The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 123: The Schism of Mars



The crimson dust of Mars swirled around the spires of Olympus Mons as the parliament session approached. Within the vast chamber of the Forge Temple, thousands of mechadendrites swayed like metallic kelp in an digital ocean, their owners - the Archmagos representatives of countless forgeworlds - exchanging data-bursts and binharic whispers. The air was thick with incense from countless censers, their holy smoke designed to appease machine spirits and purify the recycled atmosphere.

Archmagos Koriel Zeth stood beside Belisarius Cawl, their augmented forms casting long shadows in the ruddy light filtering through the crystaline dome above. Their internal chronometers counted down to the moment that would change the face of Mars forever.

"The probability matrices favor us," Zeth transmitted via encrypted vox, her voice a carefully modulated whisper of static and code. "64.2% of the neutral forgeworlds are represented here today, and our preliminary calculations suggest 40% are already aligned with our -cause."

Cawl's optical sensors whirred as they adjusted, focusing on the ancient throne of the Fabricator-General - empty now, but not for long. "Numbers are but one variable in this equation, Koriel. The human element remains... unpredictable."

The parliament chamber itself was a testament to the Mechanicum's grandeur - a perfect hemisphere carved from the living rock of Olympus Mons, with concentric rings of seats descending like the circles of an inverted crater. Each seat was a masterwork of engineering, featuring direct neural interfaces and holocast projectors that allowed the occupant to participate in the proceedings with maximum efficiency.

"Honored representatives of the Omnissiah's domains," Cawl began, his mechadendrites moving in precise, measured patterns that matched his words. "We stand at a crossroads. Before us lies a choice between stagnation and progression, between isolation and unity, between fear and understanding."

The assembled Tech-priests processed his words through countless cognitive engines, analyzing every nuance. Many had already made their decisions, their votes secured through careful negotiation and the promise of lost knowledge. But ceremony demanded their attention, and Cawl's presence commanded it.

"My achievements speak not of personal glory, but of potential realized," he continued. "The recovered STC patterns I have shared demonstrate but a fraction of what we might achieve together. Each forge world that has received these gifts has already begun to see increased production efficiency by an average of 47.3%."

A ripple of binary cant flowed through the chamber as Tech-priests communicated their approval. The STCs had been carefully chosen - each one valuable enough to secure loyalty, but not so powerful as to upset the balance of power between forge worlds.

"But this is merely the beginning," Cawl's voice grew stronger. "As Forge Master of Olympus Mons, I propose a new era of cooperation between our domains. No more shall we hide knowledge from each other, no more shall we play politics with the advancement of technology. The Omnissiah's gifts are meant for all who serve Him faithfully."

From her position among the senior Archmagos, Koriel Zeth watched the proceedings with careful attention. Their preparations had been meticulous, every detail calculated. The voting protocols were already being initialized, streams of data flowing through the ancient systems of the Amphitheatrum.

The voting began with the closest forge worlds to Mars. One by one, representatives signaled their choices through the noosphere, each vote recorded in unbreakable encryption. The pattern became clear almost immediately - Cawl's support was overwhelming.

APPROVE:││▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ 71.3%

REJECT:

ABSTAIN:

12.4%

16.3%

Victory was assured. The Radicals had won, and with them, the future of Mars would-

The final tallies were still being processed when the grand doors of the chamber burst open. Kelbor Hal strode in, his crimson robes billowing, surrounded by his inner circle. His mechanical voice crackled with barely contained rage.

"HERESY! This gathering is a mockery of our traditions! Belisarius Cawl is a puppet of outside forces, seeking to corrupt the pure doctrine of the Machine God!"

The chamber erupted in binary cant and mechanically enhanced voices. Cawl remained motionless at the podium, his optical sensors fixed on Hal.

"Curious," Cawl's voice cut through the chaos, "that you speak of heresy, Archmagos Hal." His mechadendrites activated a new hololithic display. "Perhaps we should examine the meaning of that word."

The projection filled the chamber - a recording of Hal in his private sanctum, surrounded by his inner circle. His voice, unmistakable, rang out: "The False Omnissiah and his lies... We shall show the Imperium that Mars bows to no one, least of all a fraudulent deity..."

Silence fell, broken only by the soft whirring of cooling fans and servo-motors. Hal's optical sensors flared with rage and disbelief.

"Impossible," he whispered. "How did you-"

"The Omnissiah's sight reaches far," Cawl replied calmly. "Your true beliefs are now known to all."

"Interesting words, Archmagos Hal," Cawl's voice cut through the silence. "Perhaps you'd care to explain to this assembly why you refer to our Emperor, the living vessel of the Omnissiah's will, as false?"

Hal's mechadendrites writhed in fury as he realized the depth of his predicament. His support base was crumbling, his credibility destroyed, and now he stood exposed as a heretic before the entire Parliament.

In that moment, Kelbor Hal made his choice. A choice that would write itself in fire across the face of Mars.

"Initiate Protocol Omega," he transmitted on a encrypted frequency. His Skitarii raised their weapons, and reality itself seemed to bend as teleportation fields enveloped them.

For three seconds, the chamber remained silent. Then all hell broke loose. Emergency alerts screamed through Mars's noosphere. Orbital defense platforms suddenly turned their weapons planetward. Forge-temples sealed their blast doors. Ancient weapons, long dormant, hummed to life in hidden chambers.

In the Parliament chamber, Cawl's voice cut through the chaos: "All loyal forces, implement Protocol Omega. This is not an exercise."

Across Mars, prepared loyalist forces moved to secure critical infrastructure. But Hal had prepared as well. Sleeper agents activated, weapon caches were unsealed, and hidden armies of battle-automata emerged from secret forges.

In orbit, Kelbor Hal's Battlefleet moved into blocking positions, their ancient weapons arrays powering up. Hal's forces had effectively quarantined the Solar System, but carefully avoided any provocative moves toward Terra. This was to be a purely Martian civil war.

The command sanctum's air was thick with incense and binary cant, ancient cogitators humming their eternal hymns to the Omnissiah. Zagreus Kane's augmented form cast long shadows across monitoring stations displaying the escalating civil war. His mechadendrites coiled and uncoiled like serpents of brass and steel, betraying an agitation that his carefully modulated voice did not.

"Blood flows in the forges," Kane's voice resonated through augmetic enhancement, each word falling like a hammer strike. "Mars burns while her children wage war in her sacred halls. Explain yourselves, Archmagos Cawl, Archmagos Zeth."

Belisarius Cawl's towering frame stood unmoved, his own mechadendrites weaving patterns of calculated precision through the air. "The explanation, Fabricator Locum, echoed through the Parliamentarium mere hours ago. Or did your cognitive engines fail to process Kelbor

Hal's heresy?"

"You were there, Kane," Koriel Zeth added, her tone modulated for perfect diplomatic resonance. "You witnessed his declaration of the Emperor as the 'False Omnissiah.' Such thoughts are cancer in the Mechanicum's body."

Kane's optical sensors flared. "I witnessed a carefully orchestrated performance. A political masterstroke that has plunged Mars into civil war. Do not pretend this is mere happenstance, Cawl. Your rise has been... unprecedented."

"As was Hal's fall," Cawl countered smoothly. "His ambitions for the position of Fabricator General were well known. That he would resort to violence when thwarted should surprise none who knew him. The mathematics of his character were always clear."

"Mathematics," Kane's laugh was harsh, mechanical. "You speak of calculations while forge- temples burn. While brother turns against brother in halls consecrated to the Omnissiah's wisdom. And now you stand here, master of Olympus Mons itself, positioned for the very role

Hal coveted."

Zeth stepped forward, her own augmetics humming with barely contained energy. "Would you prefer Hal's vision, Fabricator Locum? A Mechanicum turned against the Imperium? Against the Omnissiah's chosen?"

"I prefer Mars whole," Kane's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "This conflict must remain internal. Terra must not be drawn in. And..." he paused, optical sensors fixing on both of them with laser intensity, "neither must other... interested parties."

The unspoken hung in the air between them like a sword - the Independence Sector's shadow over all these events. Cawl and Zeth exchanged microsecond bursts of data, acknowledging

the warning's weight.

"The Radicals' connections are well known," Kane continued. "But this is Martian soil. Martian politics. Outside forces have no place here, regardless of their... technological gifts." "Our focus is survival," Cawl responded carefully. "Hal's forces control the orbitals. Communications are cut. Even if we wished external intervention, it is currently impossible." Kane's mechadendrites writhed with something approaching satisfaction. "Good. The Parliament will assist in defense, of course. Hal's madness leaves us little choice. But remember, Archmagos Cawl - your position at Olympus Mons, while impressive, is not yet Fabricator General."

"Of course, Fabricator Locum," Cawl bowed slightly, the gesture precise to the millisecond of appropriate deference. "Your authority in this crisis is unquestioned. We seek only to preserve

Mars's future."

"As do we all," Kane's tone carried infinite layers of meaning. "I congratulate you on your appointment to Olympus Mons, Cawl. May your service honor its traditions. But know that until a new Fabricator General is chosen, my influence remains... significant."

"Logic dictates acknowledgment of hierarchical authority," Zeth interjected smoothly. "The Mechanicum's structure must be preserved, especially in times of crisis."

"Indeed," Kane's massive form turned toward the chamber's exit. "Remember that wisdom.

Mars will survive this conflict, but its scars will run deep. Ensure your actions do not deepen them unnecessarily."

As the Fabricator Locum's footsteps echoed away, Cawl and Zeth stood in momentary silence, their cogitators processing the layers of threat and promise contained in the exchange.

"He knows more than he reveals," Zeth observed quietly.

"As do we all," Cawl responded, his mechadendrites resuming their fluid motion. "But his warning is logical. This conflict must maintain its proper form, even as its music changes. The gears of revolution turn best when properly aligned with tradition's teeth."

In the distance, the sounds of battle echoed through Mars's ancient halls, while above, Hal's blockade maintained its stranglehold on the red planet. The game continued, its players moving with precision across a board marked in blood and binary.

The future of Mars hung in the balance, watched over by eyes both mechanical and divine.

From the Master of Mankind's private sanctum in the Imperial Palace, Terra's sister planet burned like a second sun. The Emperor stood before a window that spanned the height of the chamber, His superhuman eyes discerning the microscopic flashes of weapon batteries and the precise geometries of ships locked in orbital combat. His presence filled the room with an almost tangible weight, golden light pooling around His feet like liquid divinity.

"So it begins."

Malcador the Sigillite approached, his ancient staff tapping a steady rhythm on the marble

floor, a counterpoint to the silent symphony of destruction above Mars. Beside the Emperor's

radiance, the First Lord of Terra appeared as a shadow, his cowled form absorbing the

ambient light.

"Another of Franklin's... initiatives?" Malcador's tone carried a mixture of exasperation and grudging admiration. "Your son seems to have inherited your taste for grand designs, though

his methods are uniquely his own."

"Franklin has been positioning his pieces for some time now." The Emperor's voice, deep and resonant, seemed to reverberate through the air itself. "This is not mere spectacle. It is transformation—violence as the catalyst for inevitability."

"I had envisioned a more gradual approach," the Emperor continued, golden eyes reflectingNôv(el)B\\jnn

the light of distant carnage. "Centuries of careful integration, subtle manipulation, binding Mars to Terra through threads of logic and loyalty. Franklin..." He paused, and for the briefest moment, a smile touched His perfect features. "Franklin has seen fit to accelerate the process.

Where I would weave, he forges."

Malcador leaned slightly on his staff, the faint crackle of energy betraying the boundless

power within. "And yet you permit this? Such escalation risks destabilizing the very foundations of our alliance with the Mechanicum."

The Emperor's expression remained impassive. "The Mechanicum's independence was always a convenient fiction, one I allowed for a time. But fiction cannot be the foundation of empire. My son sees what must be done, as do I. Half-measures would only prolong the inevitable. Mars must be reforged, or it will fracture beyond repair."

"Cawl," Malcador said, his tone thoughtful. "The instrument of your son's vision. A fascinating paradox-a future's hand reshaping its own past."

"A weapon of knowledge," the Emperor said, His gaze never wavering from the hololithic

displays now shimmering into existence. Tactical overlays illuminated the civil war raging across Mars. "Cawl provides clarity where time obscures. Franklin wields him as deftly as a master swordsman wields his blade. Every move calculated, every outcome anticipated." The silence deepened, broken only by the faint hum of distant machinery and the occasional tremor of unseen energies. Through their heightened senses, they could almost hear the prayers of the tech-priests, the binary screams of ancient machines as Martian forges became

battlegrounds.

"And what future does he craft?" Malcador's question hung in the air, rhetorical yet

expectant. "A Mars inseparably bound to Terra," the Emperor replied. "Not through conquest or coercion, but through necessity and transformation. The Mechanicum will emerge from this crucible as something greater-its fractures healed, its potential fully realized."

"And the cost?"

"Acceptable." The Emperor's tone hardened, a stark declaration. "The alternatives lead to ruin. I have seen the futures where Mars remains divided, Adeptus Mechanicus and the Dark Mechanicum. Those paths lead to collapse, to wars that bleed the Imperium dry. This..." He gestured to the chaos above Mars. "This is precision. This is inevitability." Malcador inclined his head slightly, his ancient mind processing the layers of strategy at play. "Shall we intervene, then? Or do we continue to let Franklin's plan play itself out?" "We watch." The Emperor's voice carried absolute certainty. "We let the operation proceed as

planned. Franklin has positioned every piece with perfect precision. Battlefleet Solar holds the line, preventing outside interference while appearing to maintain Imperial authority. Cawl and his allies fight for survival, their desperation masking the true nature of their transformation. And Kelbor Hal..." A trace of dark amusement colored His words. "Hal plays his part perfectly, burning away the old order so the new may rise from its ashes."

"A masterstroke," Malcador mused, "to orchestrate chaos itself. A dangerous game, even for

one so adept."

"Not chaos," the Emperor corrected, His tone measured and unyielding. "It is a grand design,

one where each player follows the path dictated by their own nature, yet all converge toward a singular purpose. That is Franklin's true genius. He does not command with overt force or impose rigid control; instead, he aligns outcomes through subtle influence, shaping the natural inclinations of others to serve his vision. He understands that the most enduring results arise not from domination, but from enabling inevitability to unfold according to his

design."

"Quite the puppeteer indeed," Malcador noted dryly, "for one who preaches liberty above

all."

"The greatest freedom is the freedom to choose one's own chains," the Emperor replied. " They stood in contemplative silence, watching as the gears of revolution turned exactly as planned. Somewhere in the void, Franklin's forces waited, ready to intervene at the perfect moment - not too soon to rob Mars of its agency, not too late to risk true catastrophe.

The strategium aboard the Sweet Liberty was a cathedral to warfare's art, its vast dome pierced by hololithic projections that transformed the chamber into a miniature galaxy. At its heart stood Franklin Valorian, the Liberator, his massive form casting long shadows across tactical displays showing Mars burning in the void. The red planet's suffering reflected in his

eyes as he studied the spreading conflagration, watching forge-cities ignite like funeral pyres across its ancient surface.

Above them, the vessel's quantum cogitators hummed with crystalline precision, processing battle-data from a thousand sources. The Sweet Liberty's ten-thousand-kilometer bulk hung in the void at the door step of the Solar System.

Franklin's gaze swept across his gathered sons, each a legend in their own right, each carrying

a piece of his vision for humanity's future. The perpetual Damon Prytanis in their holding cells below screamed secrets into the void, while Dr. Chen's laboratories echoed with the sound of progress.

"Was there another way?" Franklin's voice filled the chamber, not with volume but with weight. "Could we have achieved our aims without setting the forges of Mars ablaze?" First Captain Denzel Washington stepped forward. His voice carried the measured tones of

centuries of diplomatic experience.

"My lord, revolution need not always wear the face of violence. Yet Mars's transformation was inevitable - the only choice was whether to guide it or let it occur naturally, potentially with far greater bloodshed. We've chosen the surgeon's knife over the executioner's axe."

Second Captain Steven Armstrong's augmetic fist crashed against his chest plate, his face twisted in a fierce grin. "Guide it? We're purging the rot, lord! Every drop of blood shed today prevents oceans of it tomorrow. Kelbor Hal and his tech-heretics would have eventually turned Mars against the Imperium. Better to lance the boil now, under controlled conditions,

than wait for it to burst!"

The chamber's temperature seemed to drop as Third Captain Henry Cavill spoke, his eyes

carrying the weight of futures yet to come. "I've seen the alternatives, father. I've walked the timeline where we didn't act. If the Dropsite Massacre was Horus's opening move, The Schism of Mars is Kelbor Hal's. Billions die. Entire forge worlds fall to Chaos. What we do

today..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "...this is mercy, compared to what could

be."

a

John Ezra, his Secret Service regalia stark against his power armor, analyzed the tactical displays with professional detachment. "The numbers support our action, lord. Calculated risks, measured responses. We've contained the conflict to manageable parameters while achieving our strategic objectives. The human cost is... regrettable, but within acceptable margins." Vladimir Mendelev's psychic hood crackled with restrained energy, arcs of blue lightning playing around its edges as the Chief Librarian stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Da, the warp, she is fickle mistress," he said, his voice deep and heavily accented, each word carrying weight of ancient wisdom and vodka-soaked pragmatism. "I see currents of destiny, shifting, turning like great river under ice. What we do today, eh? This sends ripples through time, making futures twist and bend. But..." He paused, his eyes narrowing, staring into a void only he could see. "The alternatives? Bah. Is worse. Much worse. Like winter storm with no end." Director Samuel L. Jaxsen's scarred face twisted into a predatory smile, his eyes glowing with fierce intensity. "With respect, lord, you're asking the wrong question. It's not about whether this was right - it's about whether we're willing to go far enough. The Cabal's perpetual gave us invaluable intelligence, but there are still threats out there. Mars is just the beginning. We need to be ready to do what's necessary, when it's necessary, without hesitation." Franklin stood silent for a moment, the weight of their words settling over him like a mantle

of iron. His gaze swept across his gathered sons, each one embodying the ideals he had cultivated in them. The glow of the hololithic displays painted his face in shifting shades of red and gold, a reflection of Mars burning in the void.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried the gravity of a leader who bore the weight of an

entire galaxy on his shoulders.

"Your words reflect the wisdom I hoped to see in you. Each of you holds a piece of the truth, and together, you've shaped the answer I sought."

He gestured to the projections of Mars, the forges burning, the fractured lines of the Mechanicum splitting apart. "This... this was always going to happen. Whether by our hand or by theirs, the old order was doomed. Kelbor-Hal and his ilk could not abide a future where humanity held the reins of its destiny. Their gods are chains, their traditions a cage. We didn't create this conflict-we revealed it. We made it inevitable. And in doing so, we took control of

it, and now we need only wait for the conclusion"