Children of Mars

Nuceria Prime

New Deshea, The Red Citadel

The Royal Navy Manufactorum

There was a song in the air.

A song of hammers, saws and drills shaping steel sheets into their pre-selected designs. The grunts and cries of toil mixed with the hiss of raw ore being processed into molten metal, poured into sturdy matrices and flattened by gigantic machine pressers.

The song of industry, one familiar to every civilization since the dawn of time. In the manufactorum primus of New Deshea, dozens of enginseers worked with thousands of toiling workhands to bring to shape the mighty fleets of Nuceria. The smell of smoke, oil, molten slag and sweat filled the claustrophobic confines of the factories as parts were churned out of the great machines. These parts were, in turn, hauled off to the shipyards to be assembled. Man and automaton pieced together the steel skeletons, reinforced the framework till its integrity could withstand the force of a meteor, then screwed in the ceramite platings that formed the void shielding.

One vessel stood out from the rest, for it was set aside since its first conception for the Primarch himself. It was massive, far too massive for a mere battleship. At an impossible length of nine kilometres, the vessel openly defied Imperial ship standards with its size alone. Additional armor extensions covered its sides like the folded wings of a dragon, its prow was reinforced and several mega-afterburner engines were added to allow the vessel to close in for tactical collisions- a fancy term for ramming enemy ships in close-quarters. Its engine was a great fusion reactor that held the literal power of a young star- a sun engine. Comparatively, there was only one ship in the Imperial Navy that possessed such an engine, and that was the Emperor's flagship.

Gun batteries of macro-cannon caliber lined the upper hull, for 'twas decided that nothing less than the strongest weapons in the Imperial Navy's arsenal would adorn the hide of such a powerful beast. Torpedo launcher bays, like little beehives, lined the bow along with a separate array for drop-pod launchers. And fixed upon the middle of the Primarch's future flagship, nestled snugly in between the two halves formed by the outer hull, were three pronged cannons that were easily the size of small escort ships.

The Ursus Claws, the vessel's main weapon, would draw power from the sun engine to strike down the Imperium's foes from half a sub-sector's distance with just as much accuracy. They constituted something of a 'void-lance', a term derived from several intelligent xenos civilizations that the Imperium encountered in its time. Part energy and part ballistic, the weapon was designed to fire a specialized lance wrapped in burning plasma that was said to negate any shielding or armor and rupture them from within like a bolt round. All this was in theory, unfortunately. The vessel had yet to reach completion, and afterwards it needed to be tested first before it could finally be presented to the Primarch.

After all, only the very best could find their place in the Great Crusade.

A figure strode forth from the offices of the manufactorum, a woman who bore the regal posture of a child of House Thal'kyr.

She wore the long white coat of an officer's uniform, bedecked with honors from her many exploits throughout Nucerian space. Armored pauldrons shaped like the twin heads of the Imperial Aquila clung to her shoulders on either side, seemingly bestowing their Imperial blessing upon her every deed. A golden shield suspended from a small silver chain, the Aegean Order, hung just below her collar. It was the Nucerian equivalent of an Honorifica Imperialis, dispensed only to a select few over the course of Angronius' thirty year reign.

The woman wore a small bone-white plasteel breastplate over her uniform, and several plasteel plates over her thighs and boots. These plates served a practical purpose rather than mere decorations. They were sturdy enough to deflect stubber rounds or absorb weaker lasfire. A maroon leather holster hung from her left shoulder, holding her officer's sidearm tucked snugly under her arm. This paltry las-pistol was the only thing that served a decorative purpose, aside from the medals and accoutrements.

She was a weapon. For the woman was none other than Lotara Sarrin, firstborn of Angronius and Polgara Thal'kyr.

Lotara was taller than those who dared consider themselves her peers, and if that alone was not enough to convince them of her status, they could feel a measure of the same godlike presence that her father had when he was yet among them. Like all the daughters of Angronius, she was very beautiful. And the scars of her most vicious battles only served to accentuate her physical traits.

Her eyes, of purest gold like her mother's and edged ever so slightly with the signature purple that signified psychic power, scanned the working decks of the shipyard. While the other officers discussed, bickered and bragged amongst themselves, Lotara took in the progress of Nuceria's finest enginseers. She was captain of Battlefleet Nuceris Maxim, and this flagship was her design, as was the Ursus Claws.

The Conqueror, she named it. And even though the vessel was meant to be dedicated in her father's name, Lotara was determined to make the ship her own. Besides, the great king Angronius would have more important things to do than command a vessel. One day, her triumphs would adorn the hull of its prow and all who would lay eyes upon it would know that Lotara Sarrin commanded that ship.

"Look out!" An overseer's voice cried out in alarm from the work docks, drawing the captain's attention to the sight of a failing mechanical crane about to make its untimely descent. The steel joint snapped from the weight of its cargo, and the upper half of the crane toppled down. Cable, sparks, cargo-netted steel beams and all, rained upon a hapless group of workhands too slow to escape its fall.

Lotara stretched out her hand and saved them all. Work ceased in the shipyard, and every eye bore witness to her power as she bore the pile of scrap metal, loose cables and cargo away from their would-be victims. When all had been saved, everyone applauded the captain's deed and the work was resumed.

She wasn't all blood and pain, as her name entailed.

"Lady Sarrin!" First Officer Ivar Tobin approached his superior and offered a stiff salute, "Captain, news from your mother, the queen. You are summoned, the matter is urgent."

Lotara frowned, dropping the broken crane into the docks with a loud crash. Men and machines jumped aside for fear of getting crushed. She gathered her officers and boarded a transport shuttle to take her further back into the capital city, to her palace home where her siblings awaited her. Ivar Tobin followed, giving orders for their armed escorts to prepare a route that would safely but quickly take them to the gates of the Exalted Palace. These escorts were War Hounds, for nothing less than the mighty spacemarines were worthy to guard the children of Angronius. The legion was vast, they could for certain spare the number.

The shuttle was too crude a vessel to ferry the legionnaires, so they embarked upon their Stormbirds. With their charge safely stowed, the group sped away from the shipyard to join the multitude of aerial traffic filling the skylanes of the Red Citadel.

Lotara nursed the chamber of her sidearm as she stared at the blurred shapes of the city passing by. The queen failed to mention what it was exactly that was so important it required the captain's presence, and she was left to assume the worst. The only reasons she was called to the palace was if Lotara neglected to attend her mother's birthday celebration, or if the usual political intrigue turned ugly and it warranted a purge of the suspected nobility. The court of Nuceria was full of friends and enemies alike. The queen liked to keep both of them close, for as time and decisions passed, either one could be the other interchangeably. Keeping them close allowed for a swifter course of action. But that usually meant her life, and by extension the life of the royal family, was always in danger.

It was only a matter of resolution, of how much they were willing to risk, for few would dare to assail the House of Thal'kyr and incur the wrath of the Twelfth Legion. And those who were willing had the backing of shadowy organizations, powerful and much older than her father's empire. These organizations have answered the beck and call of kings, senators and lords for centuries- and for a price only the most generous of patrons could afford.

The list of individuals capable of such movements was long, for with the age of prosperity came an age of enrichment. Pretty much anyone in Nuceria could be gunning for the Tha'kyrs, assuming that this was the matter Lotara was called for.

Her eyes caught sight of several skycars hovering awfully close to the shuttle and the formation of Stormbirds, and immediately she knew that she was right to be suspicious. The captain looked around the shuttle. It was only her, Ivar Tobin and two guardsmen onboard the passenger compartment. The driver and another officer of the fleet were sitting in front. None of them had noticed the skycars yet. For the first time since that morning, Lotara opened her mouth to speak.

"Ivar, tell the War Hounds to make ready for battle. We have some poor fools here looking to try their luck with the Imperium's finest."

The first officer glanced up from his datapad in surprise, his eyes flitting from one window of the shuttle to another. He saw them too, closing in from every side at their flanks.

"Now, please." Lotara said firmly.

One of the skycars pursuing the convoy was a cargo carrier, not a civilian cruiser. It was larger, slower and carried several heavy passengers that warranted caution. When the doors swiveled open, they revealed two hulking brutes in power armor. They were mutants, by the look of their misshapen bulbous heads. Frothing maws lined with teeth filed down to fangs hung agape behind crude scarlet masks, and they bellowed curses as their clumsy giant hands hefted their heavy multi-lascannon desolators.

The Children of Mars finally made their presence in the Red Citadel known, once again targeting the family of House Thal'kyr. Where once, everyone thought them too wily to attempt such a brazen assault, they exceeded all expectations. Lasfire and stubber rounds filled the air, causing the skylane traffic to disperse in panic.

"Lilith's gaping ass!" Ivar exclaimed, "Driver, evasive maneuvers!"

The driver needn't worry, for the War Hounds were quick to draw the cultists' attention. The rear panel drop slid open, the spacemarines behind it took careful aim with their bolters and fired. The mutants convulsed as the hail of bolts opened hundreds of holes into their armor and made mincemeat of their insides upon detonation. The carrier erupted in flames and came apart like a bottle hurled against the wall, sending burning debris scattering across the skylanes.

The War Hounds were howling with wicked glee, taunting the cultists to come after them instead of their beloved Lotara. Surprisingly, they took the bait as though driven for the sake of conflict rather than accomplishing their goal. Lotara's shuttle made for the palace, speeding ahead of the convoy till it was far behind it. The War Hounds drew the fight out of the skylanes and into the living districts, forcing the cultist pursuers into tighter spaces- the obvious poor choice when facing War Hound legionnaires.

The spacemarines leapt from their Stormbirds, held aloft by jetpacks, and collided with the skycars. Point-blank, they shot the drivers to pieces and moved to the next to repeat the same grisly procedure.

Lotara escaped with her life and arrived at the landing pad inside the palace gardens preceding the grand entryway, and quick as she was the captain immediately disembarked. One Stormbird carrying an entire squad of spacemarines managed to land beside the transporter, and the War Hounds descended to cover their charge. She commanded the palace guardsmen to step aside when they moved to secure the shuttle, pressing her pace into a run when the sounds of the battle in the city skylanes drew ever closer to the walls of the Exalted Palace. Her entourage of officers and guardian spacemarines followed her inside, and only once they were all inside the ceramite gates did Lotara heave a sigh of relief.

"Well, that was exciting." She remarked dryly, turning to her first officer. "Take a breath, Ivar. You're looking pale."

The first officer's chest was pumping frenetically as he struggled to breathe. Ivar tugged at his collar till the button snapped, releasing his throat from the fabric's clutches. At once, his color changed back to its usual red blush. "Nothing to worry about, ma'am. Just the uniform and me having a disagreement."

"If I may say so, that was indeed a bold move." One of the War Hounds said to Lotara, "Bold but foolish. Who would dare assail us in broad daylight?"

"Come now, if all our enemies were smart we'd hardly have anyone to fight at all." The captain replied, beckoning for all to keep in step with her. "Let the foolish be foolish still, and so can we cull the galaxy of the chaff."

"Tara! Darling!" Polgara cried out upon seeing her daughter enter the throneroom.

She rose up ever so slightly upon her seat, that exalted throne of rich hardwood and dark emerald bedecked with layers of soft red cushions. Three dog heads sprouted from the top, grasping an arcing chain in their mouths that ran up to the wall behind the throne. The ends of the chain suspended two censers that burned fresh with offering incense. Two more dogs locked in a perpetual walking motion formed the armrests, where the soft furs of slain bears adorned their wooden hides. The throne was twice the size of the queen, for it had been created to seat a Primarch.

When Angronius reigned, Polgara was content to sit at his feet, hands grasping his legs like a common concubine. An endearing gesture, perhaps, but one unbecoming of a queen of Nuceria. Now, it was she who sits upon his throne. Unfortunately, the sight of her struggling to fill up the empty space served only to reinforce the metaphor that she grasped at powers beyond her control- of an empire that strained to break free from House Thal'kyr and return to the old ways.

Lotara crossed the vastness of the chamber, finding it mostly empty due to the queen's decision to keep the meeting within the family and among the most trusted of her advisors. Half of the throneroom was just one grand stairway leading to a higher stairway, bordered by black marble statues depicting magnificent titans that bore braziers of considerable weight upon their shoulders. Great tongues of fire lapped at the air from these braziers, lighting up the chamber better than a dozen floodlights. They complimented the high windows of painted glass that depicted the Primarch's greatest deeds, his monument to his rise to power when he and the Emperor of Mankind wrestled Nuceria from the grasp of the treacherous False Emperor. The rest of the interior was decorated with a myriad of golden lions or silver panthers, all clawing at the walls or climbing invisible staircases towards the ceiling where the mural of the Primarch's early life in the ludus gladiatorius was painted.

Beside these statues were living titans armored in dark red- her father's terminators. They were called from the fleet guarding Nuceria Prime not long after Sovereign Sonjita's visit, their presence confirming Lotara's worst fears. The cultists that attacked her were indeed part of something bigger.

The captain's boots scraped noisily against the white marble floor, and she ascended the stairs till she was face to face before the queen. Polgara reached up to touch her daughter's face, struggling to stand on the tips of her toes as Lotara towered above her. Her half-brother Corso was there, summoned from the battle barge Storm's Eye that orbited Nuceria II. He wore the armor of the legion, clad in ceramite and the skin of a lion he killed when he was but an adolescent. To him, she offered a firm grasp of the forearm, a modest greeting between equals. Two lords of the small council Polgara kept stood at the wings, both emitting a certain indescribable aura that could be easily dismissed as the general air of filthy politicians. The sovereign Sonjita was present too, and had been waiting for some time. Lotara greeted Sonjita warmly, stepping into her open arms for an affectionate kiss on the cheek.

"Dearest aunt, I did not expect you." She said, "But nevertheless, this is a pleasant surprise."

"My my, Lotara Sarrin." Sonjita breathed, taking in the form of the fruit of Polgara's loins. "You look just like your mother!"

Indeed, she would look just like her mother if she hadn't inherited her father's stature. "What brings you to the capital?"

"The same reason you were brought in." The Red Maiden replied, "We have a new enemy to face on this world. They are called the Children of Mars, a deluded but dangerous cult seeking to overthrow us. They have struck before, nearly claiming my life- there I have seen that they have the means to attain that which they seek. We have to act fast, for their reach extends far and beyond our comprehension."

"Firstly, I must ask where is the rest of our household?" Lotara inquired, "What of Mercer? Of Titus, Xenobia or Janissa? Should we not apprise them of the situation?"

"Mercer is undergoing the Trials to become a legionnaire." Polgara explained, "Under no circumstance must he be interrupted. Xenobia and Janissa are offworld, undertaking a task for the crown. As for Titus, he is uncharacteristically late. I fear the worst."

"And you are right to fear!" A voice, particularly loathed by most of the House of Angronius, declared. All eyes turned to the figure boldly striding across the floor of the throneroom. The man was as tall as an astartes champion, dressed in a wargear patched together from different sets of armor, as though he'd scavenged his way through his battles as much as he fought in them. The tattered crimson cowl barely hid the golden half-mask adorning his face, but it was enough for everyone present to recognize.

It was Ichabod the Outcast.

He carried a sword in one hand drenched in blood, its edges spread out to form two prongs like the fangs of a serpent. In the other, he grasped the horns of a hideous red daemon he had killed moments before entering the chamber. Behind him stumbled Titus, who leaned so heavily upon his sister Morgana as he followed his half-brother into the throneroom. His robes were also soaked in blood- his blood. Someone attacked him, presumably the same enemy that attacked Lotara Sarrin in the skylanes.

"Your palace home is overrun by traitors and daemons!" Ichabod said, tossing the head in the queen's direction.

Polgara's lips quivered in disgust as the daemon's head spilled its scarlet contents all over her feet. Once again, she felt the burning in her bones just by looking at him. They all felt that. She never wanted to see her son again, having grown content to have him so far away from the city of his birth. Ichabod, her shame and her sorrow, defied her just by being present that day. It overruled her concern for her family, and Angronius wasn't around to keep her from indulging her darkest whims. "I commanded you never to return, boy! How dare you set foot in the capital!"

No love was lost between them. Ichabod sighed inwardly, for even though he expected so little of his own mother, he was disappointed. Still, this was not what he came for.

"You are not welcome here, brother." Lotara said, "State your intentions and begone."

"I am not welcome?" Ichabod peered through his mask in deep suspicion at the two lords shrinking into the shadows of the court. His boots stomped their way up the stairs, the Outcast closed the distance without a care for the terminators moving to block his path. Everyone started drawing their weapons as he was but two feet away from the queen and sovereign. "Sister, you regard your own flesh and blood with much ire- yet you fail to see that those you bring to your inner circle are the true danger."

Everyone could feel the overwhelming aura of the pariah by then, and it served to mask the stench of daemons from the two lords- but not from Ichabod. He could see them clear as day, for the things they truly were.

Corso was more level-headed than his family, a trait he earned through years of discipline under the brutal tutelage of the legionnaire veterans. He turned his gaze to the lords and stepped aside to let Ichabod pry for answers, "Them? Dangerous? How much more dangerous can a pair of sycophants be?"

"My lords and ladies!" One of the councilors squeaked, "Surely our support for this court earns us much goodwill!"

"Why do you allow the Outcast to judge us so?" The other shrank back as Ichabod grabbed the front of his robes.

"I do not know." Corso straightened up, hand still on the hilt of his sword. "Perhaps I just like to see you quiver."

"I judge not for the sake of fear." Ichabod scowled beneath his mask, the fingers on his free hand finding their way around the hard beads of some hidden charm hanging around the neck of the lord under his scrutinizing gaze. "As for my intentions, sister, I have come back to this place to burn out the hidden evil you've allowed to take root."

With a firm tug, Ichabod tore the charm from the lord's body along with several strips of his robe, revealing a chest etched with scarification symbols that burned red with malevolence. At once, no longer hidden by the paltry bauble, the true form of the nobleman was revealed to the court. His flesh burst apart and fell away like a suit discarded from an actor ready to advance to the next part of the play. The skinchanger, half reptilian and half something else, lunged forward to sink its fangs into Ichabod's exposed neck.

Three bursts from Corso's bolt-pistol ruptured the creature's body and turned it into an ugly mass of twitching meat, further staining the courtroom with daemon blood. Ichabod didn't flinch when the mini explosions slapped his body about, and he quickly passed judgement upon the other nobleman by cutting him in half with his sword.

"In the court too?" The legionnaire primaris growled, turning to the terminators and guardsmen present. "Legionnaires, secure the throneroom! I suspect that will not be the last of them!"

"They won't." Ichabod explained, pointing to a wounded Titus who Morgana gently set down upon the steps. "They've come from beneath the palace grounds, by now half the palace halls have been overrun. Your guardsmen are doing their best, but they will be overwhelmed within the hour. I have faced this same horde in the wastelands of Costigane, and it is vast beyond measure. Your best chance of seeing through this day is to end this rebellion here and now- to strike at the heart of the incursion and drive the cult back to the Empyrean."

"I suppose it is fortunate for us that you came when you did." Corso said, "I thank you, brother."

"Half-brother." Ichabod corrected.