Editing Calael Bishop (section)

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'''CODE BLACK'''


	Calael Bishop sat up bolt upright, his lavishly upholstered command chair creaking under the sudden shifting of his massive form.
	“Does anyone else feel that?” <div class="mw-collapsible-content">
	Startled glances from the support staff all around the situation room reminded him that, no, he was the only oracle among those gathered- none of them had the warp-knack. Slowly, he composed himself. Constance Lainne, his chief of staff, leaned in with a concerned expression.
	“A premonition, Cal?”
	The giant shook his head, as if to clear it. “I'm honestly not sure. A presence, maybe, almost like...” he trailed off. Calael had come clean about a lot of things during his tenure as director of defense, but somehow he had never found the words to explain the creature in the Spire. Still, the thought lingered. ''Could'' it be Ryb'th, sending a summons of some sort? The magnitude was similar, but there was a different tenor to the sensation, unlike anything he had ever felt from his mentor. It was at once more alien, and yet... more familiar.
	His musings were interrupted by a wave from the cadet on call duty. “Uh, sir? Looks like you weren't the only one after all. The switchboard's lightin' up like an engine room with an O2 leak.”
	Calael leaned forward, intent. “So I wasn't. Where are the calls localized from?”
	“Uh. They ain't localized, as such.” The boy stepped aside to give a clear view of the switchboard. Every single light shone red. Whatever was going on, every warp-sensitive the Wardens had on tap had felt it, nearly at the same time.
	The hairs on Calael's neck rose- this was something big. “Constance, start seeing to those calls and arrange to have Selen collate the readings, I'll want to have a look at them later.” She nodded curtly and jogged off as the murmur of activity in the room rose to the roar of an active situation. Calael called to the man on monitor duty in the next room. “Jones, you get any calls from the lookouts?” 
	To his surprise, Jones peeked around the door, an expression of disbelief on his craggy face. “Funny you should ask, Cal, I was tryin' to figure out how to tell you. We got contact, confirmed by every lookout on the south side, even old Clancy who can't see shit.” 
	Calael rubbed his forehead in consternation. “Angels beyond, that must be a hell of a derelict if Clancy can spot it. Get two breach teams together, then, full crisis gear. Can't be too careful-”
	Jones held up a hand to cut him off, uncharacteristically solemn. “See, that's the thing, Cal. It ain't a derelict.”
	Calael paused. “What's that supposed to mean, Jones?”
	“Just that, Cal. It ain't a ship. It's a fleet. And it's moving straight towards us at speed, under its own power.”
	The room went silent, the hush broken only by the insistent clicking of the switchboard. Calael's blood turned to ice.
	“Well, then.” In one violent motion he rose, flinging the chair aside and striding purposefully for the equipment room as he barked orders. “Belay that last order. This is a Code Black, people. Get EVERY breach team, on duty, off duty, on call, retired, '''everyone''' who can still hold a shield, and send them to the penultimate layer of Sector South, rendezvous at Ward 801. All our auxiliaries, find a working turret on that side and man it. Hell, find someone to put in the ones that won't shoot too, if they'll move around the intimidation factor might be worth it. Warders are to evacuate all nonessentials to the inner rings, at gunpoint if they have to. Jones, where the hell is my breach gun?”
	Jones quickly fell into stride next to the taller man, shooting him a fierce look. “It's on the inside of your shield same as it always is, you lanky Ogryn fuck.” His expression softened. “You serious, Cal? Code Black? Have we even drilled for that?”
	Calael shook his head. “Barely. I didn't even think it was possible. One functional ship, maybe. There are legends. A whole fleet...” he trailed off. “This could go very badly, Jones.”
	“You don't gotta tell me. My wife an' kids are in Sector South, down in Starlight Bounty.” Jones ran his fingers through his thinning hair anxiously as they approached the equipment room. “Listen, if worst comes to worst-”
	“If worst comes to worst we move everyone inwards to the Blackstone Spire. I've got it on very good authority that whatever's coming at us will have a hell of a time getting at anything in there.” Calael reached for his helmet. “Paint a glyph-ward it doesn't come to that.”
	“Sir!” The call came from behind them. They turned to see the switchboard boy nervously waiting in the doorway. “Sir, you've got a call on the vox. It's... it's from the fleet, sir.”
	Calael turned, gathering his suit. “Patch it through, cadet.”
	The boy ran to give the signal. For a moment, it was quiet save for Jones' faint cursing as he tried to put on his boot. Then the speakers overhead crackled to life, and a new voice filled the equipment room.
''	“-name of the God-Emperor of Mankind, and his Eminence Kaita'mansa the Bold, the 36th Expeditionary Fleet greets those within the Tempest's heart. We come bearing gifts of the world beyond the storm and seek parlay with the one you name your king. I say again, in the name of the God-Emperor of Mankind-”''
	The boy reappeared, puffing for breath. “Should we belay the assembly orders, sir?”
	 “Get Selen to compose a response- we welcome our visitors in the name of peace and fellowship, so on and so forth. Light up the old dock in Ward 813 and plot them a course to it, and let me know the INSTANT they deviate from that heading. Everything else stands.” Finished donning his suit, Calael raised his helmet to his head and slid his ancient warder's shield off its wall brace. “Code Black. Be ready for the impossible.”</div></div>


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'''FIRST CONTACT'''

Calael Bishop's men stood a respectful distance away, watching the proceedings uneasily. He had selected three of his bravest crews and fitted them with the most impressive armors he had to offer, resplendent with freshly-painted glyph-wards. So far, their guests had seen fit to only send forth a dozen of their own guard, six to either side of the landing ramp. Cal studied them, helmet under one arm.

	He was getting the distinct impression that his men were still outnumbered.

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	Each of these alien warriors was nearly as tall as Calael himself, who on Providence had towered over all but the Ogryn crews... but these men had none of the affable clumsiness of his abhuman friends. The blue-black armor they wore looked heavy enough to crush a normal man to death, but they moved in it with casual ease. That, perhaps, was the most worrisome part of all- there was no tension evident in these blue-clad giants. Alertness, yes- but they had clearly completed their assessment of Providence's force and determined its threat was minimal. While they had only chosen to show a dozen of their men, their titanic spacecraft hinted at a great deal more waiting in the wings. Cal had been running mental calculations since he got his first look at those ships, trying to guess at their crew complement and potential armament based on their dimensions. He didn't like the numbers he was coming up with.
	Calael had prepared for this eventuality. If he had truly intended to fight, he'd have brought a great deal more breachers. The men with him knew they were there mostly for show, though they were stalwart fighters all – they had to be, to sign up for a suicide mission. Before leaving the situation room, Calael had established five distinct signals, each of which would alert the dockmaster to vent the entire bay into space. He estimated that such a maneuver represented Providence's best chance at taking the interlopers unawares and leveling the playing field.
	The more he saw of his guests, the more he hoped it didn't come to that.
	With the titan soldiers settled into their places, a new procession began down the ramp- men unfurling a huge, luxurious crimson carpet. Behind them came incense-bearers and men with strange instruments, drumming a regal tune that somehow managed to sound grand even in the echoing expanse of the docking bay. As they filed to the sides, a wizened-looking functionary unfurled a large scroll and began to recite in a stentorian drone. 
''	“Hear ye that ye are in the presence of his Eminence Rahman Kaita'mansa the Bold, Primarch of the XXI Legion and Lord of the 36<sup>th</sup> Expeditionary Fleet!”''
	
	This said, the man stepped aside, expertly stowing the scroll. From the mouth of the craft appeared a new titan warrior, clad in the same colors as the twelve flanking the ramp but with finer armor, and lacking a helmet. Taller than his comrades, taller even than Calael himself, the dusky-skinned fellow proceeded down, a faint smirk on his lips as he surveyed the pomp arrayed before him. His eyes stopped as they reached Calael, and the wry smile vanished. He inclined his head slightly, the first acknowledgement anyone had given to the Breachers' presence.
	Though this Rahman was a bit larger than his cohorts, and a bit more finely dressed, it was not so much this as his presence that convinced Cal that he must be the leader of the blue-clad soldiers. He had a natural aura of command around him, a nearly tangible charisma, and an air of the same daring he'd seen in the best breachers, men who'd hauled enough salvage to retire several times over but never considered sitting out the next run. Could this man be the presence Calael had felt in the situation room? There was a certain echo of it here, but... Cal spared a glance sideways at Selen. The moonfolk tailor appeared outwardly calm, but the subtle quivering of his antennae showed he sensed something within this newcomer. It was likely Rahman Kaita'mansa had something of the oracle's talent himself. Perhaps...
	But no, the herald with the scroll produced another, clearly intent to introduce another figure.The man's hands shook, and though he was clearly experienced there was an unmistakable quaver to his powerful voice.
''	“Hear ye that ye are in the presence of the Master of Mankind, the Lord of Terra, the Omnissiah Manifest! Kneel before the Emperor of Man!”''
	Save for the blue-clad titans, all the men in Keita'mansa's entourage kneeled and lowered their eyes. Calael barely had time to register the auburn light appearing at the top of the ramp before he was overcome. The presence he had first felt when the fleet appeared washed over him a hundred times, a thousand times as strong as it had before. A gold-clad giant strode forth from the ship, his black-locked head ringed by a numinous halo which seemed to fill Calael's entire field of vision. The man with the scroll continued to speak, but the breacher captain heard none of it, so enraptured was he by the luminous being that approached him. Every fiber, every atom of his being demanded he kneel before this creature and swear his  undying fealty.

And yet...

And yet. Here were his men beside him, facing an unknown and unknowable force. In the void outside this bay, an alien fleet bristled with weapons and warriors. The breachers looked to him now, expressions of growing concern hidden behind rugged features and polished helmets, wondering why it was that their leader's knees shook in the presence of this giant. If he was afraid, they would be afraid. It was the immutable law of the breacher- the crew doesn't fall until the first man falters.

	The master of mankind stood before Calael Bishop. His gaze was steady and commanding, the air pregnant with the breathless expectation of his followers. Bathed in that golden light, Calael's very soul ached to bend the knee.

	Instead, with a supreme effort of will, he extended his hand.

	“On behalf of the United Peoples of Providence, we welcome you and yours  to our humble home. Our air is your air, our water your water. May the Martyrs guide this meeting to stable ground.”

	The Emperor examined Cal's outstretched hand as a biologist might examine a particularly interesting duct vermin. Rahman, watching from his place amongst the titans, looked quite nearly surprised- the smaller men seemed something approaching horrified. The echoing silence of the bay grew stifling as the frozen  moment stretched towards eternity. Cal cleared his throat, sweat beading on his forehead with the effort of keeping his focus.

	“It's called a handshake, Your Eminence. On Providence it's, uh, used as a greeting and a measure of respect.”

	The Emperor nodded fractionally, still examining Cal's hand. “Yes, we have this custom on Terra as well.” He raised his gaze to meet Cal's, and finally extended his own gauntleted hand. With the handshake out of the way, the tension visibly eased, and Cal felt the inexorable pressure of the golden being's presence lighten to a less overwhelming splendor. “I thank you for your welcome, Calael Bishop of Providence. It will be good to shelter and restock after our trying passage through the Warp.”

	So dazed was the breacher that it took him a few moments to realize the Emperor had addressed him with his given name rather than his title. Had Selen included that in the vox address? The fleet had asked for “the one you name your king,” but that was certainly not Calael. He headed up the Warder and Breacher's Union, sure, but that didn't make him some fairytale ruler. He'd have to speak with Selen about that later.

	At that thought, the moonfolk became the subject of the Emperor's scrutiny.
“And what is this here?”

	“That's Selen, your Eminence. He's our quartermaster and vice head of the Warder and Breacher's Union when I'm on a run. He's the one who you heard on the vox, actually.” Selen folded his four arms and lowered his antennae respectfully. The golden giant seemed to expect further elaboration, so Calael continued. “Selen is, uh, of the moonfolk. They make most of the good fabric on Providence. He put together our dress uniforms personally.”

	The Emperor continued to examine Selen with what appeared to be a critical eye. “And you... trust this creature?”

	Unsure how to interpret this question, Cal decided after a moment of deliberation to settle for simple fact. “Selen identified my oracular talent before I was old enough to walk, sir. He's known me longer than anyone else still among the living. He's good people.”

	The Emperor regarded the moonfolk for another instant, then gave a microscopic nod, returning his attention to Calael. “It is well that you have found good company.” With that, the Emperor reached out towards Cal with one mailed hand, a languid gesture. Bishop heard his men shift and murmur behind him- clearly they weren't happy with the way this was playing out- but he somehow felt utterly unthreatened. The golden gauntlet touched two fingers to Cal's forehead, and suddenly the discomfited murmering turned to gasps and shouts of surprise and not a few oaths- not only from the breachers, but from the Emperor's entourage as well. Even Rahman and his soldiers seemed taken aback, but Cal couldn't immediately discern why. He glanced back at his crew, who had shrank away from him in shock. Adrian Bibbowski, the largest of the humans on any of his crews and an old friend from his days on the Hellbenders, stared at his captain slack-jawed, pointing like a frightened child.

	“Boss, y-your head...”

	Cal held up his helmet, seeking his reflection in the mirrored visor, and suddenly the source of Bibbowski's consternation was eminently clear. The Emperor had crowned Calael with a ring of silver flame, a cold and pale imitation of the Lord of Terra's own radiant halo. He turned back to the golden being, confusion etched on his face. The Emperor's gaze remained imperious and impassive, but if anything, he seemed... satisfied.

	“I am glad to have found you at last, my son. We have much to discuss.”</div></div>

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