Chapter 500: A Master of the Tides and the Psychic Vox
Click.
The amber glow of active system-lights illuminated the interior of the tactical sanctum, casting long shadows across the reinforced ribbing of the armored ceiling. From the shifting pitch of the engines and the slight starboard tilt of the hull, Commissar Yarrick knew they had entered the kill-zone of the greenskin heavy batteries.
But for those within the belly of this Capitol Imperialis, the saturation bombardment outside was little more than background noise. These behemoths, typically reserved for elite Astra Militarum formations like the Cadian Shock Troops, were mobile fortresses wreathed in void-shield arrays capable of weathering a naval bombardment. They were effectively hive-sectors on tracks.
"My Lord," Yarrick began, his voice steady despite the thrumming air. "You have the authority to petition the Sires directly?"
His expression was one of extreme caution. Since his graduation from the Schola Progenium, Yarrick's perception of the Imperium's evolution had been visceral. Beyond the skyrocketing quality of the curriculum, he had witnessed a tactical renaissance across every branch of the service.
From Solar Admirals to front-line Captains, the drastically expanded communication bandwidth meant every voice could be represented upon a single auspex array, synthesized and executed by a central commander.
Yarrick knew that in the centuries past, a commander of his station could never have seized such absolute control.
The reason was the Signal.
Against the Ruinous Powers and the xenos tides, the tides of the Empyrean, malefic sorcery, and the greenskin "Waaagh! Gestalt" had historically crippled Imperial communications. The Imperium, faced with such a catastrophic environment, had been forced to fracture its armies into isolated blocks, commanded only by the crudest of orders.
To coordinate a theater involving the Guard, the PDF, the Skitarii, the Astartes, Knightly Houses, and the various private retinues of the nobility was a task that broke the minds of lesser generals.
In those dark days, commanders with "initiative" were feared and loathed. Initiative meant non-standard deployments that threw the rigid defensive grids into anarchy before the enemy even arrived. Thus, the Imperium had favored the "Experience-Traditionalist"—men who were politically astute and strategically conservative, relying on the statistics of the past to prevent the blunders of the future.
Stagnation was the price of survival.
Yarrick was certain that if not for the reforms brought by the Dawnbreakers, he would have spent a century rotting as a low-level political officer in Hive Volcanus, waiting for a retirement he would never live to see.
He looked past the obsidian complexion of Tu'Shan, Chapter Master of the Salamanders, toward the command staff.
On one flank stood the mundane vox-caste, operating the most advanced tactical arrays in the Segmentum. Blessed by the "Prime Motive," these machines were capable of maintaining unit cohesion in any standard theater.
On the other flank stood a choir of Astropaths. They were wired into stabilizing logic-engines, their bodies draped in the vestments of the Angelic Creed. They utilized their raw psionic potential to pierce the static of the Waaagh! field, maintaining a link with the War Council across the void.
Between them stood a squad of Sisters of Silence.
Yarrick mused that the "Population Census" initiated by the Dawnstar Lords was perhaps their most profound achievement. It hadn't just eliminated the Genestealer threat or rerouted Hive Fleet Leviathan; it had catalogued the "Specialists" of the human race.
The Psykers and the Nulls.
Rather than conducting a total purge of the Astra Telepathica and the Navis Nobilite for their initial resistance to the new FTL protocols, the Dawnstar had restructured them. They had integrated them into every facet of the state. Under the guidance of Ramesses and Karna, they had built a localized, high-density psychic network that served both the military and the citizen.
The "Night-Watch" units—thirteen Nulls to a squad—were now attached to every regimental-tier command, acting as black holes for Warp-influence and ensuring the stability of realspace logic.
This was the environment that had allowed "non-traditional" geniuses like Yarrick to rise.
He had learned these political nuances during a guest lecture at the Armageddon Schola by the legendary Lord Commissar Alexei Cain (Ret.). Cain had emphasized that while reform was an irreversible tide, those who shouted against it were not necessarily enemies. They were merely men terrified of a future they didn't understand.
"The job of the Dawnstar," Cain had said, "is to distinguish the man who needs a seat at the table from the man who needs a bullet to the brain."
"My Lord, are you certain?" Yarrick asked, confirming once more.
To Yarrick, being able to speak to a Sector Lord was a privilege. To be told that he, a temporary theater commander, could place a direct call to a Primarch... it was staggering.
"I am certain," Tu'Shan replied, his transhuman mind processing the tactical data with clinical ease.
He agreed with Yarrick's assessment. The lines were stable. The Orks were using the stalemate to "train" their warriors on the soil of Ullanor, while Yarrick was gathering his reserves for a decapitation strike he didn't quite dare to launch.
They were a pair of matched rivals.
Tu'Shan was a warrior of the XVIII; he didn't claim mastery over the grand maneuvers of the Astra Militarum. But where the safety of the citizens was concerned, he would not hesitate to call upon the higher powers.
He looked at Yarrick, who was subconsciously straightening his sash and adjusting his posture for the coming audience.
Even the Sires are approachable, if the cause is just, Tu'Shan thought.
He gestured to his Librarian.
"Promethean Regent," the Librarian intoned, using the ancient honorific of Nocturne.
"I require a link to Lord Ramesses. We require the wisdom of the Sires," Tu'Shan commanded.
"Understood."
The Librarian's eyes erupted with a white-gold radiance.
Within the Dawnstar-affiliated Chapters, every sanctioned psyker was granted the right to petition the Formless Lord. Ramesses, in his role as the "Warp-CFO," conducted centralized seminars, enforcing a singular rule: 'If you do not know, do not guess. If you are not taught, do not act. If you are confused, ask.'
The Librarians acted as the emergency vox-link between the Chapter Masters and the Primarchs.
The special channel exists to be used.
The Webway — Inside the Dawnlight
"Something major," Ramesses noted.
He stood with arms crossed beside Arthur, who remained as silent and unmoving as a statue, leaning on the hilt of his blade.
The psionic link was open.
The sector of the Webway the First Fleet was currently traversing was a jagged ruin, leaking Warp-energy and infested with Neverborn. However, the Eldar-staffed vox-relays allowed for a stable connection to the wider "Internal Network."
"Your assessment?" Ramesses asked, glancing at Arthur. He decided not to interfere directly, instead crafting a psychic projection of Arthur within the "Hallowed Sun" domain, ready to mirror his partner's intent and speech for the defenders on Armageddon.
Inside the Capitol Imperialis on the ground, Yarrick and the officers watched as two figures manifested in the center of the room. One was radiant and shifting; the other was a pillar of cold, armored resolve.
They dropped to their knees in a unified Aquila salute, awaiting the command of the Primarchs.
"The strike should proceed," Arthur said. He had already scanned the tactical logs of Armageddon and offered a momentary internal commendation for Yarrick's rapid development.
"Aren't you worried we'll just kill Ghazghkull outright?" Ramesses debated through their private link, even as he prepared to relay the command.
He didn't doubt the army's strength. Under the Dawnstar, the Imperial military had become a hammer of absolute precision. And Ghazghkull—the Prophet—was a vital component of the Dawnstar's long-term galactic roadmap.
Vibration—
The Dawnlight lurched suddenly.
An abnormal gravitational shear. A Void Whale—an adult, planet-sized behemoth of the Empyrean—had blundered into the Webway-breach, drawn by the fleet's signature.
As it entered the localized reality-field of the Dawnlight, its Warp-essence solidified. It gained flesh, blood, and a mass that challenged the physics of the tunnel. The sudden gravitational pull shifted the entire fleet several centimeters off course.
The escort ships, drilled in these anomalies, opened fire instantly.
Lance beams and macro-shells bit into the Void Whale's hide. Searing heat and kinetic force tore through muscle as thick as a planetary mantle, detonating within the beast and venting torrents of ichor and the daemons that lived as parasites upon its skin.
The Neverborn, enraged by the interruption, attempted to swarm toward the attackers, only to freeze in shock at the sight of the magnificent Imperial fleet.
The Great Beast let out a thrumming shriek of discomfort and turned, fleeing back into the Warp.
Lances and plasma cleared the remaining tissue-drifts. Led by the Eternal Crusader, the First Fleet pressed on.
The Webway was a derelict subway, full of holes and infested with "wasps" (daemons). As the Dawnbreakers moved to seize control of this ancient artery, they were looking for a way to repair it.
Based on the archives provided by Eldrad, they were looking to the Orks.
Ramesses was never merciful with his tongue. He had mocked Eldrad for the Harlequins' absurd attempt to "warn" the Emperor of the War of the Beast by storming the Palace and fighting the Custodes.
"The Fists were nearly extinct, and there were literally moons made of Orks appearing in the sky. Did you think the Imperium was blind?" Ramesses had joked.
Eldrad had countered that the Eldar were a dying race back then, unable to face a Waaagh! of that magnitude head-on.
Then the conversation had shifted to "Decapitation Strikes." Eldrad had claimed the Eldar couldn't reach the core of Ullanor.
The Eldar, who can teleport into the Throne Room, couldn't reach the Ork home-world?
That had piqued the transmigrators' interest.
The Orks were a biological legacy of the Old Ones. Their technology was hard-coded into their un-hackable genetic matrix, unlocked only through the stimulus of total war.
The plan was simple: drive the Orks into a broken sector of the Webway. Use the xenos and daemons there as fuel for a permanent Waaagh!. Test if the Orks, forced into that environment, would "awaken" the Webway-repair technologies hidden in their DNA.
Throwing stones at birds. If it works, great.
And Ghazghkull was the only Warboss in the 41st Millennium who wasn't a complete "slacker." He had shown an ability to absorb and utilize the "Ullanor Heritage" under the pressure of war.
Ramesses worried that such a "high-quality worker" might be accidentally liquidated.
"If he cannot withstand this punch, he is unworthy of developing the Webway," Arthur said, closing the discussion. He signaled Ramesses to restore the link to Yarrick.
Arthur had zero intention of letting the guard "go easy." This wasn't a political theater; it was a war. To hold back would be to treat human lives as secondary to an experiment.
Ghazghkull was the enemy. Enemies were to be exterminated. The "Webway Project" was a secondary contingency.
"I agree," Ramesses conceded. The Primarch-tier exchange had passed in a microsecond. He gestured to the projection.
"Line is restored. Proceed."
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