The Primarch of Liberty

As Vulkan traversed the halls of his brother's seaside palace, he found himself struck by the fascinating contradictions of the space. The exterior, with its regal architecture and meticulously maintained gardens, spoke of Imperial might and authority. Yet the interior told a different, more intimate story – one that revealed much about his brother Franklin's character.

The warmth of the interior caught Vulkan's attention immediately. As a master craftsman himself, he appreciated the thoughtful blend of materials: rich wooden panels that seemed to absorb and reflect light in equal measure, plush carpets that muffled his heavy footsteps, and furnishings that, while sized appropriately for Primarchs, managed to avoid the usual cold grandiosity of Imperial architecture. The overall effect was more akin to a well-loved home than a symbol of authority.

The activity around the palace grounds caught Vulkan's attention immediately. There was an efficient harmony between organic and artificial custodians that spoke to the technological advancement of Nova Libertas something Vulkan had come to expect in his brother's Sector. Gardeners worked alongside hovering drones, the latter reaching high places to water hanging plants while their human counterparts focused on the delicate work of planting new flowers. The scene was remarkably peaceful – housekeepers directing cleaning drones with casual familiarity, as if the advanced technology was simply another tool in their arsenal rather than something to be feared or revered.

"Vulkan you're here great! Come! Take the Elevator to the 3rd Underground Floor" Franklin's voice echoed through a hidden vox system, directing him to the underground levels, Vulkan couldn't help but smile at his brother's informal greeting. No ceremony, no announcements – just a straightforward invitation to come down and meet. It was refreshingly direct, much like Franklin himself.

The interior of the palace proved even more intriguing than its exterior. The lit path guiding him through the corridors was an elegant solution, far more welcoming than the usual armed escorts or servitor guides found in other Imperial residences. The floors themselves were covered in plush carpets, their patterns subtle yet intricate, providing a warmth that contrasted sharply with the cold marble and stone common to Imperial architecture.

But it was the trophy room that truly captured Vulkan's attention, stopping him in his tracks. As a hunter himself, he appreciated the display not just for its impressive specimens, but for what it revealed about his brother. The room told stories – each mounted head accompanied by a date and location, creating a chronicle of Franklin's hunts across the stars. The Frost-Swarm Lord's massive head dominated the central display, its placement and the date marking it as a relatively recent kill from 820.M30.

What struck Vulkan most was not just what was present, but what was absent. Despite Franklin's legendary combat record, there were no Eldar trophies among the displays. This spoke volumes about his brother's character – these were not monuments to warfare or conquest, but rather testimonies to hunts against truly bestial opponents. There was an honor in that distinction that Vulkan, with his own strong moral code, could appreciate.

The descent to the -3rd floor gave Vulkan time to appreciate how different this was from his own fortress on Nocturne. Where his home embraced the harsh conditions of his adopted world, Franklin had created something that seemed to welcome visitors from any world. Both approaches had their merits, but Vulkan could see how his brother's style would facilitate the kind of diplomatic and cultural exchanges that the Great Crusade ultimately aimed to achieve.

The warmth of the place wasn't just in its temperature – though it was notably comfortable – but in its very essence. The lighting was warm and natural, despite being artificial. The air carried subtle, pleasant scents from the gardens above. Even the elevator moved with a smoothness that spoke of advanced technology applied to everyday comfort rather than just military efficiency.

Most telling was how the staff, both human and mechanical, went about their duties. There was none of the fearful reverence that often accompanied the presence of a Primarch. Instead, their respectful acknowledgments seemed genuine, suggesting they were well-used to the presence of their superhuman lord and had found him to be a benevolent presence.

This, Vulkan reflected, was perhaps the most impressive trophy his brother had collected – not the massive head of the Frost-Swarm Lord, but the creation of a space where the superhuman and the human could coexist comfortably. It was a physical manifestation of the bridge between humanity's current state and its potential future, much like the Primarchs themselves.

As the elevator continued its descent, Vulkan found himself curious about what his brother had to show him in the underground levels. Given the careful thought evident in every other aspect of this place, he suspected it would be something worth seeing. The lit path, the comfortable surroundings, the integration of advanced technology – all of it suggested a mind that valued both progress and preservation, innovation and tradition. These were qualities Vulkan appreciated, even if his own expression of them took a different form.

The trophy room's image lingered in his mind – not for its grandeur, but for its storytelling. Each specimen was carefully preserved and presented with information about its origin and the date of the hunt. It was as much a natural history exhibition as it was a display of martial prowess. This approach to recording and sharing knowledge, even in what could have been a simple boast of hunting prowess, spoke to Franklin's deeper understanding of the Imperial Truth – the importance of understanding the galaxy they sought to unite.

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

The wave of familiar heat that greeted Vulkan as the elevator doors opened brought an immediate smile to his face. This was a place he understood: the breath of the forge, the hammer's song, the ceaseless movement of machinery. Yet, what stretched before him surpassed even his own storied expertise.

To his right, a production line thrummed with arcane efficiency. Energy was harnessed, crystallized, and transmuted into pure materials by methods that defied ordinary comprehension—scientific precision entwined with what any layman might call sorcery. Vulkan's keen eye followed the graceful movements of an assistant automata, its elegance a stark contrast to the crude servitors of Mars, as it delivered these immaculate materials to a Smith. The Smith, bristling with servo-arms, moved with unerring precision, crafting components with a speed and skill that would humble the most seasoned artisans of old Terra.

Every movement in the forge seemed calculated and purposeful. These workers were masters of efficiency without sacrificing the meticulous craftsmanship Vulkan so deeply respected. Their salutes to him were genuine, born of recognition for a peer in their ancient craft. Vulkan's nods and words of praise were equally heartfelt, acknowledging their artistry and dedication. While the Libertan forges emphasized output over individual artistry, they had transformed mass production itself into a form of art.

As Vulkan stepped into the main forge chamber, the scene that met him nearly made him chuckle. Franklin stood by a prototype mech-suit, its design hovering between a mobile fortress and a war machine. Beside it, two towering intellects of mechanical engineering engaged in what could only be described as a ferocious debate.

Belisarius Cawl, the Fabricator-General of Mars, dominated the space as much with his presence as with his words. His mechadendrites twitched and gestured, some sketching mid-air diagrams. "The incorporation of Necron chronometrics isn't merely ambitious, it is vital!" His tone was that of a lecturer speaking to a particularly slow student. "A battlesuit that manipulates time itself would redefine combat doctrine! Imagine—motion unbound by the linear constraints of the material realm!"

Across from him, Chief Engineer Cortez stood firm, her demeanor sharp and uncompromising. Where Cawl's augmentations were grandiose, hers were understated, a testament to her preference for efficiency over spectacle. "And where, Belisarius, do you propose to fit these temporal modules? Between the dimensional storage drives and the shield generators already overloading the power matrix?" She tapped an illuminated display of the prototype's internals, her frustration clear. "We're cramming battleship-grade weapons into this platform, and you want to add a temporal field generator? The heat alone will turn it into a miniature star!"

Cawl's optics flared, his voice a mixture of indignation and impatience. "The solution is obvious—scale up! A larger chassis can accommodate both the heat dissipation requirements and the chronometric arrays. The Zero-Point Energy core we've developed has power reserves vast enough to fuel entire Segmentums. Why limit ambition when we can achieve perfection?"

"Ambition doesn't equal practicality," Cortez shot back, arms crossed. Her voice was steady but edged with exasperation. "We've already reached the structural limits of the suit. Adding more systems isn't engineering; it's madness. Instead of making it bigger, we make it smarter. More efficient. Tactical brilliance isn't measured by raw size!"

Cawl's mechadendrites stilled for a fraction of a second, then sprang back to life. "Efficiency through temporal manipulation," he intoned, his voice now almost reverent. "A dilation field would provide the cooling time required without physically expanding the system. Time becomes a resource, not a constraint."

Cortez's lips thinned into a line. "And when the chronometrics destabilize the dimensional storage units?" she countered. "We're already bending the laws of physics just to fit the shielding. Add time manipulation, and this suit won't function in three dimensions, let alone reality."

Cawl seemed unperturbed. "Perhaps multi-dimensionality is precisely what we need. A suit capable of operating across twelve-dimensional space would render most conventional forces obsolete."

"By the Eagle's Talons," Cortez groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "We're building a combat suit, Belisarius. Not rewriting the fundamental laws of the universe."

Franklin, standing to the side with arms crossed, watched the exchange with thinly veiled amusement. He glanced at Vulkan, his expression saying clearly, This is what I deal with daily.

As the clamor of Cawl and Cortez's debate faded into the background, Franklin passed a dataslate to Vulkan. The flickering holographs that sprang to life before him didn't just speak of a new design—they radiated something far more profound. Vulkan's eyes narrowed, a deep sense of awe taking hold as he scrolled through the schematics, his seasoned mind immediately grasping the magnitude of what lay before him.

"This is more than a refinement of armor," Vulkan remarked, his voice slow, deliberate. "This is a reinvention. You've bypassed what we once believed to be the boundaries of possibility."

Franklin's lips curled into a slight smile, not of arrogance, but of the quiet satisfaction of an idea well-formed. "It's a new way of thinking," he said, his tone carrying the certainty of someone who knew the implications.

Vulkan's gaze flicked across the schematics, each layer more extraordinary than the last. Where others might have focused on conventional ways to augment combat effectiveness, Franklin had chosen a path that sought to transcend the very limitations of physical warfare.

"Dimensional storage systems," Vulkan murmured as he zoomed in on a crucial subsystem. "Not just for holding extra weapons, but portals that reach across space-time. You're talking about reshaping how we perceive the very act of fighting."

Franklin nodded, his fingers brushing over the projections. "Why limit yourself to what you can carry when you can bring forth anything from anywhere? The battlefield is not bound by distance or physical constraint when you can access your entire armory at will."

The design itself was deceptively simple. Gone were the cumbersome mounts and external weapons that burdened traditional power armor. Instead, the surface was sleek, almost organic in its elegance, a fusion of form and function. And the protection it afforded was nothing short of revolutionary—Atomantic Shields, Quantum Barriers, Conversion Fields and a secret Libertan alloy Tyranimite-Auramite, all woven into a seamless whole.

"The power requirements must be astronomical," Vulkan noted, examining the specifications for the Zero-Point Energy core. "A power source that could energize all Segmentums and still have enough left to power neighboring galaxies... and you're putting it into a single suit of armor." He shook his head in amazement. "Only you would think of something so audacious, brother."

"Not simply channeling," Franklin corrected with a flicker of humor in his eyes. "Harnessing it. Every weapon, every tool, every resource, summoned through portals created by tapping into the very fabric of reality."

Vulkan leaned in closer, his mind already stretching the possibilities. "You're speaking of a true revolution, Franklin. A system that redefines what it means to be a single warrior in combat. No more waiting for reinforcements or specialized equipment to arrive—this would be like carrying an entire army's worth of firepower with you."

Franklin's grin widened, the idea clearly striking at the core of his ambitions. "Exactly. At any moment, I can have the right weapon for the task. Whether it's an orbital strike or a delicate surgical strike, it's all at my fingertips. Every tool, at my command."

Vulkan's mind raced as he traced the power distribution network. "The forging of the alloys to endure the stresses of this? The dimensional rifts could tear the very structure apart if the materials aren't perfect. You've accounted for that?"

Franklin's eyes glinted with a mixture of pride and determination. "I've engineered the core structure for stability, but the forging process is the key. The molecular alignment must be flawless, or else the armor itself could unravel. That's why I need your expertise. The heat treatment required is beyond anything we've attempted."

Vulkan felt a deep sense of pride as he realized that his brother not only valued his craft but actively sought to push it to unprecedented heights. "You ask for a challenge worthy of the forges of Nocturne," Vulkan said, his voice rich with respect. "Such a task will push my craft to its very limits, but it is a challenge I am honored to accept."

As they delved into the finer details, Vulkan could see how Franklin's design was more than just technology—it was a philosophy. A new paradigm for war. One that broke through the constraints of conventional thinking, not just expanding the boundaries, but obliterating them entirely. Every component, every decision, was part of a greater vision, one that would allow Franklin to wield not just power, but control over the battlefield itself.

"You've never been one to think small," Vulkan observed, a slight chuckle escaping him. "Most would have been content with the ability to change weapons in a split second. But you... you've gone a step further, giving yourself the ability to command the full range of your arsenal at any moment."

"Why settle for the expected when you have the means to rewrite the rules?" Franklin replied with an easy confidence. "The shifting tactics of our enemies demand flexibility, adaptability. Being able to respond to any threat, any situation, with the right weapon—that's the edge I need."

Vulkan, his mind racing with possibilities, nodded in agreement. "I've already begun drafting the modifications required. We will forge something truly exceptional here. The forges of Nocturne will be at your service, brother."

"I knew I could count on you," Franklin said, his voice warm with appreciation. "I've already arranged for the materials to be shipped to Nocturne. They'll be waiting for you."

As the conversation continued, the two brothers worked seamlessly together, their collective enthusiasm turning what was once a simple idea into something tangible, something destined to change the very nature of warfare.

Vulkan looked over the plans again, his mind already envisioning the challenges ahead. This would be no simple task, but then again, nothing ever worth achieving was. He knew this project would leave an indelible mark on the future. And this time, he would be part of that legacy.

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

In the vast laboratories aboard the Sweet Liberty, three of the Emperor's sons stood around a holographic display showing intricate strands of gene-sequences. The laboratory itself was a marvel of both function and form, with pristine white surfaces housing equipment that would make even the most advanced Mechanicum forge world envious. Floating drones carried data-slates between workstations while automated systems processed information efficiently.

Sanguinius's wings shifted restlessly as he studied the rotating double helix before them, his angelic features drawn in concentration. Magnus's single eye glowed with intensity as he processed the genetic information, while Franklin maintained an unusually serious expression – though the slight upturn at the corner of his mouth suggested he was already formulating ideas.

"Good news, brother," Magnus began, his deep voice resonating through the chamber. "The Red Thirst isn't the work of any hostile Warp creatures. It's a genetic flaw deeply embedded in the Revenants' gene-seed." The Crimson King manipulated the hologram with a gesture, highlighting specific sequences.

Sanguinius nodded slowly, his golden hair catching the light from the displays. Though others might have missed it, his brothers could see the slight relaxation in his shoulders – the burden of possible Warp taint lifted from them. He turned his gaze to Franklin, who had begun pacing around the display with the casual confidence that marked all his movements.

"Well then, that's good news," Franklin said, running a hand through his brown hair. "However, genetic manipulation isn't as easy as 1,2,3." He paused, reaching for a data-slate. "Sangy, take a look at this – the Blood Ravens Chapter. They're something special."

As Sanguinius began reading, Franklin continued, "I suspect they're your successors, brother. They developed their own management technique for the Red Thirst. While they haven't cured it completely, they've found a way to redirect it through pre-progenitor implant conditioning. It's more of a psychological intervention than a physical alteration."

Magnus leaned forward, his massive frame casting shadows across the workstation. "Fascinating. They've channeled the energy into intellectual pursuits rather than letting it manifest as bloodlust. A remarkable adaptation."

Sanguinius's expression darkened as he continued reading, his wings spreading slightly – a subtle sign of agitation. His eyes widened at certain passages, and his grip on the data-slate tightened enough that the adamantium frame creaked in protest.

"Thieves?" he finally burst out, his voice a mixture of incredulity and indignation. "You want to turn my sons into thieves?" He thrust the data-slate toward Franklin accusingly. "They take everything that isn't bolted to the ground! They even took Bjorn the Fell-Handed!" His voice rose with each word, the legendary composure of the Angel cracking. "FRANKLIN, I WILL NOT HAVE IT!"

Franklin's response was to chuckle, a sound that would have seemed suicidal in the face of an angry Primarch – if it had come from anyone else. "Now hold on, brother," he said, raising his hands in a placating gesture that somehow managed to seem both respectful and slightly mocking. "Think about what we're seeing here. Your sons' genetic drive for blood has been sublimated into a drive for knowledge and artifacts. Yes, they might be a bit... enthusiastic in their collection methods, but consider the alternative."

Magnus stepped between them, his towering form serving as both mediator and visual aid. "Franklin has a point, Sanguinius. The Blood Ravens' obsession with relics and learning, while sometimes leading to questionable acquisition methods, is far preferable to uncontrolled bloodlust. They've turned a potentially devastating flaw into something that, while not perfect, at least doesn't result in death and madness."

Sanguinius's wings folded back, his anger gradually giving way to contemplation. "But surely there must be a better way," he said, his voice carrying a note of desperation that he rarely allowed others to hear. "My sons deserve better than to become... kleptomaniacs."

Franklin's expression softened, showing the genuine care he held for his brothers beneath his usual irreverent exterior. "Brother, we're not suggesting this as the final solution. Think of it as proof of concept – evidence that the Red Thirst can be redirected. The Blood Ravens found one way to do it, but with this knowledge, we could potentially develop better methods. More controlled ones."

"And less likely to result in the theft of venerated Dreadnoughts," Magnus added dryly, causing Franklin to suppress another chuckle.

"Thieves? Come now, you know how it is. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Besides," he swiped to another file, "I've got a much more interesting case for you. The Lamenters—they discovered a cure for the Red Thirst, or at least, they thought they did. But their attempts ended in disaster, and it was directly tied to their lack of mastery over the Warp." He turned to Magnus. "They were—well, they were royally screwed over. Let's just leave it at that."

Magnus's expression darkened slightly, and his eye narrowed, his mind already piecing together the tragedy of the Lamenters. "A lesson in the dangers of delving too deeply into the Warp without sufficient control," he muttered. "That could be most dangerous for any chapter seeking to meddle with such powerful forces."

Franklin's tone grew serious as he spoke again, his eyes flicking between his two brothers. "I have a solution. A way forward. But it will take significant resources. The Emperor's involvement would be necessary—"

At the mention of their father's name, Magnus's gaze sharpened, his single eye gleaming with wariness. "Brother," he interjected, his voice heavy with caution, "you know what this implies. Any ritual that calls for the Emperor's direct intervention is not without its immense risks. I strongly suggest we consider the Blood Ravens' method first."

Sanguinius stood in silence, his wings flicking nervously. His face was unreadable as he absorbed their words, caught between distaste for the Blood Ravens' unorthodox methods and the desperate need to free his sons from their affliction. Finally, he spoke, his voice carrying the burden of command.

"Very well," he said, his tone edged with reluctance. "We will proceed with the Blood Ravens' approach first. But," he emphasized, his gaze locking onto both Franklin and Magnus, "I want to understand exactly how their conditioning works. No shortcuts. No assumptions. We test everything, thoroughly."

Franklin grinned and pushed himself away from the workbench, his energy palpable. "Of course! That's why we're here, right? Magnus will handle the Warp aspects, I'll handle the genetics, and you," he gestured playfully to Sanguinius, "can ensure we don't accidentally end up with a chapter of kleptomaniacs."

Sanguinius's lips twitched in spite of himself, the faintest smile playing across his face. "Your humor does not make this situation easier, brother."

"No," Franklin agreed, "but it certainly makes it less grim. Now," he turned to Magnus, "let's take a look at these conditioning protocols. Magnus, what do you make of these psycho-indoctrination patterns?"

Magnus's massive form loomed over the main console, his single eye blazed with intellectual excitement. "The psychological architecture is fascinating," he murmured, examining the data in front of him. "See how they've constructed these cognitive feedback loops? It's brilliant—efficacious, but perhaps a little too harsh in its methods."