
Binary chanting was surrounding them, techpriests praising the son of the Omnissaia.
They had the privilege of standing first in line on many of the streets. After all, the Raven Lord had given the world into their keeping.
It was clear that they too would bow to the Deliverer, but the fact that they did made Six feel like an intruder. There was no good reason for him to walk so close to the subject of their veneration that their didn't even straighten before Six passed.
Servo skull and cherubim flew above them, flower pedals and incense trailing them. Some of them got caught beneath the force field, hitting it again and again in their attempts to reach the programmed altitude.
Most were harmlessly dragged along by the force field bearing servitors left and right of the procession, but Six saw one cherubim with dove-gray feathers hitting the force-field face-up.
He didn't see what exactly had given way, but after the third hit there was a reddish stain in the sky, the cherubim's face stamping itself in blood along the barrier.
"Aren't they going to help it?", Six asked.
Lord Nuon looked at him. "What?"
Six indicated the trapped machine. It had lost feathers, and one of its wings seemed crooked by now, flapping uselessly. Had its wings truly been the reason for its flight, it would have fallen by now but the anti-grav technology installed in it held it further aloft.
"Too high.", Lord Nuon said, shrugging, "Someone is probably going to deal with it after the parade." He seemed to notice Six's discomfort at the words, "Its like a servitor, it doesn't feel pain. Just look away."
Six tried to.
Yet he couldn't keep himself from listening through the hubbub and the crowd, expecting at every moment to again hear the dull thuds of flesh-covered metal hitting the barrier.
Then, their route took them down a new street. Here, only partially or cheaply augmented humans stood and behind them those that Six would have maybe counted himself among. They evidently had stood there for a long time to secure their spaces. Some wore had draped blankets over their heads, baskets, bags and empty food cans stood between their legs. In some cases, lighter, dry patches on their clothes and the ground proved that they had curled up in the rain and not moved for hours, only rising as the procession approached.
The street was thinner, or maybe the crowd stood thicker, but either way, the servitors now nearly scraped along the crowd's edge. All the rain that would have fallen onto the street now swapped down as a thousand small waterfalls. It hit the crowd, splattering onto heads and shoulders, drenching them as sure as falling into a stream would have.
Yet the people pushed closer to the Primarch, ever closer until the arbites beat them back. Their faces were reddened from their shouts and they shook. Six felt something cold running down his face. Only as Kasati threw him an alarmed look did he realize that he was crying.
"They have waited for so long.", he said. In the rain, he couldn't say whether they were crying, too, but who wouldn't have at the Primarch's return?
"Lord Corax!", they cried, "Corax! Deliverer! Raven Lord!" Beneath it, there were a thousand pleas and prayers, melting together into a wordless, primal noise. There was no place for them to fall to their knees, and even the fainting remained half standing.
Finally, the space widened again, and Six breathed a sigh of relief.
The magi lining the way now stood in silent dignity. They didn't need to cheer, they had brought castrati and augmented servants to do so.
They also had their own force fields protecting them.
They progressed further, and the voices calling out to them became rougher, but also more natural again. People wore civilian clothing again, and by the looks it was for many the sole good outfit they possessed. Six knew those worn down edges, those modifications by safety pins, those just-too-short sleeves and pants, that came with wearing the Emperor's Day's Best your older siblings had grown out of.
People had climbed on any free surface to be able to view the parade, children were held into the air by their guardians.
"Your blessing, Deliverer! Grant her health!"
"Bless him, please!"
"Liberator! Liberator!"
There was a toddler with a red hat. It was held aloft by a woman that seemed too young to be its mother. It wasn't crying. The rain was falling.
In spite of many instincts screaming at him not to, to keep decorum and hope to remain unnoticed, Six sped his steps, pushing himself to walk a half-step in front of Lord Nuon. Luckily, the speed of the procession was slow, ceremonial and so it was able for a mortal to partially face the astartes, keeping up while talking and walking sideways.
"They are all so close to the barriers. Can't we turn off the force-field?", he asked.
"No.", Lord Cyban and Lord Nuon said in unison. There was a moment of silence as both astartes shared an irritated look.
Finally, Moraki turned his head, slipping back into his role as a silent guard.
"Why do you ask?", Lord Nuon wondered, "Do you want that?"
Stupid. Six thought. What if they are annoyed?
"We can get you one of those generators later. Then you can study it. Maybe in one of the Chapter's training halls?", Lord Nuon offered. "Hey, Moraki, they should be big enough, right?"
"Take the ones for jet-pack drills.", the Raven Guard said, "Those should have high enough ceilings."
"No!", Six gasped, before realizing he was in public and forcing himself to lower his voice. Luckily, the noise of the masses probably meant that the spectators couldn't hear him. "No, that's... I can't keep the angels from training, I wouldn't." his shoulders drew up to his ears, "And also... I. I don't mean to ask for myself. Seeing them collapse and reform would be awesome, but... the water is going to go down into the crowd, look. The people are going to get wet. The children."
None of the astartes replied.
Six thought of the toddler. "They might get sick.", he said, quiet enough for the words to be passed off as spoken to himself.
"If they might get sick, so might you.", Lord Cyban replied, "They are probably used to it. You're fresh from a climate controlled ship."
Six felt himself shrink. "I am sorry."
As Six walked on, his gaze lowered, something black appeared in his field of vision.
It was the heels of the Primarch, who had stopped walking. The whole procession came to a sudden halt.
Murmurs moved through the procession.
Six realized his error. He hadn't even thought about the dignitaries. Had he truly just proposed for them, Nobles and Rouge Traders and Inquisitors and Ecclesiarchs, to bear the rain?
"Who stands here, who is not my son, but is healthy of body and determined of mind?", the voice of the Primarch wasn't raised, and yet, it was clear to hear all over the street, full of authority.
People fell to their knees and Six made to do so, but Lord Cyban lifted him into the air before his clothes touched the wet ground.
Six stared at the astartes, dangling from the angel's arms.
"How stands here, who cares for humanity like my father taught?", the Primarch asked.
The dignitaries started shouting over each other, claims of worthiness and assurances of service.
"Good.", the Primarch said, "Those of you, who are strong and healthy: step to the right. Who are with child, old or infirm, may step to the left."
Slowly, people moved. The dignitaries, especially those who stepped to the left, did so with trepidation. Some hid their racing thoughts better than others.
"We will continue to move, but we won't do so to the detriment of the people.", the Primarch said, "I expect the right column to move up when this procession starts again, and the left column to fall back.", he turned, and started walking again.
The right column, emboldened in being placed before their peers, pushed forward. Soon the line of dignitaries was longer, but thinner.
The Raven Lord quietly spoke into his mouth piece.
Six saw the servitors carrying the force fields fall back, towards what had been the left column. The fields shrunk, covering only a strip in the middle of the street, but small group of dignitaries in the back easily adjusted.
The Primarch made a gesture, and Lord Cyban moved up to him, still carrying Six. At a second gesture, the mortal was set down to walk beneath the ceramite wings of the Primarch's armor.
The celebratory hall, its ceiling so high that mist collected over the people's heads, was what Six would have imagined if someone had told him to dream of a hall worthy of a Primarch.
It was bright and golden, light gleaming on decorations from all sides.
No spot was left bare, every element so full of details that it was impossible to fully commit to mortal memory.
There were geometric shapes, but they were broken open: loop-sided parabolas, frames like cut-open, wild grown wood from bend trees, like Six had seen on pict casts. At the time, he had wondered about them and the narrator that spoke as if they were alive though they were falling apart.
It was organic, and irregular, and unpredictable and overwhelming, frightening.
Made from gold, they looked much cleaner than the real thing, and even the gemstone insects failed to evoke disgust in Six.
With their edges not overgrown, not covered in water, dirt or slime, the structures ended in thin, serrated edges and innumerable points.
Horizontal structures, jut out of the wall and the pillars, failing to be both circular and even. They were made that way on purpose, Six knew, but he couldn't quite fathom the motivation to diverge from the sacred geometrical rules of machinery.
The floor was made from clear material, poured and hardened over a carpet of objects. Cut gems and silversmith work in enamel and pieces of embroidery as well as lace were strewn between roots. They depicted mosses, small ground dwelling animals, spider webs, stones, leaving and thorny plans, mushrooms and ground living animals.
The perceived unevenness of the visible ground was something Six's instincts didn't know how to deal with. He needed to be fully aware of any of his steps, he quickly found, or his subconscious would spot the decoration from the corner of his eye and alarm his whole body that he had miscalculated and needed to adjust immediately to not stumble and fall.
The golden leaves above him were too many, always calling out for an up-close inspection that would never come, for no mortal could hope to complete it.
Even the few depictions of skull and bones, that familiar sign of the Emperor's noble work for humanity and reminder of the futility of any life, this futility, that could only be overcome by service to him... even they felt too detailed, the structures too fine and individual, the metal pores leaving the surface at the same time fragile and rough.
Six moved like a man concussed.
"Your first time, my Lord?"
Six turned to see a woman.
She had flawless posture and hair so dark brown it nearly looked black.
Her make-up was severe, but restrained in comparison to that of others.
Her dress was form fitting, dark like her hair. Strands of yarn lay over her face, breasts and neck, drawing strict geometric patterns.
"I...", Six stuttered.
"This is no place for conversation.", she said, "Lets have a drink on the plaza."
She offered her elbow, and before Six thought about it, he was already linked up with her, steered trough a holographic waterfall and out into the cold night air of Kiavahr.
The plaza was a circular platform, the roof of a lower thread of the spire, adhered to the one containing the festive hall, up above over the planet.
Force fields protected the area and the esteemed guests from the thin air and violent winds that came with their presence in the spire tops.
The woman flicked her hand, and two cubic structures floated towards the railing.
She sat down on one of them, and gestured for Six to do the same.
Six looked around. Moraki's armored form had followed them, but now the astartes stood a few steps over, observant, always, but not alarmed or irritated.
Six took a breath. He had signed up for this by asking the Primarch to keep him present during the celebrations, hadn't he?
One couldn't expect to do this, and not be noticed.
Suddenly, he wished his lessons in etiquette had reached more social situations than attending the Primarch.
He sat down. The cube, while looking solid, was actually soft and warm, a comfortable piece of furniture.
"Hello. I... eh. I don't know your name... my lady?", he admitted and hoped that the generic title wouldn't be taken as an insult.
She nodded "I am Nicita Sana Yorkhall-Countess. You may call me Nicita, if you'd like."
"I am called Six."
She seemed surprised by that but politely didn't comment on it. "Well met, Six. I hope you are enjoying your stay so far?"
"I do. I never thought I'd ever get to see Kiavahr.", Six said, "It is an honor."
"We all have been caught off guard by this sudden change in the path of history, haven't we?", she tapped her finger against the back of her other hand, thoughtfully, "But that's no excuse for me to forget my manners. I have promised you a drink."
At her gesture, the side of her cubic seat fell open. Two small, hovering sphere emerged. Her palm up turned, her fingers spread vaguely conical, she allowed one of the spheres to land.
Noiselessly, the top half of the device withdrew. It revealed itself to be a bowl-like vessel, containing an amber colored liquid.
There was an awkward moment of silence, until Six hurried to imitate her.
"Cheers", she said, and sipped on it.
The liquid, Six found, was both slightly sour and bitter. Like many alcoholic specialties, it smelt better than it tasted.
At his second sip, he felt that he had maybe been too harsh. At a few more, the taste only barely fell short of the fragrance.
"Do you like it?", Nicita asked.
Six nodded.
"I am glad to hear it. It is a family recipe. Some say it was first written down before Atomic Day."
Six frowned. "Which one?"
"The first one, of course. The Day of the Deliverer's fury, before he was called that."
Six was stuck silent for a moment. To be able to trace back one's line so far back, to such a monumental point in mythology- no, history... it made his head spin.
Nicita sipped her drink.
Glad of the chance to collect himself, Six studied the vessel in his hands.
It was sleek and lightweight. He wondered how the edges had been designed to so seamlessly retreat.
The walls of the cup were just thick enough to not cut his lips. Were were the mechanisms? Were were the holy cables and their copper cores?
His fascination didn't stay unnoticed.
"Are you new to Kiavahran tech?", Nicita asked. At his affirmative, she smiled. "You are in for a real treat, then. No one in this Imperium does it quite like us."
"It is fascinating.", Six admitted, "I would love to see how it works."
There was a spark in Nicita's eyes. "I could arrange something.", she said and pulled one of her rings off her finger. It widened in the same seamless way the sphere had transformed into a vessel, "Give me a day of your choice and you will be a guest of the Yorkhall factorums. Would you prefer a discreet pick up?"
Six thought of the pomp of the parade. "Yes, please."
"Very well." She smiled at him. The ring shimmered and the crest on top of it melted, leaving behind an abstract pattern of geometric figures.
Nicita Sana of the ancient line of Yorkhall, Countess by blood but but not by law, hurried to the hygiene chambers as soon as the conversation was done.
She locked the door, checked it twice, and leaned against the tiled wall. For a moment, she allowed herself to breathe.
Once she was reasonably sure she wouldn't lose control of her stomach, she straightened. This had gone well, better than she had thought.
She hoped she wasn't mistaken, that her actions hadn't sealed the fate of Yorkhall. Yet, she wasn't one to wait out a threat.
Most of the other houses, those that were old and remembered the horror of Raven Lord's ascension would wait. They were few now, replaced by or mixed up with off-worlders or Lyaceans.
Some had managed to place their offspring among the mystics of Mars, who now reaped the benefits of Kiavahran work and old secrets. They were unassailable, placed by the Imperium, unwilling to participate in politics and too powerful to be forced to do so.
Yet, even these attempts had been futile, for the children given to Mars were lost to their families just as those given to the chapters.
They were taken away, and when they returned they served other masters, the lines that had created them forgotten. Beseeching them for favors, even attempting to re-establish contact was as futile as if they had been any other of these rebuild creatures.
Most of the upper class truly believed the new cult, religious fanatics that they were. They were probably glad of the Raven Lord's return.
Had Nicita had had more kindness in her heart, she might have hoped that their faith might protect them. As it was, she knew that this strategy, whether it worked or not, was unavailable to her family.
Had she known that the tyrant would return, she might have considered raising her children to pray to him with the masses. Now, even if she had been able to swallow her pride and discard the over ten thousand year old heritage of her family (and she would have, for these children she had born, that depended on her, she would have) it was to late, now.
If it was as they said and the Raven Lord could see the truth of one's mind, they would never pass as believers. And if she had for some reason expected the impossibility of the Primarch returning and raised her children in lies, who knew whether it would have saved them?
She cursed her ancestors for the truth they had kept alive, the identity they had possibly saved at the cost of dooming future generations. And yet, she had taught her children the way she had been taught, revealing old documents beneath encryptions and whispering accounts of the past few dared to talk about.
She had taught them of their ancestors who had been killed, the estates and factories that would have been theirs but had been turned into dust.
She had taught them to say the right words, to smile and pay respects to the red-robed corpses, to pray and attend the humiliating functions they were forced to as if it was a joy. But she had whispered to them the truth of where they came from, as it had been taught to her in her youth, as generations of Yorkhalls had.
As a child, Nicita had been raised according to an dynamic academic developmental concept.
This meant, that while there had been a rough schedule for her education, it had been her own, personal responsibility to work through the material and decide when to take her exams.
Other children had struggled with this, either putting off learning or learning but putting off requesting examinations out of fear of being unprepared.
Nicita had not made these mistakes. She had been fast, maybe too fast for her own good. She would do her work, studying furiously for several days, refusing to repeat any task of of a type she had succeeded at once.
She would cram facts into her head over night, and on the next morning, she would demand to be examined.
It had worked better for her than it probably should have. Her tutors didn't question her decision, glad to have one pupil who wasn't lagging behind, even if this pupil generally scored lower than she probably could have.
Nicita had the marks one would have expected of a child with below-average intelligence but high work ethic. Many things she learned to forget within days and sometimes, she only realized during the exam that she had, in fact, not understood a certain method.
Yet, she never changed her approach. Exams were miserable, but the one thing worse was the time before, waiting for night to pass, for breakfast to be over, for their tutors to arrive, for the lesson to start, for the exam sheet to be placed on her desk or for one of the tutors to take her into a private room.
Once these moments had passed, she was allowed to act, and never-mind whether her actions had lead her to success or to failure, she could shut her knowledge from her mind now, put it behind herself as belonging to a past experience.
It probably was a character flaw, this recklessness. Others would be smarter, more careful. They were waiting for her to fail, undoubtedly intending to learn from her fate and do better. And yet.
And yet Nicita had acted, for she couldn't truly believe that preparation and patience would have saved her.
She steeled her nerves. No way like through. In the privacy of the hygiene chamber, she called her brother.
"Edmund, I need you to have them clean the house. Prepare everything for a guest. Prepare the factory for a visitor, pay the workers a full-month's worth of a bonus.
Yes, I mean it.
Yes, everyone.
Find someone that gives great presentations. No. Find multiple someones. One for every station.
We might not need them all, but we need them ready.
Do the children have appointments?
They aren't going. They will need to be present.
No, not the suits, not the uniforms. Have them dressed for the play room. We need them to look like kids, not heirs. We will get them through this.
No, it's not...
I don't know who it is, but my men on the ground say he walked beneath the Primarch's wing, so I don't specifically care to know specifics.
...we are in the line of fire either way. I'd rather be purged while doing something than sit down and wait.
I know he didn't the first time round, but we were the only ones present, then. He had to spare some or there would have been chaos. It's different now. We are a minority in not being newcomers. If he decides to finish what he has started, this time round there won't even be a halt in production.
Yes, he is here.
No, there haven't been any deaths yet."
She swallowed.
"That I know of, at least. We will know in the next days.
I am fine, I think. Go prepare now. Hug the children. I will let you know when I am on my way back.
Edmund. If I am not back by tomorrow... There is an interplanetary fund set up on your name. The key is her blankie's name.
Get the children out, however you can.”
She closed her eyes.
“Give them to Mars, if you have to."