The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 129: Two Sides of a Coin



From the crystalline spires of Nova Libertas, Marcus Valorian gazed across the sprawling metropolis that stretched beyond the curve of the horizon. Streams of aerial traffic wove between towering hab-blocks and manufactorums, their movements as precise as the clockwork of destiny itself. The coming twilight painted the sky in hues of amber and crimson, reflecting off the adamantine surfaces of countless structures - a daily reminder of the empire of technology and prosperity his son had forged.

In his private sanctum, surrounded by hololithic displays showing real-time data feeds from across the Independence Sector, Marcus allowed himself a moment of contemplative silence. The FBI operative who had delivered the latest intelligence stood at parade rest, cybernetic augments humming softly beneath their formal attire. The report's implications hung heavy in the air like storm clouds gathering before a tempest.

"The elites gather once more," Marcus mused, his weathered features creasing into a knowing smile. "Like moths to a plasma flame, they never learn the lesson of history." He reached for a data-slate, its surface displaying the detailed financial records of three prominent noble houses. Their transgressions were laid bare in columns of numbers and transaction logs – a symphony of greed composed in the language of accounting.

The IRS that ancient instrument of authority that had survived from Terra's distant past - would be his first warning shot. In the grim darkness of the far future, death was not the only certainty. Marcus had always appreciated the poetic justice of using bureaucracy as a weapon against those who thought themselves above the law.

His mind drifted to the early days, when Franklin had emerged victorious from the civil war that had threatened to tear the sector apart. His son, towering and resplendent in his power armor, had not simply conquered - he had transformed. The Managed Democracy he instituted was a masterwork of political engineering, as precise and powerful as any weapon in the Liberty Eagles' arsenal.

Marcus traced his fingers along the edge of his desk, remembering the day Franklin had explained his vision. "A system," he had said, "where corruption is more expensive than honesty." The solution had been elegantly brutal in its simplicity - pay the servants of the people so well that betrayal became economically irrational. Senators whose coffers filled with billions through legitimate means had little incentive to risk everything for mere millions in bribes.

But it was more than mere financial calculus. Franklin had understood something fundamental about human nature - the need for stability, for prosperity, for the dignity of self-sufficiency. Under the Valorian Regime, even the poorest citizens could support a nuclear family. It was a baseline of human dignity that was non-negotiable, written not just in law but in the very economic structure of the sector.

The Valorian Gigacorporation stood as the lynchpin of this grand design. Marcus remembered the corporate wars, the hostile takeovers and mergers that had consolidated power into a single entity. Some had called it monopolistic, but they failed to understand - it was about control, about ensuring that the economic engine of the sector served the people rather than feeding off them.

A soft chime drew his attention to another hololithic display, this one showing election results from the past decade. Landslide after landslide, victory after victory. The numbers told a story of overwhelming popular support, but Marcus knew the truth was more complex. It was a covenant between rulers and ruled - prosperity and stability in exchange for political continuity.

"When was the last time someone else held this office?" he wondered aloud, though he knew the answer precisely. The FBI operative remained silent, understanding the rhetorical nature of the question. The position of Vice President had become synonymous with the name Valorian, not through force of arms but through force of results.

Marcus stood, walking to the armored viewport. Below, Citizens were returning home from their shifts, so too did the Automatons and A.I returning to their maintenance stations, their paths lit by the warm glow of plasma lamps. Each one of them represented the true power base of the Valorian regime - the common people who had been elevated from mere survival to genuine prosperity.

The elites' current restlessness was predictable. Franklin's choice to support the common worker over the traditional power structures had earned them powerful enemies. But what these nobles failed to grasp was that their opposition only served to strengthen the regime. Every attempt to wrestle control from the Valorian grip only demonstrated why that control was necessary.

"Send in the auditors," Marcus finally commanded, his voice carrying the weight of authority earned through decades of service. "Remind our ambitious friends that the price of liberty is eternal vigilance - and accurate bookkeeping."

The private chamber deep within the spires of Nova Libertas's Upper Hive should have been secure. It should have been an impenetrable sanctum, a place where the elite could discuss matters far from prying eyes. The finest counter-surveillance technology had been deployed, vast networks of cloaking algorithms and encrypted communications designed to keep them undetectable. The gathered magnates, each a titan in their own right, had thought themselves invulnerable. But now, as they exchanged uneasy glances, a chilling realization settled over them-they were not safe.

Adam Lockheed, the seasoned industrial magnate who had once ruled the Hyper-Advanced forges of Forgeworld Prime, was the first to notice the change in the air. It wasn't the hum of the hive, nor the strange flickering of the ambient lighting. It was something deeper. An unnatural stillness had crept into the room, a whisper of tension that made his skin crawl. He set down his glass of amasec, the liquid untouched, and rose slowly. His movements were deliberate, too calm, too controlled for someone merely inconvenienced. Lockheed had seen signs like this before-tiny, unnoticed shifts in the environment that betrayed the presence of something far more sinister.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his voice steady but cold, "I believe we've all taken enough of each other's time. Production quotas wait for no one, not even us." His smile was tight, the expression of a man who had already decided that the risk was no longer worth the rewards. His eyes, calculating and sharp, flicked to each of the other elites as he moved toward the door, never showing fear, but the others felt it now, like a weight pressing down on them. Helena Vue-Baptiste, her past as the CEO of the Vue-Baptiste Shipping Consortium now a bitter memory of lost power, sneered. "Leaving so soon, Lockheed? Afraid your precious master might notice your absence?"

Lockheed's smile remained unchanged. "Better a well-paid servant than a powerless master," he retorted smoothly. "The Eagle's shadow is long, and I prefer to remain beneath its protection rather than out from under it." His words carried weight, the same chilling implication they all felt but dared not acknowledge. "I suggest you all consider your positions carefully. Some storms are best weathered from inside shelter than out in the open."

As Lockheed exited, the tension in the room crackled like static in the air. Xavier Rothschild DLXIX, furious, slammed his fist on the table, the centuries-old wood splintering under the force. "Coward!" he barked. "The Lockheeds were once proud. Now they grovel in Valorian's shadow like everyone else!"

"And what exactly has your family's 'resistance' earned them, Xavier?" Troy Constantine's voice cut through the air, dripping with condescension. His cybernetic monocle whirred as it adjusted focus. "Besides a ninety percent wealth tax and quarterly 'random' audits? At least the Lockheeds still have their factories."

Before Rothschild could retort, a strange sound echoed through the chamber, a low, mechanical hum that set their teeth on edge. The main doors opened, not to servants or aides, but to five figures clad in matte-black power armor-silent, terrifying, and bearing the unmistakable insignia of the Independence Sector's Internal Revenue Service. The air itself seemed to thicken with the weight of their presence. Their leader, face obscured by a featureless mask, spoke, his voice smooth yet carrying a chilling finality.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

"Good evening, citizens. We are conducting a standard financial compliance review. Helena Vue-Baptiste, Xavier Rothschild III, and Dominic Crane-please accompany us for detailed documentation verification."

A deep silence followed, broken only by the collective intake of breath from the gathered elites. The color drained from their faces as the words settled in their minds. They weren't simply being audited. They were being watched, their every move scrutinized, their every secret laid bare. Helena Vue-Baptiste, once a formidable power in her own right, now looked as if she had seen a ghost. Xavier Rothschild's knuckles were white as he clenched his fists, his voice trembling as he reached for his communicator.

The IRS agent closest to him simply shook his head once. It wasn't a warning. It was a death sentence. Resistance would make them disappear, just like the others before them.

As the three were escorted out, fear began to settle like a cold fog in the room. Julian Mercator, his aristocratic features twisted with fury, was the first to break the silence, but his words came with the desperation of a man on the brink.

"They knew. They knew exactly when and where we'd meet," Mercator hissed, eyes wide. "Which means..." His voice trailed off, the unspoken horror hanging in the air like a shadow. "We have a leak," Anastasia Drake whispered, her voice trembling despite the cold fury that burned in her eyes. "Or worse... they've had us under surveillance from the beginning." Mercator laughed bitterly, the sound like a knife scraping against stone. "Does it matter?" he spat. "Look at us! The greatest families in the sector, reduced to meeting in the shadows like criminals. All because one lucky bastard found a demigod in a pod and decided to play hero of

the common man."

"Careful, Julian," Marcus Constantine warned, his cybernetic eye gleaming in the dim light. "The walls have ears. Sedition charges aren't dismissed with the wave of a hand." "And that's exactly the problem!" Mercator exploded, his voice cracking with raw emotion. "My family ruled 50 systems before the Valorians came. We built the trade routes, we conquered worlds. And now? We're supposed to be grateful for these pitiful 'advisory positions' while worker councils decide how our businesses will run?"

"Former businesses," Drake interjected bitterly, her voice low and cold. "Everything's Valorian now. One company, one system, one family in control, one Primarch."

The remaining elites stared at one another, each one wondering whether this meeting was the beginning of the end. It was clear now that the walls weren't just listening-they were waiting, watching, and any one of them could be next. In this room, power had been a game, a competition. But now? It was a trap. And they were all caught in it.

"They call it 'Managed Democracy,'" Mercator whispered, his voice thick with venom. "But it's nothing but tyranny with a smile. The common people adore them because they've never

had it so good. Free education, guaranteed employment, housing-paid for with our wealth, our power, our birthright!"

"And what would you suggest we do about it?" Constantine's cybernetic eye flicked to

Mercator, glowing ominously in the dim light. "The Liberty Eagles garrison every major world. The FBI monitor the noosphere. The CIA monitors everything outside the sector, The IRS is everywhere. The Greater Imperium is a shithole worse than the Valorian Regime, You can't escape, Julian. No one can."

Mercator's shoulders slumped, and for the first time in years, he felt the crushing weight of powerlessness.

They were trapped. They had no allies, no escape, and no hope.

Senator Victoria Rothschild adjusted her ceremonial robes as she strode through the halls of

the Nova Libertas Senate, her great-great-grandfather's portrait glaring down at her from among the gallery of historical figures. Unlike her cousin Xavier, she had seen the wisdom in Franklin's reforms during the Civil War. Now, as Chair of the Economic Development Committee, her family's reduced fortune had paradoxically yielded greater influence than they'd ever wielded as corporate oligarchs. "Thinking about the family drama again, Vic?" called out Governor Marcus Drake- Constantine, his augmetic leg whirring softly as he caught up to her. The merger of the Drake

and Constantine families after the Civil War had created one of the strongest supporters of the

Valorian regime.

"Just appreciating irony, Marcus," she smiled. "Remember when our families thought losing

seventy-five percent of our wealth would destroy us? Now look - my education initiatives are transforming entire generations, your infrastructure projects are reaching completion decades ahead of schedule, and we're actually doing something meaningful instead of

hoarding wealth like dragons."

They paused at a viewport overlooking one of Nova Libertas's prestigious education districts. Below, children in neat uniforms streamed into the Valorian Institute of Elementary

Education.

Inside one of the classrooms, a heated debate about calculus was taking place among a group

of nine-year-olds.

"But Miss Armitage," argued young Timothy, his augmetic learning assistant hovering nearby, "if we apply the chain rule here, wouldn't the derivative simplify more elegantly?" "That's a valid approach," his classmate Sarah countered, her own AI companion projecting a

holographic graph, "but consider the computational efficiency when we're dealing with quantum variables..."

Their teacher, Miss Armitage, hid a smile. Sometimes she forgot these were children, not

doctoral candidates. The educational reforms had transformed the sector's youth into

intellectual powerhouses.

Across the city at the University of Nova Libertas, a different kind of debate was unfolding in

the Political Science Department's main auditorium.

"The evidence clearly suggests authoritarian tendencies!" declared Professor Clarkson, his

academic robes billowing as he gestured dramatically. "Franklin Valorian has held the presidency for decades!"

"By popular demand and constitutional process," countered Professor Dae, rolling her eyes. "Unless you're suggesting the ninety-nine percent approval rating is somehow fraudulent?" A student raised her hand. "Professor Clarkson, have you considered comparing living standards between the Independence Sector and the broader Imperium? My family in the

Greater Imperium -"

"Yes, yes," Clarkson waved dismissively. "The paradise argument. But principles of democratic rotation-"

"Principles don't feed families," interrupted another student. "My grandfather fought

against the Valorians in the Civil War. You know what changed his mind? When his workers' children could suddenly afford education and healthcare. When his own profits increased despite paying higher wages. When he realized that a 'tyranny of prosperity' was better than a

democracy of poverty."

Meanwhile, in the University's Robotics Institute, a very different scene was unfolding. A

group of engineering students clustered around their pride and joy - a prototype mech that bore a suspicious resemblance to designs from ancient Terran entertainment.

"I still say we should call it the Gundam," muttered Amuro Ray, making minute adjustments

to the neural interface.

"It's still more of an Armored Core design philosophy," argued Sayla Mass, her

mechadendrites weaving through the machine's internals. "Besides, the combat optimization algorithms-"

Their AI supervisor, ARIA-29, interrupted with an electronic sigh. "Students, I feel compelled

to remind you that this is meant to be an industrial excavation platform, not a war machine." "But ARIA," they chorused, "it's for science!"

"That's what you said about the plasma cannon last week," the AI replied drily. "I'm still filing paperwork for that incident."

Amuro glanced up with a thoughtful expression. "You know, theoretically, if we wanted to build a Gundam, we could, right? The engineering would be tricky, but it could be done. Problem is, Gundams have all these intricate systems with zero modularity. They're like super machines with custom-made parts, designed more for individual combat than large-scale production. Our Armored Cores, on the other hand, are built to be modular-easy to replicate, upgrade, and modify. The Gundam would require too much time and resources for a bunch of

university students to pull off."

Sayla nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Yeah, I get it. We need versatility. But

still, imagine the possibilities if we could somehow mesh the Gundam's power with an Armored Core's modularity. That'd be something..."

Their AI supervisor sighed again. "And that, my dear students, would likely result in more paperwork, more incidents, and a greater likelihood of sending the entire campus into lockdown. Please, for the sake of all our sanity, focus on the excavation platform."

Amuro gave a sheepish grin. "Right, ARIA. Excavation platform. But a guy can dream, can't

he?"

Across campus in the Chemistry Department, another group of students was pushing the boundaries of both science and safety protocols.

"Are you absolutely certain about mixing those compounds?" asked THOTH-3, their AI lab

supervisor, with growing concern.

"Relax, THOTH," said Amanda Lockhart, carefully measuring a fluorescent liquid. "We've

calculated all the potential reactions."

"That's what your father said before he accidentally created that self-replicating polymer in '825," THOTH replied. "I'm alerting Emergency Services as a precaution. Again."

"Oh come on," protested her lab partner, Julian Locke. "We're being perfectly safe! See, I'm even wearing two pairs of gloves!"

"Human intelligence truly does not equate to wisdom," THOTH muttered, already composing the incident report. "Might I remind you of the 'Great Pink Foam Incident' last

semester?"

Back in the Senate, Victoria Rothschild and Marcus Drake-Constantine made their way to the Economic Council chamber. Holoprojections displayed the sector's latest productivity figures - yet another record quarter.

Marcus studied the data, a thoughtful expression on his face. "The numbers are impressive,

but it's the bigger picture that really stands out. Walking through the lower hive, seeing families dining out, hearing children argue over advanced mathematics instead of worrying about where their next meal will come from... It's that kind of progress that makes it all worthwhile."

Victoria nodded, her gaze drifting to the busy cityscape outside. "Our families used to gauge success by the wealth we hoarded. Now we measure it by how many lives we can elevate." She

let out a soft laugh. "Although, I never thought I'd see nine-year-olds arguing over quantum calculus." Marcus grinned, clearly amused by the thought. "And speaking of surprises, I hear the Robotics Institute is up to something big again. Apparently, they're working on-" Before he could finish, an alarm klaxon cut him off, followed by an automated announcement: "Warning: Chemical anomaly detected in Science Block 7. Containment protocols engaged.

This is not a drill. All pink foam-related incidents must be reported to the Department of Experimental Oversight."

They exchanged a wry look. "Students?" Marcus asked. "Students," Victoria confirmed, a smirk tugging at her lips. "I'd bet it's the same ones who nearly flooded the labs last semester."

As emergency response teams rushed past their window, lights flashing, Victoria couldn't

help but smile. This too was a sign of their prosperity - the freedom to innovate, to make

mistakes, and to grow without fear of destitution or death.

In the Robotics Institute, the students watched the commotion through their windows.

"Ten thrones says it's Amanda's group again," Amuro wagered.

"No bet," Sayla replied, turning back to their mech. "Now, about these targeting systems-" "EXCAVATION systems," ARIA-29 corrected firmly.

"Right, right, excavation systems," Sayla agreed with a wink. "Purely for mining operations."

The AI's processing cores whirred in what might have been a sigh. "I'm adding this

conversation to my daily report. Again." As the day continued, life in the Independence Sector flourished in all its chaotic, prosperous

glory. In the Senate, policies were debated and refined. In schools, children pushed the boundaries of their enhanced education. In universities, students balanced brilliance with recklessness while their AI minders struggled to keep up.

Though perhaps, given the frequency of student-related incidents, some might argue that "grim darkness" was being replaced by "controlled chaos" - at least in the Chemistry

Department.

"Warning," announced THOTH-3's voice over the campus network. "The pink foam appears to be expressing limited sentience. Again. The Experimental Oversight Committee would like

to remind all students that creating artificial life forms requires at least three hundred forms

of pre-approval..."

Just another day in paradise.

A/N: No Chapter Tomorrow, I'll get groceries for Christmas...Sanguinala I mean. A/N: So I'm starting to Consider placing a face on Franklin beyond descriptions, but I can't choose amongst the images so let's just settle this Democratically, I'll post the Photos here and let's comment on how we like him to look.