Beautification of the Inner Sphere 4 (Patreon)

Commissioned

Beautification of the Inner Sphere

Chapter 4

-VB-

Marshall George Powell felt … weak. 

He stood at Tancredi’s larges spaceport and waited for one shuttles of the “Emperor’s Children” to land and disembark this “primarch” in charge of the warship currently in orbit of his world. 

He had last talked to Primarch Fulgrim a week ago, and now, the man was finally here. 

“They’re entering atmosphere, marshall,” someone reported over the radio. “They are … that is blisteringly fast. They will arrive at your location in under 15 minutes.”

15 minutes? To enter an atmosphere over 120 kilometers high? That was fast for a shuttle without a rocket. They must be entering the atmosphere from a sharp angle. 

“How are they entering, tower?”

“... Straight down, marshall.”

His eyes bugged out.

“Can you repeat that?”

“They are entering straight down from the thermosphere, sir. They -.” The tower cut off for a second. “They’re slowing down. Thermal signature has reduced by half. Expected arrival time has increased to 45 minutes.”

Ah, so they were showing off. Or something. 

“45 minutes is a lot of time. I guess we don’t have to wait outside to greet them,” he hummed as he looked over his shoulder. “Should we go back in? I don’t particularly want to wait out here in the sun.”

The man and woman pair standing behind him, Duke Nicholas Brazeau and Headmistress Jean de Remolde of the Tancredi War College, nodded. 

“It seems that they are as eager to meet us as we are to meet them,” the duke said casually, but George had seen how stiff his shoulders were. And why wouldn’t they be? The man had only taken his father’s title just last year after his father chose medical retirement, and before that, he had been just a simple captain in the Armed Forces of the Federated Suns with his Phoenix Hawk. And now, he was a duke trying to understand how to rule a planet when the warship showed up. As the duke, he would also be put to stand before the New Avalon court should he lose the planet, though no noble or planetary governor had ever been truly punished for such a loss unless they were directly responsible for it. 

The other person was a representative of the AFFS just as much as he was. Headmistress Jean de Remolde was the woman in charge of the Tancredi War College, an institution that had as much prestige as New Avalon Military Academy and the Albion Military Academy. 

“Perhaps,” Headmistress de Remolde hummed noncommittally. 

“Personally, I think he is as lost as we are,” George replied. “A misjump that far away from home?”

The story was out there among those in the know. 

A warship misjumping thousands of lightyears beyond their destination, perhaps more. They came from outside the Inner Sphere and the periphery around it… but there were not many groups that could be out there. 

Now, George was a map enthusiast. It was how he knew that there even were active human civilizations outside of the Human Sphere, as some called the combined Inner Sphere and Periphery. 

The furthest civilizations that he was aware of was the Hanseatic League and the Jarnfolk, which were both coreward as well as antispinward and spinward, respectively. So was it possible for civilization to exist beyond the Periphery? Yes. 

But a civilization that could build that thing? 

Tancredi’s telescopes had caught the image of the warship and …

It was a masterpiece of message and intent. 

It was a cathedral in space. 

It was a warship bristling with more weapons than any warships that had graced the Inner Sphere. 

It was a giant that declared its intent to be the biggest shit in any given solar system. 

It was power. 

It was strength.

And it was deadly. 

So George could admit that he was a little scared. 

Anyone would be after seeing a TWENTY KILOMETER LONG WARSHIP. It was ten times longer than the previously largest warship known, the Yardships which were meant to service other warship and not dedicated for combat. 

Which … which meant that the biggest warship in human history hung over his world now. 

And he did not have enough weapons of mass destruction on hand to ensure its destruction should this meeting go south. 

He was entirely at the mercy of Primarch Fulgrim. 

And should something happen to Fulgrim on his world, that warship would ensure Tancredi disappeared from the face of history.

---

Exactly forty five minutes later, George and his two compatriots were outside on the tarmac of the spaceport as they watched a shuttle land just a hundred meters from where they stood with their honor guards. 

And the design of the shuttle told George everything he needed to know about Fulgrim’s people. 

Proud and self-assured warriors. 

The shuttle, which looked like it had its weapons taken out (good news), settled down with its jet thrusters whining down, and then the rear ramp slammed down. 

He jolted as did most of the people around him.

And he heard clunking. 

Clunk clunk clunk clunk…!

His eyes widened as he saw giants walk out of the shuttle. 

Clunk clunk clunk CLUNK CLUNK…!

His head slowly pointed up as the people disembarking from the shuttle walked up to him in their full purple glory.

And finally, the giant among the giant came to a stop a good ten meters away from him. 

And the only thought going through his head was this. 

‘Jesus Christ, this is a New Avalon Catholic crusader’s wet dream.’

What shook him, though, were the weapons. 

The giant’s “guards” carried with them weapons that were better fit on crew-served vehicles or even light mechs. 

Because those bores were THICK.

Then the giant of giants reached up, grabbed his helmet, and with a pneumatic hiss, pulled the helmet off. 

And what George beheld was … very image of the ideal Davion mechwarrior. 

“Greetings, Marshall Powell,” the man grinned. “I am Primarch Fulgrim. It is finally good to see you face to face.”

“Aye, it is.” He took a deep breath in. “Welcome to Tancredi I, Primarch Fulgrim.” Then he realized he forgot about his companions. “And allow me to introduce you to my two companions. This is Duke Nicholas Brazeau, the ruler of this world, and this is Headmistress Jean de Remolde, the woman in charge of one of the three most prestigious military academies in the Federated Suns.”

“Greetings, duke. And greetings, madam,” the man nodded to them both. “Let us have a good meeting with one another.”

George really hoped they would.