The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 100: The Cosmic Instigation Agency



The Innovation Hub's primary laboratory is a testament to the merger of efficiency and advancement. Holographic displays flickered with streams of data while drones darted between workstations carrying samples and data-slates. The air hummed with the gentle whir of computation engines and diagnostic equipment.

Franklin entered through the reinforced doorway. His face broke into an easy smile as he spotted the familiar forms of Dr. Elara Chen and Magos Biologis Biceps Maximus.

Dr. Chen, her augmented eyes glowing a soft blue, was the picture of focused brilliance. Her laboratory coat bore the marks of recent work - scorch marks from plasma testing and the faint green stains of gene-sequence reagents. Magos Biceps, true to his name, had

augmented his already impressive frame with additional servo-arms, each currently engaged in different aspects of his ongoing research.

But it was the third figure that gave Franklin pause. Tall even by Mechanicum standards, with multiple mechanical appendages and an aura of intellectual energy, the unknown Tech-Priest stood analyzing data patterns in the air before him.

"Dr. Chen, Biceps, good morning," Franklin greeted warmly, then turned his attention to the stranger. "And you are...?"

The Tech-Priest turned, mechanical appendages adjusting his position. "Archmagos Belisarius Cawl, my Lord Primarch. Though our first meeting is technically far in your future, aboard the Vengeful Spirit, where you..." he paused, optical sensors whirring, "...meet your end."

Franklin's laughter filled the laboratory, a sound that caused several drones to adjust their flight paths. "Well, that's certainly one way to start a conversation," he grinned, completely unfazed. "Nice to meet you, Cawl. Though I have to say, knowing how I die takes some of the suspense out of life."

Dr. Chen stepped forward, her augmented hand gesturing to a series of data-streams. "My Lord, we discovered Archmagos Cawl's core memories and consciousness patterns embedded within the Primaris data Henry brought back. The quantum signatures matched perfectly with future records."

Magos Biceps's voice emerged from his vox-grille, carrying its usual tone of enthusiastic precision. "The implications are fascinating, my Lord. The Archmagos's knowledge spans millennia of technological development. Combined with our current innovations, the potential is... flexes dramatically...explosive."

"Indeed," Cawl interjected, his mechanical appendages weaving complex patterns in the air. "Though I must admit, the level of technology here in Nova Libertas is far beyond what our records suggested. Your Legion's integration of Golden Age innovations with current Imperial technology is... most irregular. The Mechanicum of Mars would have strong opinions about this."

Franklin's expression turned serious for a moment. "The Mechanicum of Mars has strong opinions about many things, Archmagos. But I believe you understand better than most the importance of innovation." He extended his hand to Cawl. "Your presence here suggests you're willing to work outside conventional boundaries."

Cawl regarded the offered hand with his optical sensors, calculations and protocols visibly running through his augmented mind. After a moment, he reached out with his primary manipulator. "The pursuit of knowledge requires... flexibility in interpretation of doctrine, Lord Primarch. Especially given what lies ahead."

As they shook hands, the air seemed to crackle with potential. Here stood two of the greatest innovators the Imperium would ever know - one, a demigod of unification, the other, a maverick who would help reshape the Imperium ten millennia hence.

The laboratory's atmosphere shifted as Franklin turned his attention to the towering figures standing in the reinforced testing chamber, His closest sons and captains, now stood something more - the Primeborn, a new evolution in transhuman warfare.

Henry flexed his hands, watching in fascination as enhanced muscles rippled beneath skin that now seemed to shimmer with subtle, internal strength. At ten feet tall, his new form dwarfed his former Primaris physique, yet still stood beneath the towering presence of his Primarch. Every sensation was impossibly sharp, every movement calculated with precision that made his former abilities seem clumsy in comparison.

"Emperor's teeth," he whispered, his enhanced vocal cords giving his voice a resonant quality it hadn't possessed before. "It's like... like someone turned everything up to eleven." He caught his reflection in a polished panel- his features were sharper, more defined.

Steven Armstrong, standing the tallest among the Primeborn at eleven feet, tested his new strength by casually lifting a piece of equipment that would have required a small crane before. His augmented frame, already impressive as an Astartes, now rippled with power and nanomachines that seemed barely contained by his skin.

"The calculations were perfect," Dr. Chen noted, monitoring readings on multiple displays. "The gene-synthesis matched our projections exactly. They're stabilized at approximately 85% of full Primarch capacity."

Denzel Washington, his new form radiating an aura of martial prowess, drew his Hyper- Phase Blades and marveled at how natural it felt in his enhanced grip. The swords seemed to sing in harmony with his improved reactions and strength.

Henry watched Denzel's practiced movements with newfound understanding. "Now it all makes sense," he said, turning to Franklin. "I've seen the Chapter Master in combat. Against anything less than a Primarch or their equivalent, he was unstoppable. This..." he gestured to his new form, "this is why."

Vladimir Mendeley, the Chief Librarian, stepped forward, his psychic presence noticeably stronger in his Primeborn form. The artificial lights flickered slightly in response to his movement. "My Lord," he addressed Franklin in a thick, gravelly accent, "there is practical matter we must address, da? Federal Bureau of Incantations... eh... struggling with scope of responsibilities, you see."

John Ezra, head of the Secret Service, nodded in agreement, his enhanced features set in a serious expression. "The domestic security apparatus is robust, but our galactic intelligence network requires a dedicated framework."

"Even with Secret Service support," Vladimir continued, his words deliberate, as though each was a heavy brick laid on the table, "we need... separate entity. Focused solely on extra- planetary affairs, yes? Scale of information we handle here... beyond current structure. Too much for one Bureau!"

He paused, looking to Franklin, one eyebrow raised as if to add: and besides, who else can deal with all this interstellar madness better than we, hmm?

A mischievous grin spread across Franklin's face, the kind his sons had learned to both love and dread. "Well, if we're handling information let's name it Cosmic Instigation Agency..." he paused for effect, "we might as well call it the CIA."

The collective groan that filled the laboratory was perhaps the first synchronized action of the Primeborn as a group. Armstrong pinched the bridge of his nose, his massive frame shaking with suppressed laughter. "Of course you'd go there, Father. Of course you would."

"He's been waiting to use that one," Denzel said, sheathing his sword with a flourish that would have been impossible with his previous physique. "Probably had it ready since he first considered expanding our intelligence operations."

"The acronym is... technically accurate," Dr. Chen offered diplomatically, though her eyes betrayed her amusement.

Cawl's mechanical appendages twitched in what might have been the Mechanicum equivalent of a shrug. "The pattern matches my historical records. The Primarch's predilection for such wordplay remains consistent across millennia."

Franklin's grin only widened. "Come now, what's the point of being a demigod if you can't have fun with it? Besides," his expression turned more serious, "the name might be amusing, but the purpose is vital. We're dealing with threats and opportunities across an entire galaxy. We need an organization that can operate independently of our standard command

structure."

Vladimir nodded, his enhanced intellect already processing the implications. "Separate division, focused on external threats and intelligence gathering... da, would be most efficient," he said, his thick accent adding weight to each word. "Would free FBI to focus on domestic security... and Webway project, yes?"

He leaned in, gesturing with his hands in a calculated manner. "We cannot have agents stretched thin like, eh, butter on too much bread, you see? New division... this is answer." "Exactly," Franklin confirmed. "The CIA will handle everything beyond our borders - xenos activities, potential STC locations, chaos influence..." he glanced at Henry, "and of course,

temporal anomalies."

"Speaking of temporal anomalies," Henry interjected, his new form allowing him to process multiple thought streams simultaneously, "we should discuss the implications of the Primaris data on our current development track. There are several innovations we could

implement ahead of schedule."

Franklin raised an eyebrow. "Already putting those enhanced cognitive functions to work, I see. Very well." He turned to address the group. "The Primeborn were just the first step. With the combined knowledge we possess - past, present, and future - we can reshape the path ahead. But first," he smiled again, "we need to properly document this particular Classified Intergalactic Accident."

The collective groan returned, even louder with their enhanced vocal cords.

Franklin sat behind his desk in the White House of Nova Libertas, his massive frame making even the specially reinforced chair seem modest. Golden afternoon light filtered through bullet-proof windows, casting long shadows across stacks of personnel files. The office, while maintaining the gravitas of its ancient Terran inspiration, had been modified with hololith projectors and data-streams befitting a Primarch's command center. Scrolling through the neural-linked data-slate, he reviewed candidate after candidate. Many were respected veterans of the Liberty Eagles' campaigns, their service records displaying impressive achievements across multiple theaters of war. Some were retired personnel who had served with distinction, their tactical acumen proven in countless battles.

Then a particular file caught his eye.

"Lieutenant General Samuel L. Jaxsen," Franklin read aloud, a grin spreading across his face. The hololith expanded, showing a stern-faced officer with an unmistakable presence even in

still images. The service record unfurled before him:

Distinguished service in Twenty major campaigns Architect of the Q'orl Extermination Strategy Collaborated with 2nd Captain Armstrong on multiple operations

Known for memorable pre-battle speeches and distinctive tactical commands

"By the Throne," Franklin chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "I bet this guy's ancestor was just as much of a badass." He could already imagine the Lieutenant General's briefings, delivered with that signature intensity that seemed to run in the family line.

The accomplishments listed in Jaxsen's file were impressive enough, but it was the personal notes that sealed the deal. Multiple citations mentioned his ability to handle "situations above his pay grade" with both discretion and decisive action. Reports from the Q'orl campaign highlighted his talent for coordinating complex operations across multiple battle

groups.

Franklin pressed a button on his desk. "John, get me Lieutenant General Jaxsen. Tell him the White House requires his presence." He paused, then added with a smirk, "And John? Tell him I have had it with these motherf-" He caught himself, remembering the vox was still open. "Just tell him it's about a promotion."

The cabin of the Dominion-class Battlecruiser "Dominance" was surprisingly cozy for a military vessel. Lieutenant General Samuel L. Jaxsen reclined in his favorite leather chair, feet propped up on an antique wooden desk, watching a holo-drama about the Unification Wars. His signature power sword hung on the wall behind him, its blade still bearing scorch marks from the Q'orl campaign.

"Grim," Jaxsen called out to his AI companion, "pause that shit. I think I heard someone at

the door."

The hololithic projection froze mid-scene as a knock echoed through the cabin. Before Jaxsen could respond, the door slid open to reveal Deputy Lieutenant General Jules 'Slick' Navarro, his ever-present dataslate in hand and his perfectly pressed uniform making him look more like a politician than a veteran of countless xenocide campaigns.

"This better be good, Slick," Jaxsen growled, though there was underlying affection in his tone. "I was just getting to the good part where they smoking those Techno-Barbarians." Navarro straightened his already immaculate collar. "Sir, I've just received a priority message from the White House. They're requesting your immediate return to Nova Libertas." Jaxsen's eyebrows shot up. "The White House? Man, what in the Emperor's name does the

White House want with my black ass? If they need some xenos killed, they got whole Legions of Astartes for that shit."

"Actually, sir," Navarro consulted his dataslate with his characteristic precision, "it's about a promotion."

"A promotion?" Jaxsen sat up, his chair creaking in protest. "I'm already a Lieutenant General, Slick. What they gonna promote me to? Supreme Commander of Giving a Fuck?"

The AI Grim materialized as a small hololithic projection, taking the form of a skeletal figure in a black robe. "If I may, General, your service record since the Q'orl Extermination has been exemplary. The efficiency ratings for your subsequent xenocide campaigns are among the

highest in the sector."

"Grim's right, sir," Navarro added, a rare smile crossing his usually stoic face. "The White

House doesn't call unless it's something big. And it came directly from the Primarch's office." Jaxsen stood, his impressive frame casting a shadow across the cabin. "The Primarch himself? Well shit, why didn't you lead with that, Slick?" He walked to his weapon rack, checking his

reflection in a polished shield. "Last time I worked with the big man's people was during the Q'orl campaign with Captain Armstrong. That crazy son of a bitch could've played ball with those bug heads."

"Should I prepare your formal dress uniform, sir?" Navarro asked, already moving toward the

wardrobe.

"Hell yeah, but not that standard-issue garbage." Jaxsen grinned. "Get me the custom one

with the dragon-scale trim. If I'm meeting the Primarch, I'm gonna look fly as fuck."

"Sir, about the language protocols..." Navarro began.

"Man, fuck them language protocols," Jaxsen waved dismissively. "The Primarch himself

cusses like a Catachan Devil Hunter. Besides," he adjusted his collar, "it's part of my motivational speaking technique."

Grim's hololithic form flickered. "Your unique oratory style has been noted in several

commendation reports, General. The phrase 'enough is enough' appears in 73% of your recorded battle speeches."

"See? Even the Skull gets it." Jaxsen strapped on his power sword. "Slick, tell the bridge to

plot a course back to Nova Libertas. Maximum burn. And get me the latest intel briefings. If the Primarch wants to see me, I ain't walking in there like some fresh-faced cadet." "Already done, sir," Navarro replied, efficiently tapping at his dataslate. "We can be back in

the capital within six hours at emergency thrust."

Jaxsen looked out the viewport at the star-filled void. "You know what I always say, Slick?"

Navarro and Grim responded in unison: "Hold onto your butts."

"Damn straight." Jaxsen grinned, grabbing his command rod. "Now let's go see what kind of

classified intergalactic accidents the Primarch needs handled."

As they left the cabin, Grim's voice echoed behind them: "Sir, how did you know it would

involve classified intergalactic accidents?"

"Please," Jaxsen laughed, "I've been handling classified intergalactic accidents since before you were a code snippet in a cogitator. Now come on, we got a Primarch to meet."

Holy Emperor's balls, Lieutenant General Samuel L. Jaxsen thought, maintaining his rigid

military posture while seated across from Primarch Franklin Valorian. The White House office suddenly felt like the smallest room in the galaxy, despite being sized for its transhuman

occupant.

Every time the Primarch's eyes met his, Jaxsen could swear he saw a massive bald eagle sizing him up. Fuck me sideways with a chainsword, that's intimidating as shit. His face remained professionally stoic, but internally, he was cursing up a storm that would make a Navy veteran

blush. "So, Lieutenant General," Franklin began, a slight smirk playing at his lips, "what's your opinion on snakes on void-ships?"

The fuck kind of question is that? "Sir, they present a clear security risk to void-ship operations,

sir!" Jaxsen responded crisply.

"And how would you handle classified intergalactic accidents?" The Primarch's smirk grew

slightly.

Is... is he fucking with me? "With extreme prejudice and complete discretion, sir!" "What if I told you we're creating a new intelligence agency, and I need someone who's tired

of these motherfucking xenos in this motherfucking galaxy?"

This motherfucker is DEFINITELY fucking with me. "Sir, I would say that sounds like my kind of

operation, sir!" Jaxsen's eye twitched slightly, but his parade ground voice never wavered. Franklin leaned forward, and Jaxsen felt the full weight of that predatory eagle gaze. Emperor's teeth, it's like being stared down by a bird of prey the size of a Titan.

The Primarch's grin widened. "another question, Lieutenant General. Does Marsellus Wallace

look like a bitch?"

What in the actual fu- "Sir, I... sir, I don't understand the reference, sir!" Jaxsen's composure

finally cracked slightly, his left eye twitching visibly.

"I see." Franklin stood, and Jaxsen felt like the ceiling had suddenly risen about fifteen feet.

"Tell me, Lieutenant General, how do you feel about genetic enhancement?"

What the fu- "Sir?"

"The Astartes program, General. Specifically, would you be willing to undergo the procedure?

We've made some... improvements recently."

Jaxsen's mind raced. Is he serious? Wait, why would he- oh SHIT. "Sir, if the Emperor and

yourself deem me worthy of such an honor, I would serve in whatever capacity required, sir!"

Did I just agree to become a fucking Space Marine? At my age? Franklin's face finally broke into a full smile. "Excellent. Because I'm establishing a new organization - the Classified Intergalactic Accidents division. CIA for short. And I need a Director who knows how to handle... complex situations."

He did NOT just- Wait, did this motherfucker make that acronym on purpose? "Sir, yes sir! Though

if I may ask, sir... did you choose that name specifically?"

For the first time, Franklin laughed outright. "Tell me, General, what's your opinion on

purposeful acronyms?" "Sir, I believe if you're going to name something, you might as well have fun with it, sir!" Justn/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

like my personal motto: Strategic Handling of Intricate Tactical S

"Then we understand each other." Franklin extended his hand - a gesture that made Jaxsen's eyes widen slightly. "Welcome aboard, Director Jaxsen. Report to the Innovation Hub tomorrow at 0800. Dr. Chen and Magos Biceps will handle your enhancement procedure." Jaxsen shook the Primarch's hand, his own looking comically small in comparison. "Sir, thank

you, sir!" Holy fucking shit, I'm about to become a Space Marine CIA Director. Slick is never going to believe this.

"Oh, and Director?" Franklin added as Jaxsen turned to leave. "Feel free to keep your... distinctive communication style. I find it adds a certain flavor to official reports and you can

promote some of your men into the organization coordinate with the FBI with regards to the Technoseers"

"Sir, yes sir! I'll make sure every motherfucking report is crystal clear, sir!"

The forge's heat was intense enough to make even a Primarch sweat, but Vulkan seemed

perfectly at home among the dancing flames and shower of sparks. His massive form moved with practiced grace as he brought his hammer down on the Deathsword, each strike precise

and purposeful. The blade seemed to drink in the orange light of the forge, its surface rippling

with power.

Franklin entered the room, the heat washing over him like a familiar embrace. "Still at it,

brother? That's what, hour thirty-six straight?"

Vulkan's

deep laugh rumbled like distant thunder. "When working with a shard of a god, brother, time becomes meaningless." He lifted the blade, examining its edge with expert

eyes. "Besides, I find the work... therapeutic."

"Running from your sons won't make you a better father, you know," Franklin said, pulling up a forge-stool that creaked under his massive frame. "The 18th Legion are waiting." Vulkan plunged the Deathsword into a basin of specially prepared coolant, causing steam to

hiss upward in controlled bursts. "I am not running," he said thoughtfully. "I am... preparing. Tell me, brother, how did you know you were ready to lead?"

"Bold of you to assume I knew what I was doing," Franklin chuckled, picking up a nearby

hammer and testing its weight. "Still don't, most days. But that's the thing about leadership

- you learn by doing."

"And yet your Legion prospers," Vulkan noted, checking the blade's temperature with

practiced ease. "Your supply lines never falter, your campaigns are precise, your casualties minimal. These are not the marks of an unprepared leader." Franklin set the hammer down, watching as Vulkan began preparing the forge for the next phase of work. "You want to know about logistics? War?" He grinned. "Well, first rule: never

trust a supply officer who says 'it'll probably be fine.""

Vulkan laughed again, the sound mixing with the hiss of cooling metal. "And the second

rule?"

"The second rule is that every plan survives until the first shot is fired. After that, it's about adaptation." Vulkan paused his hammering, his red eyes reflecting the forge's flames. "A leader must first know how to lead." He plunged the blade into a cooling bath that hissed and steamed.

"Theory before practice."

"Speaking of theory," Franklin grinned, "how's your studying going? Making progress with

those tactical treatises?"

Vulkan gestured to a data-slate nearby, its screen showing 100% completion. "Finished. Your strategic treatises are... illuminating. Though I notice you favor mobility over

fortification in many scenarios."

Franklin blinked in surprise. "Already? Damn, I must be the slowest reader among us Primarchs." He produced another data-slate from his robes. "Well, since you're done with those, here's some light reading on logistics. Can't wage war without supply lines." "Indeed." Vulkan's deep laugh rumbled through the forge. "Though before you go, brother, there's something else we need to discuss." He pointed to an ornate box on a nearby workbench. "Open it."

Franklin approached the box, noting the intricate flamework carved into its surface. As he

lifted the lid, his eyes widened. Inside lay a masterpiece of weaponsmithing - a massive hand

cannon

that seemed to radiate power even at rest. The barrel was inscribed with flowing

script, and the grip was perfectly sized for a Primarch's hand. "Your sidearm, as requested," Vulkan said, pride evident in his voice. "Though I took some

creative liberties with the design."

Franklin lifted the weapon, feeling its perfect balance. The words etched along the barrel caught his eye: 'The right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.' "It chambers Heavy Bolter rounds," Vulkan explained, moving closer to point out various

features. "But I've incorporated a dual-core firing system. It can switch between kinetic and

energy-based ammunition." He paused, red eyes gleaming. "And after reviewing your combat data, I added something special." Franklin raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"The whole weapon is designed to channel your psychic energy. You can infuse each shot with

your power, you can fire it full Auto as well. The materials are specially treated - it will never

jam or break down, no matter how much power you channel through it."

Franklin spun the cylinder, listening to its satisfying click. "Brother, you've outdone yourself. This is..." he paused, admiring the craftsmanship, "this is absolutely perfect." "It needs a name," Vulkan said, returning to the cooling Deathsword. "Something fitting its

purpose." Franklin's eyes traced the Second Amendment inscription again, a smile playing at his lips. "Last Word," he declared. "Because in any argument, this tends to be exactly that." Vulkan's booming laugh filled the forge. "Just as the founding fathers intended, brother?"

"Exactly," Franklin chuckled, holstering the massive revolver. "Though I doubt they imagined it being used against Daemons and Xenos"