"Look what you've done to them, Harlock," said Nibe, drawing all attention to herself. "They lost their composure the moment you mentioned wanting to obtain their knowledge—though they'd steal yours in a heartbeat if their soldiers ever set foot on Arcadia."
"HOLD YOUR VENOMOUS TONGUE, XENOS!" the officer growled loudly, clearly insulting Nibe.
A tense moment followed, so intense that Arcadia's weapons systems activated, targeting nearby ships. The officers immediately reacted—through already active vox channels, they issued orders to prepare for combat.
Arcadia began to emit thick, black smoke. Amid this display, only three of us held control over the rising tension—myself, Nibe, and Guilliman, whom I glared at over the console. He saw the fury in my eyes—fury that could end very badly for them.
"ENOUGH!" the Primarch's sharp tone cut through the tension. "Instead of interfering in my conversation, assist our ground forces in eliminating the remaining traitors."
Hearing their gene-father's command, the Ultramarines began organizing plans, supplies, and soldiers to support their brothers on the surface.
"They're still burning with rage from the battle," Nibe commented, mulling over the second price.
"So am I. That's why the price has gone up to fifty thousand," I added, raising the cost in light of what had just happened.
"I'll begin preparing the 'payment.' The real question is: Why?"
"You've wasted your question—but I'll answer. The reason is: they've been corrupted by the powers of Chaos."
"Explain!" he growled, his anger starting to boil—not at the pirate, but at Lorgar's betrayal and that of the other brothers.
"Harlock answered your question. Now it's time for payment. Unless you're willing to pay the second price—then I'll answer your next question. But don't waste it like you did the first," Nibe interjected, watching Harlock take his seat on the throne.
"I cannot give that," the Primarch said, clenching his fists.
"Then we're done here. Once the payment is made, we'll likely depart," Nibe added, cutting off the vox channel.
I looked at her, and she looked back. "You haven't finished your wine," she remarked, then dissolved into the air, leaving behind glowing green motes.
I sighed and took the goblet in my hand. The weapons powered down, and Arcadia slowly began to dock in an empty berth.
I closed my eyes, sinking into darkness. To create an Astartes, a geneseed made from a Primarch's blood was needed. Could my blood, enhanced by Dark Matter, be a substitute—or was it a dead end? I didn't know. With Nibe's knowledge, I could learn the procedure and teach others. But the question remained: would my blood meet the criteria?
If I succeeded, I could act with relative peace of mind—unshaken by Chaos or any other threat. Only a thousand—no more, no less. Immortal Astartes, until the Dark Matter ran dry.
On the station, Roboute was organizing his forces—counting losses, inspecting the fleet, and more. His officers were buried in tasks the Primarch had assigned. Each surviving combat-ready unit was sent down to Calth to support their brothers. Everyone worked tirelessly to accomplish as much as possible.
"Milord, a report on the pirate vessel," said an officer, handing over Arcadia's specifications, based on visual observation.
Guilliman absorbed the data with superhuman speed. Holographic projections flowed before his eyes like waves of information—each trying to grasp the nature of something that should not exist.
Five kilometers long, 1.455 kilometers wide, 1.654 kilometers tall.
Armament:Sixty heavy-caliber laser cannons mounted on external rotating turrets, each capable of independently tracking targets across a full 360-degree field. The barrels were ribbed—likely for thermal regulation—yet observers noted a lack of the usual recoil typical for such weaponry. The weapons fired silently, with only a flash of light, disintegrating targets at the molecular level. The Mechanicus failed to identify any known power source behind these systems.
Four hundred eighty conventional cannons of undetermined caliber were arranged in multiple concentric rings around the ship's central section. These rings rotated independently on their vertical axes, providing near-total fire coverage. One recorded instance showed the rings adjusting their rotational speed in response to incoming projectiles—suggesting predictive capabilities or, more disturbingly, some form of awareness.
Self-repair Systems:During an exchange of fire, one enemy projectile struck the Arcadia's hull directly. No secondary explosions followed, no sparks, no debris. From the wound poured a thick, black mist that instantly enveloped the impact site. It lingered silently for several seconds before dissipating, leaving the hull seemingly untouched—as if it had never been hit. No visible machine activity, no repair drones, no known Mechanicus technology. The mist behaved instinctively, as if it understood what needed to be restored. One of the stationed Magi described it as "a reaction of self-aware armor."
Guilliman frowned. There were too many unknowns about this vessel. If the Martian priesthood learned of it, they would stop at nothing to acquire it—risking what little remained of their fragile relations with Harlock. For now, he had to keep the pirate close. This ship could prove invaluable in the years ahead of the war against Horus. Having Harlock as an ally granted him power surpassing entire fleets. With proper support, no enemy fleet could withstand the Arcadia. Before they even had time to react, Harlock would have already erased them.
Now, he was preparing the fifty thousand personnel who would choose to walk away and live their lives as pirates. Because of his reckless son, the price had gone up. Guilliman sighed and began sending requests to all devastated companies, asking if any would volunteer to join a so-called allied pirate crew.
The Arcadia sat quietly in the docks like a ghost ship. No lights. No sounds. Ultramarines patrolled its perimeter, scanning for anything they might have missed. A handful of Magi had proposed forcibly breaching the hatch, killing the crew, and seizing the ship for study—but an Astartes captain forbade it and threatened to report them directly to the Primarch. Guilliman had made his stance perfectly clear: Harlock was his guest—not yet an ally, but under his protection.
Days passed. Finally, the Arcadia's Vox network came to life. I opened my eyes to see the Primarch's hologram before me.
"I have gathered the people—mechanics, cooks, soldiers, artisans, logisticians, and many more," Guilliman said, focusing his gaze on Harlock's shadowed figure. "There is one more matter. I need help evacuating Armatura. I want you to assist in extracting my people."
"At best, the Arcadia can hold about 700 million," Nibe stated, materializing beside the throne. "Assuming we're not overly concerned about their comfort. Of course, that excludes areas like the bridge and the engine rooms."
I looked at her through strands of my hair."You know the answer," I said, turning back to the hologram, "but the question remains—are you ready to pay the price?"
"What do you want?" he asked, irritated. This pirate showed no regard for his authority—always demanding something.
"The knowledge of the Aeldari. Where they are. How their hierarchy functions. And most of all—where their Seers are. Especially Eldrad Ulthran." I spoke coldly, my eyes fixed on him.
"Eldrad Ulthran? What do you want with him?" Guilliman asked. He knew the name well and understood how influential that particular Seer was.
"Because he alone knows the answers to the questions that torment me."