Twilight fell somewhat slower on Olympia than on Terra. When Perturabo designed the world's artificial sun, he had deliberately lengthened its orbital arc, stretching the transition from day to dusk to nearly three full hours.
His sister always felt a lingering unease whenever the sky darkened too abruptly.
Outside the window, a warm orange light bathed the slopes, casting long, dark stripes across the terraced tea fields like land groomed by a giant comb.
Calliphone stepped out from the kitchen carrying a tray of freshly baked biscuits. She sat comfortably beside Perturabo, casually turning the pages of a physical book.
She asked nothing about his recent communication, content to read quietly while occasionally enjoying a biscuit.
Perturabo glanced at his sister, picked up a biscuit, and took a bite. The crisp texture and balanced sweetness melted on his tongue, finally loosening the tension in his shoulders that had built up over the afternoon.
"Did you berate those Tech-Magi just now?"
Calliphone did not look up, her eyes remaining on her book.
"I did not."
"You did. I heard you all the way from the kitchen. You even said the Emperor wouldn't dare be so outrageous."
Perturabo paused mid-chew, swallowed the biscuit, and wore a subtly complex expression.
"That wasn't berating them. It was merely stating facts."
"I don't recall you using that tone when stating facts."
Perturabo offered no denial. He looked down at the biscuit in his hand, stayed silent for a moment, and then laughed softly.
"Sister... do you think the Imperium is truly beyond saving?"
Calliphone looked up at Perturabo. It was one of the rare moments she saw her brother looking genuinely dispirited.
"In what sense?"
"In every sense. Technology, administration, efficiency... and those machine-cultists. I handed them advanced knowledge on a silver platter, practically prying their jaws open to feed them."
"Yet a thousand years have passed. Aside from making minor tweaks to my designs only to revert to my original schematics, they have produced virtually no meaningful original breakthroughs. Even those once-promising progressives are now a stagnant pool."
"What kind of research goes on for a thousand years without yielding breakthroughs?"
"Didn't you say before that the progress of civilization is naturally a rising spiral?" Calliphone closed her book, her voice calm.
"Did I say that?" Perturabo instinctively tried to deny it.
"You did. Many times."
"You said human technological progress was never linear—that long plateaus or regressions were inevitable, but as long as the foundation remained intact, humanity would always climb back up."
"You also said slow progress would be inevitable in the future, because a civilization of that scale could produce a hundred million inventions a day and still face a billion issues waiting to be addressed."
"You said you would always support—"
"That was just drunk talk. It doesn't count."
"Can you even get drunk?" Calliphone glanced at him, the corner of her lips curving slightly upward.
---
That evening, Perturabo left Imperial affairs entirely out of mind.
He accompanied his sister through a complete holographic opera performance, listened to her share recent lighthearted missteps made by Olympian administrators, and sat on the balcony for a long while. He watched the artificial sunlight transition from warm orange to deep navy, and finally into absolute dark, as the city below lit up in a sea of lights.
The artificial lighting network across Olympia was his own design; the spectrum of every streetlamp had been calibrated to emit a gentle, glare-free glow, creating a warm, golden sea of stars against the night sky.
A sprawling sea of lights always inspired hope, reassuring Perturabo that the things he protected were truly meaningful.
He preferred this quiet routine far more than reviewing battle damage logs or inventory manifests.
The next morning, morning sunlight beaming through the window woke Perturabo.
Opening his eyes, he saw that daylight had arrived; the artificial sun rose slowly over the eastern ridge line, casting a narrow golden ribbon across his sheets through a gap in the curtains.
It had been a long time since he last slept until waking naturally, as he rarely indulged in such habits.
His biological clock maintained strict control over his physiology, but last night he felt a minor indulgence was permissible.
When he finished washing and stepped into the living room, Calliphone had already set out breakfast.
A thick slice of toasted bread, fried eggs, two massive grox steaks, a cup of hot jasmine tea, and a small dish of honey. The steaks and eggs were generously smothered in rich gravy.
Such a heavy breakfast was hardly ideal by standard health metrics, but Perturabo's unique Primarch physiology could chew adamantium like crisp chips, rendering minor nutritional balanced concerns entirely irrelevant.
Sitting down, Perturabo habitually glanced toward the study door, though his gaze lingered for less than a second before pulling back.
Calliphone noticed the gesture but said nothing.
"Do you have any plans for today?" She pushed the jasmine tea toward him and asked casually.
"Nothing pressing." Perturabo bit into the toast, cutting off a large piece of steak to pair with an egg. "Barabas's updated supply manifest won't be finalized until tomorrow at the earliest. I have at least a full day free."
"Then accompany me to the starport this afternoon. A new consignment of artworks sent by Andos has arrived, and I can't retrieve them alone."
Naturally, neither of them strictly needed to go; Abominable Intelligences could handle freight retrieval effortlessly. But if it meant spending more time with her brother, why not?
Perturabo considered it for a moment, then nodded.
He had not visited the starport in a long time. The facilities birthed many of his private transport vessels operating outside official Imperial fleet registries; frequent visits tended to attract unwanted attention from Imperial oversight personnel.
One had to grant the central administration some face, after all.
However, accompanying his sister to retrieve art pieces served as a perfectly legitimate pretext—though even without one, no official would dare object, unless some fool wished to be assigned to frontier pioneer duty.
The starport was vast, occupying nearly a quarter of northern Olympia, though relatively few capital ships remained berthed there long-term, leaving much of it empty.
When Perturabo initially designed the starport, he deliberately built it far larger than immediate operational needs required, knowing it would serve a major purpose later.
Time had validated his foresight: the port handled massive volumes of his private freight, operating on rapid turnarounds where transports unloaded and departed immediately without lingering.
Over the past three months alone, throughput at the starport had surged to ten times its normal baseline, shipping vast quantities of materiel to front lines across the Imperium.
Unless unexpected variables intervened, daily throughput across the port would remain staggering as countless transports carried supplies from Olympia and his domain worlds toward sectors undergoing rebuilds.
While his sister handled the art transfer paperwork, Perturabo stood at the edge of a docking bay, observing cargo ships loading in the distance.
Only a portion of those vessels were loading materiel approved during yesterday's dispatch order; many had begun loading days prior under automated routines that required no direct intervention from him.
His automated logistics network had been operating according to preset protocols: whenever the Imperium encountered major military engagements, Olympia's production lines automatically transitioned to wartime output, sorting inventory dispatch by predefined priority queues.
Perturabo's decision yesterday had merely stamped confirmation on a process already underway; those stockpiles had been prepared for dispatch long before Dantioch submitted his report.
This was precisely why he had chosen to retire even while the Imperium's situation remained dynamic.
Even if he did nothing, the Imperium would continue to function smoothly based on his predefined frameworks. Everything he implemented operated far earlier and far more comprehensively than observers anticipated.
Perturabo simply stood at the edge of the starport berth, doing nothing.
He did not analyze cargo efficiency, estimate loading progress, or mentally optimize freight workflows; he simply watched.
This was the scene Calliphone encountered upon exiting the warehouse.
Perturabo stood at the berth's edge, hands clasped behind his back, posture erect. He gazed calmly at the distant transport ships, his facial expression relaxed—displaying an uncharacteristic ease rarely seen on him.
"What are you looking at?"
"Nothing in particular. I simply thought the view looked quite fine—no less magnificent than our old city-states."
"When I designed this place, I didn't expect it to look so aesthetic, considering I didn't design it with artistic principles in mind."
"Didn't you visit when construction finished? What were your thoughts back then?"
"I felt nothing in particular, because I knew I would build starports far grander, larger, and more beautiful in the future. And while I did accomplish that, seeing how much this starport has expanded over the years still surprises me slightly."
"Perhaps during our leisure time, I could take you to visit those fortress complexes. I doubt my sons would disappoint me; their designs shouldn't fall short of my own. It seems we might have another recreation activity for the future."
Calliphone said nothing, simply reaching out to intertwine her arm with her brother's, standing beside him as they watched the vast starport operate in quiet rhythm.
Before such an engineering marvel, two individuals seemed as tiny as dust; yet beneath the open sky, even a massive starport was merely another speck of dust in the void.
"Let's go back and see what Andos sent this time. Hopefully, it offers something truly captivating."
---
The quiet on Olympia did not endure for long.
Two weeks later, while Perturabo enjoyed afternoon tea on his balcony, the logic engine received a communication request originating from Terra.
The sender was neither Guilliman, Lion, nor the Emperor, but Malcador.
When the Grand Master of the Imperium personally initiated a transmission, Perturabo knew matters were unlikely to be simple.
Setting his tea cup down, he received the line inside his study.
Malcador's holographic projection materialized at the terminal, wearing his unchanging robes, his face set in a perpetually worn, weary expression.
"You seem to be enjoying your retirement." Malcador's eyes carried a hint of subtle envy.
"Did you initiate a line just to tell me that?"
"Of course not. I am here on behalf of the Imperium to convey the gratitude of its citizens," Malcador stated.
"Save it. My name was attached to nothing; the citizens don't even know who saved them. How could they thank me?"
"We know, don't we? Which is why I am here to extend our thanks."
"Your supplies are already in transit, with the initial shipments reaching damaged sectors across every galaxy. Field commanders report that the equipment outperforms standard Imperial gear by at least two technological generations, accelerating reconstruction by nearly forty percent."
"Did you come today merely to offer compliments? To hand me a benefactor award, or perhaps a medal for distinguished Imperial service?"
"No. Your Father and Roboute asked me to inquire—and I confess I am curious as well—how much inventory do you actually have stored away?"
Perturabo took a sip of jasmine tea, offering no immediate answer.
Those two old schemers!
"Why do you ask?"
"When the Abominable Intelligences presented that manifest to us, we fell silent for a long time," Malcador noted.
"'Perturabo's recent output capacity vastly exceeds the theoretical limits supported by the technologies he shared with the Imperium, unless he maintains an undisclosed production network, or holds reserves far larger than we envisioned.'"
"Those were your brother Roboute's exact words."
Perturabo set his cup down, looking calmly at Malcador.
"Are you implying I hoarded inventory? Interrogating me because I didn't hand everything over to resolve your crises?"
"He simply believes you kept reserves hidden, but he wasn't angry. Rather, he felt contemplative—wondering why Imperial development moves so slowly when the output of your retired life on Olympia nearly rivals the production of the entire galaxy."
Perturabo did not respond. He knew Malcador's visit carried deeper motives; the Emperor certainly had his own agenda.
"The Emperor has decided to initiate a comprehensive overhaul of the Adeptus Mechanicus forge worlds and research divisions following this campaign. He wishes to request your assistance in identifying where the Imperium's manufacturing lines are failing."
"He asked me to inquire whether you would be willing to spare time for a brief visit to Terra—just a few days to attend a conference before returning."
Only a fool would believe that!
Perturabo leaned back against his seat, staring at Malcador's projection for a long moment before speaking.
"Tell the Emperor to compile a precise list of the issues he intends to address and send it to me first. I will review it before deciding whether to attend any meeting on Terra."
Malcador nodded, and the holographic projection faded.
Perturabo sat in his study, watching the residual glow on the projection terminal fade into empty air.
He picked up his jasmine tea and took a sip; the temperature was perfect, just how he liked it.
Outside the window, the afternoon sun remained bright as the artificial sun moved slowly west, drawing long, dark-green shadows from the tea trees in the garden.
He stared at the empty space left by the terminal, his thumb absently tracing the rim of his cup, his expression thoughtful.
Suddenly, the logic engine chimed again with a new communication request originating directly from the Sanctum Imperialis on Terra. This time, it carried the Emperor's personal, direct channel rather than Malcador's code.
Perturabo glanced at the identifier, his eye twitching slightly.
Instead of answering immediately, he set his cup down, leaned back, crossed his hands over his lap, took a deep breath, and finally accepted the connection.
The Emperor appeared as usual—clad in a simple white robe, wearing a laurel wreath, his hair loosely tied back, looking as though he had just stepped out of a laboratory.
Yet his golden eyes shone intensely in the projection—a look Perturabo knew all too well. Whenever the old man sought to extract assets from him, he wore that exact expression.
"I take it you haven't reviewed the manifest I sent?"
"You haven't sent one yet. What was I supposed to review?"
"Malcador suggested you review it in the Sanctum Imperialis once you arrived, but I suspected you wouldn't return so easily."
"So you contacted me directly to bypass Malcador's conditions?" Perturabo looked sideways at the Emperor.
"To save time. Rather than waiting for your return, it was simpler to reach out directly." The Emperor leaned forward slightly. "My son, your retirement seems to suit you quite well."
"It does."
"The gardens are well maintained."
"They are."
"You even planted tea trees?"
"And mint flowers."
"Ah, and—"
"Enough with the pleasantries. State your purpose directly."
The Emperor offered a slight smile—a smile that looked thoroughly shameless in Perturabo's eyes.
He had known that face for far too long—long enough to read the sheer absurdity of the upcoming request from every subtle curve of the Emperor's lips.
"The inventory dispatched from your domain... that isn't the true limit of your vaults, is it?"
Perturabo offered no response.
"I had Constantin and Malcador cross-reference the total volume of materiel you transported to Olympia via private transit lines against your registered output data over the years. The discrepancy is staggering—far beyond what can be described as merely surprising."
The Emperor casually pulled out a stack of burgers, consuming them one after another before taking a deep gulp of iced cola.
"Do you know what that implies?"
"It implies the Departmento Munitorum and the Adeptus Arbites are thoroughly incompetent for failing to track basic logistics data."
You are a Primarch and former Warmaster of the Imperium—who would dare audit your shipments? Who isn't afraid of catching eight bolt rounds in the back on their way home, only for the subsequent investigation to rule it a suicide?
"It implies you hold at least five to ten times the volume of materiel involved in this recent dispatch—and I suspect that estimate is conservative."
Perturabo's eyebrow twitched slightly—a minute movement, but one the Emperor clearly caught, his smile widening.
"Then your estimate is far too timid. You didn't even dare project higher."
"Hmm?"
"It is fifty times that amount!"
The Emperor's chewing motion came to a sudden halt, and the two stared at each other for roughly three seconds.
Slowly setting his cola down, the Emperor's expression shifted from a shameless grin to a look of utter, blank astonishment.
"Are you saying—"
"I am saying you are even more incompetent than I envisioned. Not just you, but the entire Departmento Munitorum and the Adeptus Arbites—a collection of bloated, useless freeloaders!"
Perturabo remained entirely unbothered, simply taking another sip of tea.
"So what do you intend to do about it? Now that you know, what can you actually do? Are you going to bring the Adeptus Custodes and my brothers to Olympia to raid my home?"
"Listen to yourself—there is no need for that," the Emperor replied, leaning back with his hands clasped behind his head. "Besides, that would be far too crude and unbefitting my standing as Emperor."
"Then what is it you want?"
"I want to make a deal with you."
"No."
"Don't be so hasty. Hear me out first."
"I'm not listening."
The Emperor continued as though he hadn't heard the refusal.
"Moving forward, your stockpiles will be exempt from Imperial taxation, and your private transport routes will require no official registration. Whatever you request, I will grant. My personal vaults will be entirely open to you; you may take whatever you wish."
"I have only one condition: since you already agreed to cover seventy percent of the reconstruction costs without impacting your core stockpiles, you might as well cover the remaining thirty percent for us entirely."
"Furthermore, losses within the Departmento Munitorum are exceptionally severe this time. I know Olympia receives a substantial annual subsidy allowance anyway; given your vast reserves, you might as well cover the Departmento's losses as well. It isn't as though you lack the resources."
"Oh, and one more thing: our tax revenues have encountered severe shortfalls following the Tyranid war, leaving numerous budgetary gaps unfilled. I can't even cover the funds I quietly diverted for my own research projects. Why not help the Imperium—and me—fill those gaps as well?"
"Oh, and also—"
Listening to the Emperor reel off a "wishlist" like a child making demands, Perturabo felt his back molars grind together.
The sheer nerve of this bastard—trying to wolf down white gold with empty hands, offering concessions Perturabo cared nothing about just to bleed him dry and cover every Imperial shortfall!
He even wanted Perturabo to settle his own mismanaged personal accounts! The sheer audacity was unbelievable; the Emperor had clearly embezzled untold sums from the Imperial Treasury over the years.
Unable to contain his irritation any longer, Perturabo snapped:
"In your dreams!"