Ambition

In his private chambers aboard the Vengeful Spirit, Horus sat studying the campaign reports from Commoragh, his expression growing increasingly troubled. Data-slates littered his desk, each containing fragments of a victory that, by all rights, should have been impossible.

40 million Liberty Guard dead or missing.

500,000 Astartes Dead or Missing

Multiple captains wounded.

By any reasonable metric, these losses should have crippled the 11th Legion. Yet Horus knew better. The Liberty Eagles would recover their numbers within a year, perhaps less. Franklin's industrial base in the Independence Sector wouldn't allow anything less. That thought brought a slight frown to Horus's otherwise perfect features.

He pulled up another data-slate, reviewing the initial invasion force:

700,000 Astartes

50 million Liberty Guard

700 vessels

The Sweet Liberty (classification: Archangel)

500,000 aircraft

100 tank battalions

1,000 Knight walkers

3 Titans

1 million artillery pieces

"Impossible," Horus muttered, though he knew it wasn't. The evidence lay before him in irrefutable detail. His brother had done what even he would have hesitated to attempt: a direct assault on Commoragh itself.

He'd just finished subjugating an entire sector under the Emperor's orders, a campaign that had required careful planning, overwhelming force, and months of preparation. Yet here was Franklin, The casual way he undertook an operation of this magnitude without consulting his brothers. Commoragh was no minor target—it was one of the most heavily defended locations in the galaxy, and Franklin had attacked it apparently on a whim, because they'd raided his trade routes.

The Liberty Guard aren't standard troops, Each one is a transhuman soldier, closer to an Astartes than a normal guardsman. But even then, the numbers seemed insufficient for such an undertaking. The Dark Eldar had survived and thrived for millennia in their twisted city. How had Franklin managed to...

Horus studied the figures briefly. "The casualties are extreme, even by our standards. But the Liberty Eagles..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "The Liberty Eagles were among the best-equipped Legions, their gear just behind even that of the Custodes"

Horus had fought the Dark Eldar before. Their speed, their cunning, their mastery over the Hit and Run - they weren't an enemy you simply overwhelmed with conventional forces, no matter how superior your technology.

And yet Franklin had done exactly that. Not just fought them - burned their city. Left his mark so deeply they would remember it for millennia to come.

The door chimed, interrupting his thoughts. "Enter," Horus called, not looking up from the report.

Fulgrim glided in, his perfect features arranged in their usual expression of satisfied accomplishment. "Brother," he said, "the compliance campaign is complete. The sector is ours."

"Good," Horus replied absently, then looked up. "Tell me, brother, what do you make of this?" He gestured to the report.

Fulgrim's smile took on a knowing quality. "Ah, Franklin's latest impossibility?" He moved closer, though Horus noted he didn't need to actually read the report. Of course he'd already known. "It's rather typical of him, isn't it? Making the impossible look almost casual."

Something in Fulgrim's tone made Horus look sharper. "You spent time with him, didn't you? During your early campaigns?"

"Indeed," Fulgrim's expression turned thoughtful. "He taught me much about void warfare, actually. His approach is... unique. Conventional wisdom says you either go for precision or overwhelming force. Franklin somehow manages both simultaneously."

"And what else did he teach you?" Horus asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

Fulgrim laughed, a sound like crystal chimes. "That the best solution to a problem isn't always the most obvious one. That sometimes you have to be willing to look foolish to achieve the extraordinary." He gestured at the report. "Take this siege. Everyone knows you can't just march up to Commoragh and burn it down. It's impossible. So Franklin did exactly that, because no one was prepared for someone to actually try."

Horus felt something cold settle in his stomach. How many of his brothers had Franklin influenced this way? How many had learned to think like him, to approach problems with that same devastating combination of technological superiority and tactical unconventionality?

"You admire him," Horus said, watching Fulgrim carefully.

"Don't you?" Fulgrim countered. "He achieves the impossible with such... style. Even his defeats feel like victories somehow. Did you know he left a statue in Commoragh? A thousand feet tall, of himself flexing." Fulgrim laughed again. "Only Franklin would think to sign his work that way."

Horus turned back to the report, but his mind was racing. Franklin's influence was growing. Not through conquest or politicking, but through something potentially more dangerous - inspiration. His brothers were learning from him, adopting his methods, perhaps even his way of thinking.

"He lost half a million Astartes," Horus pointed out.

"And achieved what no one thought possible," Fulgrim replied smoothly. "Those who fell knew the price and deemed it worth paying. Our brother understood the difference between spending lives and wasting them."

After Fulgrim left, Horus stood at his viewport, staring into the void. The report still glowed on his data-slate, but he wasn't seeing the numbers anymore. He was seeing patterns, influences, connections. Franklin's technological superiority, his unconventional tactics, his growing influence among the Primarchs...

It wasn't jealousy Horus felt—he was above such petty emotions. It was concern, he told himself. Concern about a brother whose methods defied understanding, whose victories seemed to defy possibility itself. A brother who could lose half a million Astartes and somehow make it look like part of the plan.

Somewhere out there, Franklin was probably already rebuilding his Legion, probably already planning his next impossible victory. And more of their brothers were probably watching, learning, adopting his methods.

But Horus couldn't deny the unease creeping into his mind. He was well aware of the vast difference between their resources. Franklin had managed to build an empire—not just a Legion, but an entire Independence Sector, a realm of 300 worlds, forged from the very core of the stars themselves, entirely independent of the Mechanicum's influence.

Horus could muster the same armies, the same strength of will, but he knew that Franklin's industrial might was beyond his reach. The Mechanicum, that ancient forge of the Imperium's might, would refuse him. They would never give one Legion such a monopoly over the supply lines. They were neutral, and while they supported the Emperor's will, they refused to pick favorites, a principle that had long since been ingrained in their dogma.

Franklin had achieved what no one thought possible. In just 20 Terran years, he transformed the Independence Cluster into a fully-fledged Independence Sector, expanding from 300 worlds to over 16,000—and still growing. His sector now stood on equal footing with the Mechanicum, not only supplying his own Legion but also aiding the other Primarchs. The sector's rapid and efficient expansion had endowed it with the resources to support countless fleets. So advanced and self-sustaining had Franklin's empire become that even the Mechanicum's vast network of forges and worlds had to upgrade to keep pace with its technological and logistical might.

Franklin's Sector forced their competitors to move forward lest they fall behind.

Horus knew that Franklin had a level of success that would be hard for anyone to match, let alone surpass. Not only did he have control of an entire sector of the galaxy, but Franklin also commanded the loyalty of his people, not just the Astartes, but the human populations of those worlds. His victories were swift, efficient, and—most worryingly—seemingly effortless. He fought battles on a scale that Horus had never imagined. And that knowledge left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Horus turned back to his command throne, staring into the vast void beyond his flagship's bridge. He had his own victories to plan, his own methods to perfect. He would not be daunted. 

Because in the end, it wasn't the victories themselves that worried him. It was how easy Franklin made them look. How he could bend the fabric of the galaxy to his will, with his resources, his efficiency, his determination. It was the speed with which Franklin made seemingly impossible things happen. Horus was above envy, but Franklin's rise felt... unprecedented.

Yet even as unease gnawed at him, Horus recognized the truth. He would need Franklin—his resources, his brilliance, and his audacity—to succeed in the grander vision of uniting the galaxy.

Finally, Horus set aside his doubts and came to a conclusion: he must maximize his relationship with Franklin, ensure the bond between them grew stronger. Whatever his reservations, Franklin Valorian was too valuable an ally to leave at arm's length. If the Imperium were to thrive, it would need every strength Franklin brought to bear.

Horus' reverie was interrupted by the sudden chime of a transmission. It was from the Emperor himself. The message was short, filled with praise for his most recent victory. The Emperor acknowledged Horus's excellence in leadership, his ability to push forward the Great Crusade despite the challenges, and granted him further reinforcements and more fleets for his next campaign.

Horus smiled to himself as he read the transmission. He could almost hear his father's voice in the words: warm, commanding, but with a hint of approval that he alone had earned. At least he was the closest to their father, Horus thought.

Franklin might command an empire of worlds, but Horus had the Emperor's ear—something no one else had.

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

In the aftermath of their successful compliance campaign, three Primarchs gathered in what had been the throne room of a now-defunct stellar empire. Debris still smoldered outside, but within, they'd created a semblance of order—enough for a proper discussion between brothers.

Vulkan sat cross-legged on the floor, his massive frame making even the ornate furniture seem inadequate. He was carefully examining a piece of local craftwork—a delicate crystalline sculpture that had somehow survived their assault. Ferrus Manus stood by a tactical display, his living metal hands idly reassembling a captured weapon. Angron, reclined in what remained of the throne itself, his eyes watching his brothers with thoughtful interest.

"Word from Terra," Ferrus announced, checking a data-slate that seemed tiny in his silvered grip. "Our brother Franklin has outdone himself again. He burned Commoragh."

Vulkan looked up from his examination. "The whole city? Even for one of us, that seems..."

"Impossible?" Angron finished, a rare smile crossing his features. "Franklin specializes in the impossible. Though I must admit, even I'm impressed by this one."

"Casualties were significant," Ferrus continued, his tone neutral but his eyes showing concern. "Thirty million Liberty Guard. Five hundred thousand Astartes casualties."

Vulkan's hands tightened on the crystal sculpture. "So many brothers lost..."

"Not lost," Angron corrected, sitting forward. "According to this, most are being interred in Dreadnoughts or fitted with something called 'Gemini Chassis.' Knowing Franklin, he probably asked each one their preference personally."

Ferrus nodded approvingly. "His Legion's technology has always been... innovative. Though I still maintain some reservations about his reliance on artificial intelligence."

"You would," Angron chuckled. "But you can't deny his results. The Dark Eldar have been a plague on humanity since before we were scattered. Now their greatest city burns."

"And he left them a statue," Vulkan added, reading from his own data-slate. His booming laugh filled the chamber. "A thousand-foot statue of himself, flexing his muscles! That's our brother indeed."

Ferrus made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh. "The inscription is particularly... Franklin. 'Here lies pride, slain by liberty. PS: Do not touch my boats.'"

"They did steal his ships," Angron mused. "Though I suspect this was about more than mere revenge. Look at what he recovered—Bio-Mechanical Technology, Medical innovations and Dark Eldar Tech. This was a strategic masterstroke disguised as a revenge campaign."

"Typical Franklin," Vulkan agreed. "He plays the jovial warrior, always laughing, always with a jest ready. But behind that smile is one of the finest strategic minds among us. This campaign... the casualties are heavy, yes, but the gains..." He shook his head in amazement.

"They trespassed into his sector, disrupted his supply lines," Ferrus said, his voice cold and analytical as he scanned the report. "You know how he is—he treats his trade routes like arteries. Cut them, and you may as well bleed him." He paused, tapping the data-slate with a metallic finger. "Using Necron technology to get to them... reckless. But effective. Typical Franklin—always walking the line between brilliance and madness."

"With Franklin, usually both," Vulkan laughed. "I would have loved to see their faces when human ships emerged from their own webway."

Angron turned from the viewport. "The casualties concern me. Not their number—we've all paid similar prices in our campaigns. But losing so many Astartes at once... that would cripple most Legions."

"Most Legions don't have Franklin's industrial base," Ferrus pointed out. "The Independence Sector can replace losses that would devastate any other Legion. Not that it makes the losses easier to bear."

Ferrus stood, pacing the chamber. "The technological implications interest me more. The Dark Eldar might be degenerates, but their technology... If he's captured even a fraction of their innovations..."

"He'll share them with us" Vulkan said with certainty. "Though the Mechanicum will rage at the limits he restricts them."

"Let them rage," Angron said softly. "Results speak louder than doctrine. And speaking of results..." He gestured to the vista beyond the viewport, where their combined forces were systematically securing their latest conquest.

"We should congratulate him," Vulkan decided. "Perhaps I'll forge him something special. A weapon worthy of the victor of Commoragh."

The three Primarchs shared a moment of brotherhood, each reflecting on their eccentric brother's latest achievement. Franklin Valorian had always been different—combining a warlord's might with an innovator's mind and a showman's flair. 

"To Franklin," Vulkan raised an imaginary toast. "May his enemies continue to underestimate him."

"And may they continue to touch his boats," Ferrus added dryly.

"So he has an excuse to show them why that's a mistake," Angron finished.

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

I leaned back in my chair, studying the two Archmagos before me. The White House's Oval Office, a recreation of ancient Terra's seat of power, felt appropriately weighty for this moment. Cawl and Zeth stood with the characteristic stillness of the Mechanicum.

"Politics," Khaine's voice resonated in my mind, dripping with disdain. "In my time, I would have settled such matters with blade and blood, this was Asuryan's Domain!"

'And how did that work out for you?' I thought back, unable to suppress a slight smirk. The War in Heaven wasn't exactly a shining example of conflict resolution.

"Better than being shattered into a million pieces by that serpentine deviant," Khaine retorted. "Though I take your point. The galaxy has changed, even if war remains eternal."

I drummed my fingers on the desk, a habit that I knew irritated the more traditional Mechanicum priests. Neither Cawl nor Zeth showed any reaction – another reason I respected them both.

'What do you make of this?' I directed my thoughts to Khaine. 'We know Kelbor-Hal's future. The betrayal at Mars, the Schism of Mars, the Dark Mechanicum...'

"You speak of preventing future events," Khaine's tone grew serious. "Yet remember the burden of knowledge you carry. Every change ripples outward, like drops in the Great Ocean. Some waves bring salvation, others... destruction."

'True,' I conceded. 'But Cawl... he's different. In that future timeline, he remained loyal. More than loyal – he became instrumental in the Imperium's survival.'

"The Cawl of that timeline never held the position of Fabricator-General," Khaine pointed out. "Power changes mortals. Even your father's chosen sons fell to its lure."

I felt a flash of anger at the reminder of the future betrayals, quickly suppressed. Anger had no place in decisions like this.

'But that's exactly why we need change,' I argued internally. 'The conservative faction of the Mechanicum, their dogmatic adherence to tradition – it makes them vulnerable to Chaos. Their fear of innovation becomes a fear of change itself, and fear is a weapon our enemies know well how to use.'

"You speak wisdom," Khaine admitted. "The Aeldari Empire fell because we could not change, could not see beyond our own glory. Yet change must be guided, controlled. Like a blade – swift but precise."

I glanced at the Crone Sword Anaris, mounted on the wall behind my desk. The weapon seemed to pulse slightly, responding to Khaine's presence in my mind.

'What are the risks if we support Cawl?' I asked.

"Many," Khaine's voice took on a tactical edge, the war god analyzing battlefield possibilities. "If he fails, you risk alienating the traditional faction entirely. Mars could break away sooner, differently than in the timeline you know. The Imperium needs its weapons, its ships, its technology. A civil war within the Mechanicum now..."

'Could be devastating,' I completed the thought. 'But if he succeeds?'

"Then you have a powerful ally at the heart of Mars. One who understands the true threats facing humanity. One who might help prevent the very schism we fear." Khaine paused. "But remember, young one – Cawl is brilliant, but his ambition matches his intellect. Even in that future timeline, his actions sometimes bordered on tech-heresy."

I smiled slightly. 'Coming from you, that's practically a recommendation.'

"The old gods were many things, but never hypocrites," Khaine replied with amusement. "We did not fear knowledge or power – we feared their misuse. Your Mechanicum builds walls around science, believing they protect themselves. Instead, they merely ensure their own stagnation."

'So you think we should support him?'

"I think..." Khaine's presence seemed to shift, like a warrior adjusting his stance. "I think you should support him, but not unconditionally. Place boundaries. Set expectations. Make him understand that your support comes with responsibility."

I nodded slowly, considering. 'We could help secure votes from the Mechanicum Forge Worlds closely aligned with Nova Libertas. Many already favor a more progressive approach to technology.'

"Yes. But demand guarantees. Ensure the traditional faction isn't completely alienated – they must be integrated, not excluded. And..." Khaine's tone grew deadly serious, "make it clear that if he betrays your trust, he will face not just the Liberty Eagles, but the Imperium as a whole.

'Threatening the potential Fabricator-General of Mars?' I raised an mental eyebrow. 'That's your advice?'

"Sometimes the threat of violence prevents its necessity," Khaine responded. "You know this – it's why your Legion maintains such overwhelming firepower. Peace through strength. The choice of war is sometimes required to maintain peace."

Looking at Cawl and Zeth, still waiting patiently, I had to admit Khaine had a point. The Mechanicum respected strength, both technological and martial. They would understand such terms.

"Besides," Khaine added, "if he does become Fabricator-General, better he remembers that Mars is part of the Imperium, not its master. The Quest for Knowledge serves humanity, not the other way around."

'Agreed,' I thought, straightening in my chair. 'A progressive Fabricator-General, bound by responsibility and watched carefully, could be exactly what Mars needs. And if it prevents Kelbor-Hal's rise to power...'

"Then you may prevent one of the greatest wounds in your father's empire," Khaine concluded. "But remember – change comes with risk. Be prepared for all outcomes."

'Always,' I replied, reaching my decision. 'That's why we maintain the biggest guns in the sector.'

"Now you sound like a proper war god," Khaine's approval radiated through our connection. "Make your choice, young one. But make it clear that with great power comes the attention of greater powers still."

I smiled, ready to address the waiting Archmagos. 

Franklin's chuckle echoed through the Oval Office, causing several mechadendrites on both Archmagos to twitch slightly. He leaned forward, a knowing gleam in his eyes.

"Before I say anything else, Belisarius," Franklin's grin widened, "I have to ask – am I speaking to the Cawl Inferior who has an... interesting habit of pestering my brothers Sanguinius and Guilliman through about this exact same request?"

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the soft whirring of internal mechanisms. Then Cawl's vocabulator emanated a sound that might have been either a laugh or a mechanical hiccup.

"Ah, Primarch Valorian, your access to future data-streams continues to prove fascinating," Cawl's multiple optical sensors brightened. "Though I must correct certain logical inconsistencies in your query. The Cawl Inferior you reference is simultaneously me and not me, a quantum state of being that exists in a timeline that may or may not come to pass, depending on approximately 2,347,856 variables I am currently tracking."

Koriel Zeth rolled her eyes.

"To answer your question with appropriate precision," Cawl continued, his mechadendrites gesturing in complex patterns, "I am the original Cawl, or rather, the current iteration of the original Cawl, who may or may not become the Cawl who creates the Cawl Inferior, which itself is a fascinating example of quantum-cognitive engineering that I have already begun theoretical work on, inspired by the very knowledge you possess of its future existence."

Franklin's grin only grew wider.

"Furthermore," Cawl's voice took on an enthusiastic tone that few Mechanicum priests ever displayed, "the repeated requests you reference are less a sign of desperate ambition and more an example of efficient resource management through temporal recursion. If one asks the same question across multiple timelines, the statistical probability of a favorable response increases exponentially, especially when factoring in the butterfly effect of causality manipulation – which, I must note, your very existence in this timeline represents."

Zeth sighed. "Belisarius..."

"Of course," Cawl continued, unperturbed, "one could argue that the very act of creating multiple instances of oneself to make the same request across various temporal coordinates indicates a certain... persistence of purpose. However, I prefer to frame it as a dedication to maximizing probable outcomes through parallel processing of social-political algorithms."

He paused, his optical sensors adjusting focus.

"Besides, Lord Valorian, considering that your own existence here represents a significant temporal paradox, involving knowledge from a future that may now never come to pass, one could say we are all participating in a grand experiment of causality manipulation. My potential future self's actions through the Cawl Inferior might simply be another thread in this fascinating tapestry of temporal manipulation we find ourselves weaving."

Franklin struggled to maintain his serious expression.

"In conclusion," Cawl's vocabulator picked up speed, "while I acknowledge the behavioral pattern you've identified, I would argue that it represents less a character flaw and more an optimization of opportunity across multiple probability matrices. The fact that you know of these future events and can reference them in our current conversation only serves to validate my approach to temporal resource management."

He finished with a slight bow, mechadendrites still weaving patterns in the air.

"Also," he added, as if in afterthought, "I have calculated that my likelihood of success increases by approximately 47.23% with your support, which is significantly higher than the success rate of my future self's requests to your brothers. Though I should note that this calculation has a margin of error of plus or minus 3.42%, accounting for temporal uncertainty principles."

Zeth finally spoke up, her tone carrying a hint of exasperation. "What Cawl means to say, Lord Valorian, is that he is indeed himself, and his request is genuine, regardless of his future self's... persistent nature."

"Though the persistence itself," Cawl interjected, "is merely a logical application of the principle that sufficient repetition of any action across multiple temporal coordinates must eventually..."