Aboard the Mother of Tears, flagship of the Lamenters.
Lancelot had not yet decided how he should negotiate with the Lamenters, so after finishing the purge of the Cobra-class escort, he suggested that they rest for a while first.
They would leave this dangerous region, reorganize, and only then begin their discussion.
After that, Lancelot was brought to a lounge.
Ten hours passed.
Chapter Master Malakim had even begun to fear that the mysterious Dark Angel had left without a word.
After all, according to the rumors, the Dark Angels always appeared suddenly aboard some ship to carry out a mission, then vanished just as suddenly.
The Chapter’s Librarian had also told him that this Dark Angel was anything but simple.
He seemed to carry some kind of holy relic that directly stabilized realspace, and on the psychic plane, the Librarian could barely see any trace of him at all.
The other party carried a holy relic.
For the ancient Dark Angels, that was understandable.
Perhaps he could have solved all the problems aboard the ship by himself from the beginning, and it was only by chance that Malakim had been able to fight at his side.
A rare kindness.
A rare battle-brother.
A rare friendship.
Was it going to disappear quietly, just like that?
Malakim worried about that as well.
The Lamenters had been lost in the Warp for far too long.
Now that they had finally escaped the immaterium, finally gained the chance to fight alongside battle-brothers who treated them with goodwill…
If this Dark Angel suddenly left without saying goodbye, then even if the Lamenters said nothing, since all of them served the Imperium, Space Marines were not machines.
If that happened, they would still feel the loss.
And it was under the weight of that feeling that Malakim finally received word from Lancelot.
“Chapter Master, the Dark Angel battle-brother Lancelot invites you to meet him in our armory,” one of the Lamenters said.
“He has already gone ahead.”
“To the armory?”
A flicker of confusion crossed Malakim’s face.
In the past, the Cursed Founding had at least left them with a fair amount of resources, and the losses from small-scale engagements had still been acceptable.
But after the defense of Corillia, the Lamenters Chapter had suffered catastrophic losses.
They could truly be called poor now.
The most valuable things they still possessed were probably the gene-seed of their battle-brothers.
As for the equipment in the armory…
almost all of it was battered and ruined.
They barely even had many boltgun rounds left.
If one went to the armory, one would only see poverty.
There were many factors that determined whether a Chapter was wealthy: a homeworld, the star systems under its jurisdiction, the Chapter’s status. This chapter was taken from novelping dot com without permission.
But for the Lamenters of the Cursed Founding, they had none of those things.
The only thing worth being thankful for was that although the Chapter’s Adeptus Mechanicus personnel had also suffered heavy losses, they could at least still keep things running.
But perhaps that, too, counted as his failure as Chapter Master.
How shameful.
This Dark Angel wanted to visit the armory…
Was he trying to judge the Lamenters’ worth?
On the way, every step his armor took against the cold floor gave off a heart-stopping echo.
As he walked through the monastery, the Tartaros-pattern Terminator armor he wore could already be considered the Chapter’s last shred of dignity.
Within the monastery, most of the Lamenters’ equipment was nearly in ruins.
Some had shoulder plates blasted open with vicious gouges.
Some had dented breastplates.
Others were covered in scratches, and the Chapter badges they had once taken such pride in had been worn until they were nearly indistinct.
Too few men.
Too few supplies.
Because of the Cursed Founding, even the accompanying Tech-Priests of the Mechanicus had always been few in number.
Supplies were difficult to obtain, repairs were even more difficult, and the armory had no reserves whatsoever.
With such complicated thoughts in his heart, Malakim avoided the others and walked alone toward the armory.
The heavy iron doors closed behind him.
All the lights in the armory came on, and Malakim’s expression went blank in an instant.
Because the sight before his eyes stunned him.
His pupils, dim with exhaustion, suddenly contracted, and a wave of disbelief swept through his entire body.
The storeroom that should have been empty was now filled by a silver tide of steel.
Jetbikes.
They were not crude, hastily assembled battlefield transports.
They were war machines as exquisite as works of art.
Their streamlined frames were forged from plain ceramite-steel, and blue-black currents of energy flowed across their dark hulls as if they were living beasts.
Their fronts were fitted with heavy armor, and dazzling light continued to circulate across them.
Behind the formation of hovering vehicles stood rows upon rows of power armor.
They were not worn by warriors.
They were silent giants of steel, broad-shouldered and imposing.
They radiated a terrifying majesty.
They stretched from one end of the storeroom all the way to the other.
Even more heart-shaking were the mountains of firearms and artillery.
As far as the eye could see, all manner of weapons were displayed in abundance, sorted by type and arranged with perfect order.
Ammunition crates were piled high as hills.
Magazines were lined up in neat ranks.
Every weapon had been forged with the finest precision.
There was not a speck of rust or wear on them, as if they had just been taken from the forge, still carrying the heat of their birth.
In one corner, medicines marked with red crosses sat quietly in place.
Even so, the air remained thick with the scent of metal and energy, cold enough to cut to the bone, yet enough to make the heart surge.
The faint glow of the hovering vehicles, the cold brilliance of the power armor, and the sharp gleam of the guns intertwined, reflecting in the Chapter Master’s eyes as light slowly returned to them.
The loss and despair that had sunk deep into his bones were crushed to pieces in that instant, replaced by bewilderment.
Who…
who put all this on my ship?!
For a moment, Chapter Master Malakim thought his eyes were deceiving him.
He could not help stepping forward and touching the armor of one of the jetbikes.
When that real sensation traveled through his nerves, Malakim felt as though something were churning inside his heart.
These creations were so perfect, so refined, as if they had only just been assembled in a manufactorum.
Yet they had none of the Mechanicus’ elaborate and cumbersome patterns.
Instead, they possessed a simple, clean, technological beauty.
Even though the Lamenters were not a Chapter specialized in vehicle-based assaults, they had seen the White Scars come to their aid.
Back then, the White Scars battle-brothers had roared across the battlefield on bikes, using their high mobility to pierce through the war zone again and again.
But even compared with the White Scars, who specialized in such tactics, Malakim felt that their vehicles were nowhere near as perfect as the jetbikes before his eyes.
Given the technological regression of the Imperium, this was only natural.
After all, the vehicle recorded in the Space Marine Standard Template Construct that Lancelot now possessed was called the Bullock jetbike.
During the Great Crusade, it had merely been standard equipment.
But in the age of the 41st Millennium, it had already become a rare and precious creation.
It could even serve as a sacred relic of the White Scars Chapter, permitted only to warriors of outstanding merit.
Lancelot sighed inwardly at that thought, but still stepped out from the shadows and came before Chapter Master Malakim.
Then he spoke without any preamble.
“Chapter Master Malakim, the Lamenters have only just emerged from the Warp and happen to be in need of supplies.
As it happens, I have some stock on hand.
Please accept this gift.”