Chronicle, entry number seven.
I asked to go back to Terra.
They sent me to the Primarch Fulgrim’s fleet “so that I might learn something about aesthetics.” I have been aboard the Crown of Perfection for three days, and they have already corrected my handwriting twice, my posture four times and my tone of voice once, which was the one that hurt the most.
From what I hear in the corridors, at the same time that we were descending into a colosseum full of gods, the Emperor himself was descending into a senate full of liars.
I don’t know which is worse.
I think this week I’m going to find out.
I.
Art Criticism in Valhalla
The Crown of Perfection did not look like a warship.
It looked like a museum gallery with engines.
It had statues carved into the hull and stained glass in the corridors, and on the bridge there was a string quartet that played every time the Primarch entered.
Fulgrim, the Phoenix, Primarch of the Third Legion, regarded the planet on the screen with the expression of someone who has just tasted a disappointing wine.
“I can feel it in the air,” he said.
“Gods. Gods who play with humanity as if it were a game board. How… vulgar.”
“Multiple energy signatures, my lord,” reported Lord Commander Eidolon.
“Powerful beings, but nothing the Third cannot face. Their palaces float on a higher plane.”
“Of course they float. Gods always build their houses up high so they don’t have to smell the people.” Fulgrim turned to the crew and spread his arms.
“My sons! We have arrived on a stage where the gods believe they can decide the fate of man. Let us go down and show them what perfection looks like.”
The string quartet swelled in volume.
No one had told them to.
They simply knew.
* * *
In the arena of Valhalla, the first round of Ragnarok had ended with a score of one to nothing in favor of the gods.
In the stands, thousands of years of human history—Adán, Lü Bu, warriors from every era—watched as their species was about to be erased by divine vote.
Brunhilde, the Valkyrie who had organized that desperate tournament, was already working out the next champion when the sky of Valhalla shattered.
A purple and gold ship, covered in statues, came to a halt above the colosseum.
“S-s-s-sister… what is that?” Göll stammered.
“I don’t know,” Brunhilde replied.
“It wasn’t in my calculations.”
“Ho, ho, ho!” Zeus laughed from his box, scratching his beard.
“What a surprise!”
A ramp descended.
Down it came warriors in ornate purple and gold armor, in a step so synchronized it looked like choreography.
And in the center, his silver hair rippling as if he had a personal fan, came he.
Fulgrim walked to the center of the arena.
He looked at the stands, the columns, the boxes of the gods.
And he sighed.
“Valhalla. What a grandiose stage. Although, I must admit, I was expecting something more refined. Are those columns Doric, or did they just give up halfway?”
In the gods’ box, someone choked on their nectar.
Thor, from his seat, tightened his grip on Mjolnir.
“He is not a god,” he muttered.
“But he is no ordinary human, either.”
“And who are you?” asked Shiva, all four arms crossed.
“Have you come to fight or to put on a show?”
“Why not both?” Fulgrim turned to Brunhilde.
“You, Valkyrie. You choose humanity’s champions, do you not? I offer you a real one.”
He bowed.
“Me.”
The gods burst out laughing.
Zeus slapped his knee.
“You’re challenging us? You’ve got guts, pretty boy!”
Fulgrim waited for them to stop.
He waited a little longer.
The laughter died out on its own, because it is hard to keep laughing at someone who looks at you as though you were a badly made sculpture.
“How predictable,” he said at last.
“The laughter of the mediocre, who fear the unknown. I look at all of you and feel only… disappointment. You are supposed to be supreme beings, and here you are, sitting on your thrones, inheriting power instead of cultivating it.”
“Mind your words, outsider,” said Thor.
“Mind them? How adorable.” Fulgrim began to stroll around the arena, pointing out boxes like a critic at a gallery opening.
“Zeus: a lecherous old man who rules through fear. Poseidon: a tyrant whose only legacy is terror. Ares: a rabid dog with neither grace nor art. Heracles… well, at least one of you tried to be something more than a despot. I’ll give him a seven.”
“BASTARD!” Ares leapt to his feet.
“You see? A god of war who only knows how to shout. Where is the strategy? Where is the style?”
Zeus raised a hand and Ares sat down, fuming.
“You talk a lot,” said the king of Olympus.
“But here only strength matters.”
“Exactly.” Fulgrim smiled.
“Which is why I propose something. I will face each one of you in the arena. No tricks. My sword against your divinities. Or are you afraid of losing to someone who doesn’t carry the title of god?”
That was enough.
* * *
The second round began with music.
Hermes, on the stage, played the violin to announce his lord.
Bach, among the human audience, burst into tears.
“It’s the partita for strings in G,” he sobbed.
“A perfect interpretation. It purifies my soul.”
“Not bad,” Fulgrim remarked, arms crossed.
“Although the vibrato in the third bar is a little… optimistic.”
Hermes kept playing, but with a vein throbbing at his temple.
Zeus came in dancing.
He swelled until he was a mountain of muscle.
He stopped in front of Fulgrim and gave him a smile with every one of his teeth.
“I hope you put on a good show, boy. I haven’t had fun like this in years.”
Fulgrim thought: the father of the gods, and he behaves like an idiot.
He and Leman would get along splendidly.
“Let the second round begin!” Heimdall shouted.
Zeus vanished in a flash.
Blows from every angle, fists that could split mountains, a speed that left shockwaves in the air.
Fulgrim dodged them all.
Not by running: by dancing.
A turn, a tilt of the head, a step back that seemed part of a waltz.
“Is this all a god can do?” he asked.
“I expected more from the king of Olympus.”
He caught Zeus’s fist in midair.
The god pushed with his whole body.
The Primarch didn’t move a millimeter.
“Wh-what…?”
“Allow me to show you what perfection is.”
A single blow.
Zeus went flying across the arena and slammed into the wall of the colosseum.
The crowd fell silent.
And then, from the human stands, came a cry of pure excitement.
“Incredible!” Leonardo da Vinci had his notebook open and his charcoal flying.
“His posture! His balance! He’s the golden ratio walking!”
“He is a living work of art!” Michelangelo had risen to his feet.
“If only I could sculpt him in marble!”
Botticelli was weeping.
Raphael already had a canvas.
Caravaggio was working out how to light him in chiaroscuro.
Fulgrim, in the middle of the arena, paused for an instant, looked toward the stands and lifted his chin to a more flattering angle.
“Don’t rush, gentlemen. You haven’t seen my best side yet.”
In the gods’ box, Aphrodite was fanning herself with her hand, bright red.
“Those moves… that arrogance… he’s perfect!”
“And we’ve lost her,” Shiva sighed, settling back into his seat.
* * *
Zeus came back.
He used the blow that had made his name in the Titanomachy, the fist that surpasses time.
Reality froze.
The humans in the stands were held still like statues.
The gods smiled, because no one escaped that blow.
And from below, in the stopped time, came an elegant laugh.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.”
When time began to flow again, Fulgrim was beside Zeus’s fist, not beneath it.
“Almost,” he said.
“Almost.”
The counterblow knocked out half of Zeus’s teeth.
Desperate, the old god played his last card: he compressed his body into its diamond form, black, slender, empty, capable of delivering a blow no mortal should be able to withstand.
He struck Fulgrim in the chest with everything he had.
BOOM!
When the dust cleared, Fulgrim was still standing.
He looked down at his armor.
There was a mark on it.
“You scratched my breastplate,” he said, with genuine indignation.
“This is Chemosian gold.”
What followed was quick and it was not pretty, though Fulgrim did everything he could to make it look that way.
When it was over, Zeus, king of Olympus, did not get up again.
And Fulgrim, wiping his sword with a silk handkerchief, looked around at the rest of the boxes.
“One less false god,” he announced.
“Who’s next? I have the afternoon free.”
It took Heimdall ten seconds to remember how to use his horn.
“Th-th-the winner of the second round… is FULGRIIIIIM!”
The Emperor’s Children chanted his name with a perfect choreography that they had apparently rehearsed for exactly this occasion.
* * *
That night, Brunhilde found him in the arena’s dining hall, pouring himself a glass of wine.
“You must be the Valkyrie,” said Fulgrim, without looking up.
“Sit down. The wine here is acceptable, which is not the same as good.”
“No one ever thought a god could be defeated like that,” she said.
“You proved they can die like anyone else.”
“I only did what I do best.”
“I want you to stay in the rounds. The fate of humanity depends on this tournament.”
Fulgrim swirled his glass, watching the wine cling to the crystal.
“I will. But not for the tournament. If I win, my Legion and I will put an end to this world of false gods. My father believes that beings like them bring humanity nothing but misfortune. And he is right.”
“And us?” asked Brunhilde.
“You are demigoddesses. But if you swear loyalty to the Imperium, my father may see something useful in you. He is a tyrant, yes. But a just one.”
“And if we refuse?”
Fulgrim smiled.
“You would share the fate of the old man who thought he was a king.”
“I accept.”
“WHAAAAAT?!” Göll shrieked, her eyes about to pop out of her head.
“Sister! You’ve gone mad!”
Brunhilde stood up and left.
Göll ran after her.
“How could you allow this?!”
“Humanity depends on this tournament, Göll. And if that man killed a god without mussing his hair… maybe there’s hope.”
“And what he said about ending everything if he wins?”
Brunhilde didn’t answer.
She wore a small smile her sister had never seen on her before.
The smile of someone who had been waiting millennia for the old pervert to get what was coming to him.
II.
An Emperor on Coruscant
The Bucephalus emerged from the Webway before a planet that was one single city.
Kilometers of skyscrapers, air traffic on a hundred levels, and in the streets, humans walking alongside species of every shape and color.
On the bridge, the Emperor of Mankind frowned.
Malcador, beside him, coughed delicately.
“Before you say anything,” said the Sigillite, “remember that we have come to negotiate.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You were thinking it very loudly.”
The screen lit up.
Three men appeared on it: one with a well-kept beard, a young one with brown hair and an unfriendly face, and a bald one with a gaze that could melt steel.
“I am Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. Please identify yourself.”
“I am the Emperor of Mankind,” said the Emperor.
“I have come to free this world from its corruption.”
“Wow,” the young one muttered.
“He sure gets to the point.”
“You are at the boundaries of Coruscant,” said the bald one, Mace Windu.
“We ask that you withdraw peacefully.”
The Bucephalus did not change course.
“I wish to meet with your superiors,” said the Emperor.
“Now.”
Malcador rubbed his eyes.
“That was negotiating, was it?”
* * *
The meeting was held in the Galactic Senate, surrounded by clone troopers and half the Jedi Council.
When the hatch of the Bucephalus opened on the landing platform, an invisible pressure fell on everyone present.
Yoda had to lean on his cane.
Mace Windu clenched his jaw so as not to take a step back.
First came the Custodes, golden, with energy spears.
Then came He.
Supreme Chancellor Palpatine received him with a perfect smile.
“Welcome to Coruscant, Emperor of Mankind. It is an honor to receive a leader of such great power.”
“Honor,” the Emperor repeated.
“A fragile word in the mouth of a politician.”
Palpatine kept smiling.
But something behind his eyes took note.
“Your galaxy is steeped in war,” the Emperor continued.
“And humanity deserves a future without sorcery or false gods.”
“If you are referring to the Force,” Windu interjected, “it is part of the natural balance.”
“There is no balance in a tool that any traitor or fanatic can wield. In my universe I eradicated sorcery. Here I will do the same.”
“Peace, bring you seek,” said Yoda, slowly.
“But war, in your heart I see.”
“War is the path to true peace,” the Emperor replied.
“Not feeble pacts.”
Palpatine steepled his hands.
“We share objectives, Emperor. A universe of order. Of stability. Perhaps… we could work together.”
The Emperor looked at him.
And it was as if a light had switched on behind the face of a man who had spent decades living in darkness.
“A poor attempt at manipulation. I have known hundreds like you. Parasites wrapped in promises.”
“Explain yourself,” said Palpatine, and he was no longer smiling.
The Emperor raised his hand.
The chamber filled with visions.
Everyone saw them: the Jedi, the senators, the guards.
The hooded figure of Darth Sidious moving the pieces of the war on both sides.
Order 66, hidden in the clones’ chips.
The Jedi Temple in flames.
And Anakin Skywalker, kneeling, with yellow eyes, receiving a new name.
Anakin stepped back, pale.
“You’re a Sith!” Windu roared, his hand on his saber.
The Senate erupted.
Palpatine let out a cackle that had nothing human about it.
His skin cracked, his eyes turned yellow, and the Chancellor’s mask fell away forever.
* * *
The fight that followed was brief and loud.
Sidious fought the Jedi with a fury he had been saving for decades.
Windu held out against him longer than anyone.
The Emperor watched it all with his arms crossed.
“My lord,” said Constantin Valdor, captain of the Custodes.
“Shall we intervene?”
“Not yet.” The Emperor was watching Anakin.
“That boy has something.”
When he finally gave the order, a single Custodian was enough.
One blow from the haft of his spear and Sidious fell to his knees, stunned.
“Finish him,” the Emperor told Anakin.
“What…?”
“You can end this. He will never manipulate you again. They used you as a weapon. The Council never trusted you. They gave you absurd rules. They threw out your apprentice for a crime she did not commit. They call you the Chosen One and doubt that you are.”
“Anakin, don’t listen to him!” Obi-Wan shouted.
“We must arrest him! If we put him on trial, the war will end!”
“Enough,” said Windu, stepping forward.
A Custodian moved into his path.
Anakin ignited his saber.
He walked toward Sidious.
“Anakin…” the Sith whispered.
“I can save your wife… I can…”
That was the last thing he said.
The silence that followed was filled with Anakin’s ragged breathing.
Obi-Wan closed his eyes.
“What have you done…?” he murmured.
“What had to be done,” said the Emperor.
“Now this galaxy has a new order.”
“We will not allow a tyrant to rule the Republic!” Windu ignited his purple saber, and behind him others ignited theirs.
“How ironic,” the Emperor replied.
“A council of hypocrites who chose politics over people. Who take children from their families to turn them into generals.”
Windu attacked.
The Emperor raised his sword of fire, and Mace Windu ceased to exist, in a flash so bright that no one could see it.
Everyone stood frozen.
“This galaxy will be purged of its corruption,” said the Emperor.
“Join me, Skywalker. And at last you will be free.”
Anakin Skywalker knelt.
* * *
Weeks later, aboard the Bucephalus, Malcador was reading the reports on the occupation of Coruscant: the clones loyal to the new administration, the surviving Jedi under house arrest or on reconstruction missions, Senator Amidala promoted to provisional Chancellor “for being the only person in that building capable of drafting a document without betraying anyone.”
“That was harsh, the business with Windu,” the Sigillite remarked, without looking up.
“He attacked me.”
“I know. I’m only saying that next time, perhaps we could try a conversation with more than four sentences in it.”
The Emperor did not answer.
He was gazing out the great window at the city-planet, where the two-headed eagle was beginning to fly alongside the old flag of the Republic.
“The boy,” he said at last.
“Skywalker. Watch him. He has too much pain inside him not to be useful… or dangerous.”
“Like all your sons,” said Malcador.
The Emperor did not deny it.
* * *
Chronicle, entry number nine.
I showed my notes on Valhalla to Lord Commander Eidolon.
He read them in silence, handed them back and told me I had described the Primarch “with insufficient adjectives.” He gave me a list of forty approved alternatives.
The first was “sublime.” The last, “sublime (again).”
Tomorrow they are transferring me to Terra.
They say nothing interesting happens there.
I’m very glad.
I hope it’s true.
Release Schedule: 2 chapters per day until the final 10 chapters, then 1 chapter per day.