The Burden of Rule

0435 Hours
Imperial Palace
Nova Terra
Sol Invicta System

The Emperor awoke in darkness, his gene-enhanced eyes adjusting to the near-blackness with no more effort than an exhaled breath.  The light outside, what little there was, bled crimson; a low, permanent ambiance sourced from the world of Nova Terra itself.  For many aliens it was a disconcerting thing, a sight that left feelings of dread and even intimidation in their hearts; not so for the man now known simply as ‘The Emperor’.  It was the light of order, of stability, of a homeworld he had lived on for years he had stopped bothering to count.  Nova Terra was more than merely a planet, more than merely a world: It was a symbol.  One he took comfort in, as he slowly lifted his frame from his bed.

He was cautious as he did so, not for fear of injury, but in order to not disturb the three women sharing it with him.  Cornelia, Amala, and Essi stirred not: Comfortably slumbering under the blankets after a night of intimacy that had left them pleasantly tired.  He couldn’t take all the credit; his consorts enjoyed each other as much as they did him, at times, and he hadn’t the heart to force them to return to their individual chambers after the conclusion of their night.

Thankfully he had thought ahead, and so was able to easily slide off of the right side of the bed and walk, naked, to the curtained window of his room - peering out of it at the never-sleeping world beyond.  Everywhere but around the palace, traffic still flowed in countless billions; guiding lumens set upon the front of vehiculum traversing the gravi-lanes of the Ecumenopolis’ endless megacities.  Starships of various classifications prowled further above, equipped with atmospheric lighting and - in the case of the Imperial Navy’s vessels - searchlights and holographic emblems that clearly demonstrated their purpose and allegiance.  It was a dizzying canvas of activity that neither slept nor took pause, be it the heart of night or the blazing heat of the day.

With the level of genetic enhancement afforded to him, he saw the world not as ‘Terrans’ had supposedly once done, but as something more.  He saw vibrancy and implausible emissions, a palette of colours that the regular eye could never begin to fathom.  His lips turned faintly to a smile as he watched, admiring the ordered chaos of different spectrums blending together in a convoluted tapestry of eclectic life.  There was stability even in that, even in the seemingly endless madness of the chromatic view he was afforded from his window.  “Nova Terra Invicta,” he murmured to himself, placing a bare hand against the plasma glass of his window and soaking in the view of his city, his world, his nation beyond its confines.  It filled him with equal amounts joy, and grave understanding; that this was his burden to defend, his privilege to protect.  Let the Galaxy denounce and defame all of the Grand Imperium, and to the void with all that did.

This was home.

He would never not love it.

The Emperor spared another few moments of quiet admiration, before he sighed and pulled himself away from the glass, turning to the interior of his spacious apartments and moving for the bathroom.  An archaic concept perhaps, but Nova Terrans had always been people of fanciful traditions, and a place to conduct one’s ablutions - even if an automated system could perform the task anywhere - remained a staple of their society.  Even thousands of years beyond their first settlement of Nova Terra, there remained certain irrevocable concepts of decency that they clung to - against all reason, perhaps, in the eyes of others.

The door slid open with a near-silent pneumatic release, and he stepped inside the sterile white confines with the faint slap of bare feet on cold metal.  The Emperor waited until the door closed behind him before moving to the far end of the bathroom, where a large bare square was set aside for cleansing.  His crossing of the threshold triggered the sensor relays that scanned his biosigns, and factored in his preferred settings automatically.  A moment later several nozzles emerged from hidden compartments in the walls; one above him, two on either side.

Misting liquid erupted from each in a perfectly heated blend, intermingled with purifying agents that elicited what on Nova Terra equated to a pleasant scent.  Within the spray also surged a swarm of intelligent nanobots, impacting his skin and setting to the task of cleansing it of unneeded dead cells and micro-bacteria that served no purpose.  From the golden hair on his head, to the tips of his toes, his body was cleaned methodically: Erasing the marks of the previous night’s exertions, and readying him for the day to come.

His eyes remained closed as he enjoyed the sensation, opening only near the end to allow the liquid-and-machine mix to cleanse his eyes and prepare him fully for the day.  His mouth opened with them, allowing for a proper cleaning of his teeth, gums, and anything else needed.  He yet had two days before he had to relieve himself; though he did find the bi-weekly release something of an inconvenience, he was glad for its relative ease.  Historical articles often mentioned a need for ancient Terrans to have to use the bathroom daily, even multiple times in a day, and the notion baffled him.  The sheer inefficiency of their natural evolution was... staggering.

He knew some xenos still needed such, and even that left him puzzled.

The nozzles shut off a few moments later, five minutes after they’d initiated their cleansing programs - he enjoyed the extra time to enjoy the water - and receded back into the walls.  He lifted his arms and tilted his head back as the square bathing area lit up with a pleasant orange-red glow, suffusing his body with carefully measured heat: Not enough to trigger his meticulously gene-crafted sweat glands, but enough to raise an instant veil of steam across his skin, evaporating the residual liquid in a quick ten second ministration.

The Emperor turned and exited the bathroom the same way he’d entered a few moments later, glancing once again at his sleeping consorts with a faint smile, and turning to make his way into his arming chamber, nearby to the bathroom.  The room ignited with soft-tone golden light as he entered, and the doors shut behind him with a faint click, indicating they had been secured.  The interior was a meticulously ordered room equipped with every weapon known to the Grand Imperium; from Covenant plasma spears and to Omnicoder-pattern firearms and eviscerating devices; Gidarean rifles, knives, and combat attire; to Nova Terran swords, shields, spears, and various ARES-compatible firearms.

All of these the Emperor ignored in favour of the circular area in the centre, framed by a pulsing ring of soothing red light set into the cold metal floor.  Without hesitation he stepped into it, lifting his arms as a scanner lit his frame from each wall, reading his biosigns and verifying an endless array of security checks from his mental state to his quantum mind patterns.  A half-heartbeat later the scanners vanished, and the floor and ceiling split away to reveal automated assembly arms, each bearing a different piece of armour for his use.

His body was first fitted with a ‘sleeve’, a thin black one-piece that he pulled on himself as it was offered, resuming his T-pose as it went from loose-fitting and baggy to clinging to every curve of his body.  He closed his eyes a moment before the micro-needles stabbed into his skin, plugging themselves into his nervous system with an ignition of the sleeve’s passive protocols, using his body’s enhanced bio-electric charge to ignite the silver transmission lines running between the dozens of jutting nodes set upon the sleeve’s exterior.

The automated machine arms began the work thereafter, lifting different pieces of armour and fitting them into places above the neural sleeve.  The order of their application was measured; starting at the fingers and toes respectively with gloves and boots, and moving upwards.  Each piece was slotted onto a corresponding node, and screwed into place rapidly.  This was supported by machines that kept his arms lifted through support, its designers having factored in the sheer weight of the material going onto his frame.

Unlike previous iterations, this plate was Neutronium, and a gift from the Omnicoders to their new Emperor.  Its durability when compared to the old Durasteel models was like night and day; yet another reason that adopting the peculiar cybernetic nation as a Vassal had been likely the greatest act of any Emperor since Nova Terra’s founding.  When his breastplate was fitted on, and the compact energy reactor in the back - and most shielded area - of his armour ignited, the Emperor felt the subtle jerk of his nervous system as it connected to the armour’s systems.

He tasted copper in his mouth, and fought the urge to work his jaw at the sudden surge of awareness that flooded his brain.  Both his enhanced physiology and simple exposure worked to allow him to maintain control, and he dropped his arms a moment later as the laurel wreath was offered to him - setting his ‘crown’ upon his brow and rolling his now-armoured shoulders.  He was taller thanks to the armour; closer to eight feet than seven and a half.  His pauldrons ignited as the last stage of activation, projecting the holographic Nova Terran Aquilas in a burst of light.

Now-attired he turned and stepped out of the circle, moving over to take only a single sword from the Nova Terran weapon rack, mag-locking the sheath to his right hip and adjusting the red material sitting over his breastplate.  Fully equipped at last, and ready to face the day ahead, the Emperor left the arming chamber in a thud of power-armoured footsteps.  This time there was no point attempting quiet, for the efficient purr of his suit’s motive systems and the poignant impacts of two and a half tonnes of neutronium were not easily muffled.

He nodded to Cornelia as she stirred, offering his first wife a smile of farewell which she returned, lifting a pale hand half-heartedly to bid him farewell, before laying down to resume her slumber.  The Emperor turned away after she did, unable to help a small smile forming: Things were better with her, of late, even with the addition of Amala and Essi to their lives.  It had been hard to reconcile their differences, given the whirlwind of events that had led them to where they were in the now, and given the ever-looming reality of his love for Catherine.  It had been a rough road, but oddly, the addition of new consorts had almost... relaxed Cornelia.  She knew her position now; she was their guiding hand, introducing them to the rigours of Nova Terran life in the Imperial Royal Family.

He exited his apartments and entered the massive corridor that led to them, hung with tapestries and paintings in stasis fields, and guarded by the Gilded Aegis; his royal guard.  Two such warriors stood outside his door; the golden armour on their bodies matching the hue of his own with perhaps only a shade of difference, indicating his superiority.  To the unenhanced naked eye it might have been easily missed; but not to a Nova Terran one.  Each warrior stood at just over nine feet, their armour and extensively more detailed gene-modification building them to incredible heights.

Each Warden, as they were called, bore a Vigilus-pattern halberd, equipped with an ARES-compatible weapons system built below the massive bladed top of the weapon.  The thickness of the halberd’s metal shaft a veil for the colossal acceleration barrel built into its body.  ARES rounds fired from a Vigilus-pattern halberd could punch a fully-armoured Knight off their feet, and had enough impact force to blow apart limbs.  Both men fell into lockstep one pace behind as he made his way down the cavernous corridor, with two more falling in ahead of him with gene-enhanced mathematical perfection, joined by a final two on either side and at a greater distance.

The eerily flawless spacing of the formation allowed the Emperor a clear view of everything around him, but similarly allowed the Aegis to fall in and bodily defend him at a micro-second’s provocation.  There was no immediate danger, of course, given where they were: No one was permitted in the royal residential wing that wasn’t part of the Royal Family, though it had never dulled the Aegis’ sense of unmitigated protective intent.  They were made that way, he supposed.

Where most Knights were taken from their families, voluntarily, between the ages of nine and thirteen; members of the Gilded Aegis were born into it, offered from the children of Nova Terran nobility across the Imperium - or bred from specific programs designed to perpetuate desirable gene-traits, that were later enhanced in-utero and afterwards through consistent and unending alteration throughout their development into adulthood.  Many had asked why they had not been the pattern of all Gene-Warriors in the old Empire, yet that question stemmed from a lack of information, and a deeply set ignorance regarding expense.
The cost to create even one Warden was staggering to contemplate.

No member of the Aegis had ever betrayed their duty; they were the most heavily indoctrinated and meticulously mentally-developed warriors in the old Empire.  Even as a child he had known beyond any concept of doubt that the Wardens could be equated to safety.  Gold armour had been a sign of succour, a signal that all was well, and that he needn’t worry over anything.  Even with his adulthood now reached, and the Grand Imperium as his to command, the feeling hadn’t changed.  Some of the men in the Gilded Aegis had served for thousands of years; veterans of the royal family that had seen generations of Emperors come and go.

There was a weight to their loyalty, a burden of responsibility that the Emperor felt acutely: These men believed in him, believed in his family, what he stood for.  They were willing to die for it, and more than that, to live for it.  To give their entire existence to the sole goal of serving him and his.  It was an honour, privilege, and responsibility that the Emperor would never let himself forget; would never allow himself to fail to acknowledge.  It was the very least he could do for the men that gave everything they were to his crown, and the throne he represented.

Their path took them down the hallway, past the rooms of his consorts, family, and even distant relatives - and halted before a pair of massive doors, each bearing the Aquila emblazoned in gold.  He paused there, staring at the twin-headed avians with a mix of respect and humbling understanding, knowing - now more than ever - what they truly represented.  The inherent power, duty, and expectation that was inlaid to every curve and line of the imperial sigil.  ‘Father,’ he thought to himself, ‘give me the strength to guide this Grand Imperium.  Give me the wisdom you bore, the strength of your will, and the passion of your mind.  Help me.  Help me so I don’t fail them, those trillions of souls depending on my leadership.’

No response came.

None was needed.

The Emperor nodded to the Wardens, and the two in the vanguard threw open the doors with a sonorous sound, the massive weight to them only able to be moved thanks to the power armour-enhanced physique of the colossal gene-warriors.  Beyond lay the throne room, a hall of splendour inlaid with a crimson carpet, snaking its way towards a golden throne topped with a perching Eagle; its wings spread to shelter the one who sat upon it while its shadow - thanks to the lighting - cast upon the wall behind possessed two heads.

“Once more unto the breach,” he murmured, stepping forwards as the Wardens matched him, moving for the throne.  The Royal Apartments had opened along the side of the room, closer to the throne and not the massive double-doors that marked the main entrance, and so his entrance was only noticed by the few naval, army, and legions aeternus officers assembled around several of the holotables and terminals, discussing various issues and strategies relevant to current deployment.

When the Emperor came into view, these men and women as one ceased their discussions: Turning to lower themselves to one knee, and cross their fists over their chests, making the sign of the Aquila.  The Wardens deviated as well, taking up positions nearby the throne or joining their brethren already within the chamber.  For his part the Emperor moved to the front of the elevated platform that held the throne on its dais, ascending the stairs and pausing before the seat.  He reached out, touching one of the solid gold armrests and running his armoured fingers over its surface.  Aeons of history lay in the precious metal; thousands of years of his forebears, tracing back to Arcturus: The first ruler of Nova Terra.

The Emperor released a small breath and nodded just slightly to himself.  “I am no longer a man.”  He repeated to himself, the same words he had vowed upon his ascension.  A moment of consideration came and went, and he turned to face the assembled occupants of the throne room.  Another heartbeat, and he lowered himself down, settling into the throne of the most powerful modern nation in the Pertainia Galaxy. In doing so he accepted all the responsibility, expectation, and danger that came with it.

“The Emperor Protects!”  Came the resounding cry.

Such was the burden of rule.