WARHAMMER 40K: SOUL OF THE LEGION Chapter 67 67: Arrival at Parmenio

The room was dim. Nothing but the faint glow of cogitator array screens.

That light outlined two figures standing in the shadow, heads lowered over a data stream freshly pulled from the system's orbital defense nodes.

"The summary of the new arrivals is compiled." The shadow on the left spoke quietly. "There is a Colonel-Commissar. His promotion order was personally signed by the Lord Militant imdiately prior. The stated reason is outstanding rit. The actual reason is unknown. Additionally, his unit's supply priority has been marked at the highest level."

The shadow on the right was silent for a mont. Fingers tapped lightly on the tal edge of the console.

"A Colonel-Commissar. The Lord Militant's direct endorsent. And a heavy armored regint." A pause. "A degree of threat. This unit is an uncontrollable variable and needs to be dealt with before anything else. The other heavy armored regints should be handled the sa way."

"Let them land on the surface," the shadow on the left suggested.

"Justification?"

"The sa as the others. Have them co down to verify identification and collect the new batch of armored vehicles. The chanicus' formalities are the best cover. No one questions the Machine Spirit consecration rites."

"And the fleets?" the shadow on the right pressed. "If they demand collective landing, we may expose ourselves ahead of schedule."

"Tell them the ground camp is approaching saturation and cannot accommodate all personnel. We only need to delay their departure. The Ascension Festival. It is nearly ti."

"Go and execute."

---

By natural ti reckoning, less than seven standard Terra Days of Warp transit brought Duvette's fleet clear of the Sea of Souls and into the Parnio system without incident.

Through the viewport, Parnio's outline materialized slowly out of the void. This world — which would one day beco the site of Guilliman's return and his confrontation with his brothers — was quiet now, indistinguishable from any other agricultural world in the Realm of Ultramar.

The Ultramarines 2nd Company's vessels were not with them.

Before the fleet had finished its pre-jump preparations, those warships had already peeled away from the formation and driven at maximum speed into the deep void.

Duvette stood at an observation window on the lower deck, looking at the expanse of space outside. He had already ford his conjecture.

Working from mory and calculating the tiline: at this point, the Ultramarines should have already completed their first direct engagent with the Tyranid swarm. At Prandium. The Imperial fleet had suffered an unprecedented ambush there and been devastated. Chapter Master Marneus Calgar had ultimately issued the order to abandon that world — a cruel necessity, and a sign of how badly the engagent had gone.

That was why Titus and his company had left in such a hurry. The fall of Prandium ant the Tyranid advance was already closing on the heart of Ultramar. Every battle-brother the Ultramarines could reach needed to be at Macragge.

The plan from this point was straightforward enough.

The fleet would hold in high orbit above Parnio. Supply vessels from the surface would transfer materiel up through the orbital elevator or large shuttlecraft directly to the Siren's Fury. When personnel and equipnt were both fully resupplied, the fleet would imdiately depart for Macragge.

Down on the lower deck, the air was full of the muffled sounds of exertion and boots hitting the deck plating.

Duvette stood on the improvised platform his soldiers had built from tal cargo containers and watched the 112th Regint at their daily training. Under the effect of Veteran's Fra, the physical output of these veterans had reached a level that was honestly alarming to observe.

To put that energy sowhere productive, he had developed an extrely demanding conditioning and tactical coordination schedule.

The Eisenmark armoured troopers were working through combined arms drills with the 101st infantry — practicing close-quarters coordination in confined spaces. Without actual tanks available, they had constructed tal fra silhouettes to simulate vehicle profiles and were moving through the tactical sequences over and over again.

While Duvette was evaluating the training, the lift doors slid open.

A fleet command adjutant in a pressed uniform entered the lower deck, flanked by two ard naval provosts. His gait was stiff. The lower deck's characteristic blend of engine oil, sweat, and recycled air prompted a brief wince, and his gaze swept the training floor until it found Duvette on the platform.

Duvette jumped down as the adjutant ca toward him. He had assud this was trouble of one kind or another.

The adjutant reached him, gave a stiff salute, and produced a parchnt writ sealed in wax, presenting it with both hands. He spoke quickly, in the manner of soone who had no intention of spending more ti on the lower deck than the minimum his orders required.

"Colonel-Commissar Duvette. Given that your unit was involved in intensive close-quarters combat with Orks during the Saint Calais campaign, a potential biological contamination risk is assessed as present; and given that the 42nd Armoured Distribution Center on Parnio's surface is currently at severe overcapacity, creating a bottleneck in materiel distribution..."

He paused and resud reading from the parchnt.

"The new batch of Leman Russ tanks is currently stored in the Sacred Machine Spirit Stasis Chambers under chanicus blessing. To prevent unauthorized personnel from profaning the Machine Spirits, with the approval of Parnio's Departnto Munitorum Chief Administrator and Lord Militant Frederick: only yourself, a small personal guard detail, and the designated crew personnel responsible for receiving the tanks are authorized to land on the surface. All remaining forces are to remain in orbit on standby."

Duvette said nothing. He reached out and took the writ, his brow drawing together.

"Colonel-Commissar, a transport shuttle has been prepared and is ready in Hangar Three," the adjutant added, completing his brief. "You may depart at your convenience. Good luck."

Another salute, a sharp turn, and the adjutant left with the provosts at pace.

Duvette stood where he was. His eyes settled on the red wax seal. The Lord Militant's signature was genuine. The Departnto Munitorum's mark showed no sign of forgery. In terms of procedure, every elent appeared legal and compliant.

Sothing was still wrong.

He ran through the logic of the order.

Was this level of complexity actually necessary? For Astra Militarum units receiving new equipnt, this process was not standard. Under normal circumstances, barges would deliver tanks directly to the Siren's Fury's lower hull. Done.

Why did a Colonel-Commissar need to lead a party to the surface personally to sign for them?

And the justification: Parnio's docking area severely overcapacity.

If this were so ordinary world in an outer sector — a world struggling under the sudden weight of warti mobilization, its logistics overwheld by volu — Duvette might have accepted the explanation without question. Imperial bureaucracy was exactly this kind of institution in normal operations.

But this was Parnio. This was Ultramar. Roboute Guilliman's own domain.

The most enduring legacy the Primarch had left the Realm of Ultramar was this: an administrative and logistics system of clockwork precision. Ultramar was renowned for exactly this — its efficiency, its organizational depth, its capacity to handle what would cripple any other sector.

Ultramar did not experience elentary failures of the "docking area overcapacity prevents tank delivery" variety.

Duvette narrowed his eyes and read through the parchnt again slowly, every word. His fingers moved along the paper's edge.

Sothing on the surface had gone wrong.

He turned and looked at the soldiers on the training floor — tireless, burning with energy that would not diminish. His judgnt was telling him the surface was a trap of so kind.

But his mory of how the campaign ended pushed back. Macragge had won the First Tyranid War. The battle had been devastating in the extre, but the Imperium had deployed large numbers of mortal forces in the defense and those forces had held the line. Which ant the bulk of the mortal auxiliary forces assembling at Parnio right now had ultimately reached Macragge. They had not been eliminated here.

"Probably nothing serious," Duvette said to himself. He tried to make himself believe it. "Perhaps the strain from Behemoth's approach is simply larger than even Ultramar's logistics can absorb without a brief disruption..."

History pointed one direction.

His instincts, sharpened by months of surviving things that should have killed him, pointed another.

In the end the instincts won.

"Evan!" He turned and called out.

His adjutant, supervising training nearby, was at his side in an instant, coming to attention. "Commissar. Your orders?"

"Go and get Stroud, Finn, and Anderson." Duvette folded the writ and tucked it into his coat's inner pocket. "And inform Major Kleist to bring his best crew personnel and assemble at Hangar Three."

He looked at Evan.

"Tell them to carry combat knives and autopistols. We are going to the surface."