Roboute Guilliman reviewed the tactical telemetry from Axion the moment it arrived.
Ever since the grand compact had come into effect, the Iron Men had deployed its iron automata across countless battlefields to fight alongside the Imperium. Yet, when it came to data dissemination, Axion only transmitted logs deemed of critical value directly to the Primarch. Mundane operational reports were routed instead to the Segmentum Departmento Munitorum for routine archiving.
Even so, the steady stream of combat data materializing on Guilliman's slate fundamentally augmented his logistical mastery over the Emperor's realm.
Without Axion's direct data conduits, news of this conflict, raging on the absolute precipice of the galactic rim, at the bleeding edge of the Great Rift, might have taken decades, if not centuries, to reach Terra via the archaic mechanisms of the Astra Telepathica. By the time the High Lords mobilized a response fleet, requisitioned resources, and raised tithed regiments, the entire sector would have been hollowed out. It would have become a second Segmentum Pacificus, a barren graveyard where at least a hundred worlds were devoured raw by the Tyranid swarms.
Because of this superior intelligence network, Guilliman now consistently intercepted critical strategic data long before it trickled into the chambers of the Inquisition or the Departmento Munitorum, allowing him to pre-emptively deploy forces and adjust sectors-wide logistics.
To the broader Imperium, this was hailed as the sublime prescience of a demigod. The Ultramarines, in particular, burned with fierce pride, convinced their gene-sire was wielding the Emperor's own mandate under the Master of Mankind's watchful gaze to deliver the Imperium from ruin.
Yet, within the shadows of the Inquisition, certain factions whispered dark suspicions, questioning whether Guilliman was utilizing proscribed, heretical divining tech.
To avoid stoking the fires of civil schism, the Lord Regent had kept the iron automata's direct communication line strictly confidential. But the madness of the modern Imperium was deep-seated and persistent. Even with his precautions, paranoid voices still fretted that Guilliman might conspire with the machine-fiends to overthrow the Golden Throne.
The hololith in the center of the strategic chamber active-played the panoramic battle record. The logs offered fully adjustable, multi-angled perspectives, capturing not only the clinical efficiency of the machine-legions but also the harrowing status of the Imperial defenders when relief forces arrived.
Viewed through the recording lenses of the four Space Marine Chapters and Astra Militarum regiments deployed on the surface, the sheer, teeming biomass of the ground Tyranids was enough to break the sanity of any mortal commander.
When the hololith zoomed out to encompass the void war, the suffocating reality set in. The bioships of the Hive Fleet choked the star system entirely, leaving no vacuum unmarred by flesh.
Worse still were the colossal bio-tendrils at the system's edge, lashing out and trading horrific blows with the titanic vessels of the iron automata.
Even accelerated, the footage made it agonizingly clear how desperately the machine-ships had to strain against these monstrous bio-weapons. The largest conventional vessel the Imperium could reliably field was the Phalanx of the Imperial Fists; looking at the scale of this engagement, it was painfully obvious that if the Phalanx were caught in even a glancing blow from the tendrils of a Kraken Hive Fleet, it would be shattered into a drifting field of debris.
The briefing room fell into a deathly, leaden silence as the assembled lords watched the harrowing footage unfold. Through the long-range vox-link, Fabricator-General Oud Oudia Raskian of Mars observed the data stream. When the visual feed displayed the Titan's Spear, a weapon of apocalyptic finality capable of projecting destruction across several light-years, dark, unreadable calculations stirred within the Fabricator-General's cybernetic mind.
Then, the true, monolithic form of the Kraken Hive Fleet's core mass materialized on the hololith.
It felt as though the souls were sucked clean out of everyone in the room. Men forgot how to breathe; minds stalled. Even Trajann Valoris, the Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes and a genetic paragon, stood paralyzed, staring blankly at the nightmare before him.
A contiguous mass of bio-flesh stretching over ten light-years?
What manner of cosmic horror was this? In the minds of the mortal lords, they were looking at an absolute, unkillable nemesis. For the first time, the highest echelons of Terran leadership were confronted with a clear, visceral, and unvarnished visualization of the Tyranid threat.
While the assembly drowned in the terrifying realization of mankind's potential extinction, Guilliman, who had remained silent until now, maneuvered the data slate controls.
He brought up the final appraisal, rendered in the cold, unmistakable syntax of the machine intelligence:
[Invading Tyranid swarm broken. Targeting and tracking engaged. Estimated engagement time: 1.3 standard Terran years. Expected outcome: Annihilation.]
Looking at the assessment, a collective wave of disbelief swept through the lords.
Could such an enemy truly be wiped out? Doubt gnawed at every high official in the room; their eyes were wide, lost in a daze of uncertainty.
Guilliman broke the silence, his voice cutting through the dread.
"The Iron Men have requested a technical visitation to the Ordo Sinister. What is the status of your deliberations on this matter?"
The high lords blinked, their minds still trapped in the horror of the void battle. They failed to grasp why the Lord Regent was pivoting to a seemingly unrelated political issue.
But Guilliman understood the board perfectly. Even if they denied the machine intelligence access, it was highly unlikely to trigger an aggressive retaliation. He had been present in the flesh when the Emperor, working through the psychic conduits of the Inquisition, delivered His divine guidance to strike the compact with Axion. He knew the parameters of their agreement intimately.
However, he needed these squabbling parasites of Terran bureaucracy to comprehend the absolute scale of the Tyranid peril. He also needed them to realize a harsher truth: against the full might of the Iron Men, the Imperium possessed zero defensive leverage. All their petty, paranoid conspiracies were utterly meaningless. If things were truly as dire as these bureaucrats feared, Guilliman could have seized absolute control of the Imperium long ago.
"You have all witnessed the deployment," Guilliman said, his tone carrying the crushing weight of an absolute negative. "If a Tyranid invasion of this magnitude materialized within the Sol System, could Terra survive?"
His gaze, sharp as a power blade, swept across the Lord Solar, the Lord Commander Militant of the Astra Militarum, the Lord High Admiral of the Imperial Navy, and finally lingered on the vox-projection of Fabricator-General Raskian. Under that piercing scrutiny, not a single lord dared to meet his eyes. Even Raskian, whose cybernetic augmetics made it impossible to discern a human face, subtly shifted the angle of his pict-feed, trying to escape a stare that seemed to dissect the very soul.
"And if the machine-legions decide to force their way onto Terra," Guilliman pressed, dropping a verbal bomb that shattered whatever composure remained in the room, "who among you stands ready to guarantee the safety of the Emperor?"
As he spoke, his eyes turned slowly toward Trajann Valoris.
The Captain-General's expression turned remarkably grim. Ever since the Iron Men had previously breached the inner sanctums of the Imperial Palace, the Adeptus Custodes had been consumed by a silent, burning self-reproach.
The High Lords exchanged panicked, chaotic glances. After a tense silence, they began to speak up one after another, hastily declaring that they would defer to Guilliman's counsel and follow the guidance of the Emperor's divine will.
Yet, even in their submission, they clumsily attempted to deflect responsibility, shifting the potential risks of the decision entirely onto the shoulders of the loyal Primarch. They did not truly weep for the Emperor's safety; they had simply realized that if the Master of Mankind could not survive such a threat, then they, the High Lords of Terra, were already walking corpses.
Watching the supreme ruling council of mankind buckle and yield, Guilliman felt a sudden, profound sense of déjà vu. It was as if he were looking at a mirror image of a historical log buried deep within his flawless memory.
A ten-millennium-old memory. Back then, a nearly identical political drama had played out within the grand chambers of the Senatorum Imperialis. The actors then had been the Emperor Himself, the emissaries of the Martian Mechanicum, and the first formal deployment of the Titan Legions.
On that ancient day, both sides had been forced to compromise.
Now, history was repeating itself in a bizarre, inverted echo, with different actors and shifting paradigms. Looking out over the silent chamber, the Avenging Son felt the quiet, cold sting of melancholy.