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Chapter 10: "Unhappy" Phelon
🕑 Added 2025-10-20 10:40:11 +0000 UTCChapter 10: "Unhappy" Phelon
Aboard The Ironclad, in his private quarters within the Warband's armory, Phelon emerged from the steam-filled ablutions chamber. A simple towel was knotted at his waist, and water dripped from his void-black skin as he sat on the iron-framed cot. He picked up a data-slate he'd been reading: 'A Compendium of Old Terran Jests and Witticisms'.
With his other hand, he reached for a snack—a purple, multi-layered root-fruit. It was crisp and juicy. The natives claimed it was harmful to the eyes unless cooked, a superstition he'd gleefully ignored.
A nearby servitor whirred, filling his steel goblet with blood-wine. The vintage was running low; most of the lower-deck thralls had been moved planetside. If he wanted a fresh "feast" now, he'd have to check the city-state's dungeons.
This wasn't some new-found mercy from the "Steel Angels." The Lord of the Forged had never restricted their appetites. It was simple logistics: the thralls had been reclassified from "expendable ballast" to "assets." Even a brain-dead Slaaneshi warband knew the difference between killing a promethium-refinery tech for sport and killing a useless mortal with no skills.
Phelon felt... good. Here he was, on their own ship, armor off, reading and eating.
Because the Forged Steel Brotherhood trusted one another. Unlike the cold, cruel calculus of the Iron Warriors, they saw each other as brothers, not just tools for victory. This was especially true for Phelon, because he was, quite obviously, not of their bloodline.
Back in the Legion, Phelon's intake of recruits had been mockingly called the "Unnecessary Sons." The Legion veterans saw their creation as pointless. The Siege of Terra was lost, the Iron Cage was broken. The Legion was in full retreat to the Eye of Terror. It was on that very journey, limping to damnation, that the Primarch had ordered their creation.
The Legion had used its stock of loyalist gene-seed. The Iron Warriors had collected vast quantities of their cousins' genetic material, much of it harvested on the black sands of Isstvan V. That was the day a son of a god killed another, brother turned on brother, and the Legion had truly damned itself.
For whatever reason, the Primarch had ordered this stock to be used. At an unnecessary time, using unnecessary gene-seed, they had created... the Unnecessary Sons.
The other recruits from that batch had it easier; their genetic differences were not so obvious. Even if the veterans shunned them, they formed their own cliques. But Phelon... he was the outcast among the outcasts.
Someone had started calling him "'Unhappy' Phelon." The name stuck. Even mortals whispered it. The isolation drove Phelon into the forge, into the embrace of the machine. He became a Techmarine, and later, a Warpsmith.
He remained "Unhappy Phelon" until he met Petros—then just a Sergeant in the Swift Siege Cohort—in the Eye of Terror. Petros had brought his green recruits to Phelon's forge to learn basic wargear maintenance.
Unlike other Legion officers, who ruled by fear and cruel punishment, Petros was... patient. He drilled the new bloods relentlessly, repeating the same lessons, desperate to increase their chances of survival by even a single fraction.
A strange sixth sense told Phelon that this Sergeant was not a "true" Iron Warrior. He was something else. Phelon liked that. So when he heard rumors that Petros was breaking away to form his own warband, Phelon was the first to find him. "I'm in."
From that day, he was no longer "'Unhappy' Phelon." He ate with gusto, he drank deeply, he laughed loudly. He teased his new brothers, becoming the heart of the Warband. He was Phelon the Warpsmith. He was Phelon the Joyful.
Much later, Phelon had asked his new Lord why the Legion would ever use loyalist seed to create them. Petros had given him his own cold assessment.
As the Traitor Legions, warbands, and Dark Mechanicum all flooded into the Eye of Terror, the Lord of Iron, already ascending to daemonhood, foresaw the inevitable war for territory. The strongest warbands, with the most Astartes, would claim the best fortress-worlds.
So, Perturabo had bulked up his Legion's numbers, using any seed he had, even loyalist stock. Once their foothold in the Eye was secure, he encouraged vicious infighting, letting his sons slaughter each other. "Culling the weak," he called it.
Phelon finally understood. They were just tools. The Primarch saw his sons as expendable, and so his officers did the same. This bred a deep, pervasive mistrust. Brothers slept in their armor. Terminators never left their plate.
As the Lord of the Forged always said: "Our father trusted his machines more than his sons, yet demanded his sons trust each other."
Phelon was just finishing the last of the purple fruit when the comms-panel chimed. He grunted, and the servitor activated the speaker.
A familiar, gravelly voice came through the grille. "Phelon."
Phelon sat up. "Lord! What are your orders?"
"In two days, Antonius and I are taking The Ironclad on a trip. You will remain here with Vornab's Second Squad. You are in charge of guarding the homeworld."
"What? You're going out to have fun without me?"
Petros's voice on the comm was pure, dead silence. He sometimes wished he had a thunder hammer just to cave in Phelon's bald, black head. But he couldn't bring himself to be truly angry. Among the sullen, grim veterans, Phelon was the one bizarre spark of life.
"I am going to acquire gene-seed," Petros finally said. "You know our deal with the Dark Mechanicum. I don't trust them. I expect them to cut corners, use substandard materials, or just drag their feet. You understand the machine better than any of us. I need you here to watch them. Vornab will handle the rest."
Understanding the gravity of the task, Phelon's jovial tone vanished. "Understood, Lord. Me and the brothers will hold the fort."
"Good." The comm clicked off.
Phelon sat on his cot, resting his chin in his hand, a slow grin spreading across his face. The Lord was taking the flagship. He'd be gone for... a year? Two? And Vornab wasn't really his boss... Which meant...
He could do whatever he wanted.
He could explore the homeworld, sample the local vintages, the local... wildlife. He could even take a lander to the other continents. For "geological surveys," of course. Oh, this was going to be fun.
Wait. The ship was leaving. He'd have to move his personal forge... no, that wasn't right. He had to... oversee the Dark Mechanicum's work. Surveying for the Fortress-Monastery. Prospecting for mineral deposits. Leveling the ground for the first manufactories. Inspecting the new agricultural tech...
Void-dammit. He wouldn't be idle at all. He'd be the busiest one here.
No time to waste. Phelon threw his towel, slapping the servitor in the face with it. He grabbed his goblet, drained the last of the blood-wine in one gulp, and strode, his black arse bare, toward his suit of power armor.
There was no time to sit around. He had work to do.
