HORUS Spectre

As with all things relegated to the past within anodyne historiography, the Revolution that saw the fall of Union’s Second Committee and the rise of the Third is partitioned into a neat little box. Thirty-one years, they say; more if you consider the Crisis and the concurrent era of rising dissent, but we think this is a fair length. Over four hundred years from those bloody days, that seems a reasonable assessment. It allows for a dot to be put at the end - the Second Committee died as an organized political entity, full stop.

More numbers follow. The billions dead from war, famine, and plague; the estimated number of unique species rendered extinct from TBK events; the number of chassis, bombers, guns, and bayonets produced every day from Union’s factories. Some venture so far as to guess at the number of flash clones worked to death, or to quantify the worth of a life by equivalent productive value. In manna, of course, the most neatly scientific currency.

When it comes to the Revolution, organized history seeks to hide from stories under the comforting cloak of numbers. Perhaps it is to avoid seeing new tales as they are birthed around them, or an instinctive retreat from the horror the stories embody: the mind shrinks away, a hound to the blazing torch. On the frontiers of Union, the lost, the wounded, and the dispossessed understand that the Revolution still has stories to tell - that its extent was not limited to thirty-one years. That the war then is cast through a thousand broken shards into the wars of the now, at the edges of the Purview and under the crust of Free Sanjak.

These are the lessons of the Revolution: To hold fast to your brothers and sisters. To give your single life for that of the many. To seek freedom fiercely, and love principle with passion. To stand before the strongest empire the human species had ever known, backed by the weight of all the technology and industrial capacity it could bring to bear, and say - No. Not today. Not ever.

Before there was ever HORUS, there were the Interstellar Solidarity Brigades’ chasseur divisions and their engineers, pulling together ten thousand disparate worlds’ traditions, materials, and skills into a single whole - a single fight. The Spectre PG is their legacy, and no other’s. It is their stories, their blood, and their will given towering form, composed of wire and steel. Let the words echo forevermore:

Ils ne passeront pas.

Never again.

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The HORUS Spectre is not an official Lancer product; it is a third party work, and is not affiliated with Massif Press. The HORUS Spectre is published via the Lancer Third Party License.

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