Helios Group Headquarters, inside Jessia's exorbitantly luxurious private dressing room.
Several highly-augmented servo-skulls and servitors were busy working around her. In their mechanical hands, they held golden needles and thread, incense burners, and various intricate ornaments. Jessia stood with her arms outstretched, allowing these cold machines to drape a ceremonial robe weighing fifteen kilograms over her body.
The garment was incredibly difficult to wear—layer upon layer, each embroidered with the Imperial Aquila and skull motifs using genuine gold thread and the hair of certain saints. Jessia detested wearing this thing; it felt like carrying half a suit of armor.
But there was no choice. Today was Monday.
On Forge VII, Monday was the statutory "Day of Listening." On this day, every prominent figure in the Hive Spires had to travel to the very pinnacle of the spire to attend the briefing known as "Holy Communication." They gathered to hear how many millions had died that week in the chaotic mess of the galaxy and which planets had recently exploded.
Similar rituals were common among the Imperial high society. To put it bluntly, it was a "competition of misery." The nobles used these sessions to confirm that the world outside was in shambles, thereby gaining a false sense of security—a feeling that "at least we are safe here." If the outside world was doing worse, they could continue their hedonistic lifestyles with a clear conscience.
Of course, it was also a political gesture to show they cared about the Empire, though they would do nothing beyond praying and donating a few negligible coins.
Jessia looked at herself in the mirror. The shrewd, beautiful career woman had vanished, replaced by a solemn Imperial noble whose face was the picture of piety. But beneath this skin hid a blade that had just been sharpened.
Ten minutes ago, she had bypassed the group's security department and used her private account to issue a top-secret order, dispatching "Wasp"—a special operations unit under the "Gecko" Task Force—to the Underhive. Unlike the previous "Cleaner" squad that only knew how to launch frontal assaults, this six-man team consisted entirely of masters of infiltration, experts in disguise, poisoning, kidnapping, and electronic warfare. Their gear wasn't flashy hellguns or carapace armor, but cameleoline cloaks, neurotoxin blowguns, and high-frequency jammers.
Jessia gave them only one objective: infiltrate the core of that mysterious Underhive power and find the technical head capable of cracking the Black Box.
The situation was clear: the mysterious individual held the key technology to soothe Machine Spirits. Since the stubborn old fogies on the Helios Board were unwilling to split their forces, Jessia would have to act alone. As long as she held that person, she held the ultimate bargaining chip.
"Let's go."
Jessia made a final adjustment to the ruby brooch on her collar—a symbol of family honor—and walked out of the dressing room.
Outside, Saul Hel was already waiting. The old man was dressed to the nines today, leaning on a scepter encrusted with jewels, his face wearing a standard expression of hypocritical compassion.
"Ready?" Saul asked softly.
"Ready," Jessia replied without looking at him. Saul nodded and said nothing more.
The two boarded the grav-lift leading directly to the spire's summit. The elevator ascended rapidly, the view outside shifting from the nauseating yellow smog of the lower levels to the flickering industrial neon of the middle levels, finally piercing through heavy clouds to reach the stratosphere, where only pure sunlight and thin air existed.
The top of the spire—the pinnacle of power.
...
Ding. The elevator doors opened.
The Astropathic Hall.
Its decor could only be described as "macabre." The four walls were covered with the leg bones and skulls of past saints, every bone etched with dense rows of prayers. Hundreds of arm-thick candles burned in the corners, their dim yellow light dancing on golden ornaments and casting eerie shadows.
The hall was already filled with people—the hundred most powerful individuals on Forge VII. Plutocrats and warlords from various clans, the High Commander of the Planetary Defence Force, senior officials from the Administratum... They gathered in small groups, whispering and exchanging superficial pleasantries.
"Ah, Excellency Saul! I heard your recent work is progressing smoothly?" A portly noble approached, fluttering a folding fan in an attempt to mask the smell of alcohol on his breath.
"By the Emperor's grace, everything is according to plan," Saul lied without blinking, completely ignoring the fact that he had been raging over the loss of billions just hours prior.
Jessia stood behind Saul, coldly observing her surroundings. In this den of lies, two groups were particularly conspicuous.
The first group stood in the shadows on the far left of the hall. They wore long black trench coats, and on their chests sat the symbol that gave people nightmares: the Inquisition's Rosette with the letter "I." Leading them was an Inquisitor named Orion. He was a gaunt, middle-aged man, his face pale as a corpse and his eyes sharp as knives. He spoke to no one, merely crossing his arms and surveying everyone in the hall as if looking at trash or potential heretics. Even a tycoon of Saul's level felt a chill down his spine under Orion's gaze. After all, the Inquisition held unlimited authority. If Orion felt your smile looked "wrong" and suspected Slaaneshi corruption, he could pull out a bolt pistol and blow your head off on the spot, declaring it a righteous execution. No one dared to cross him.
The second group stood on the right. A flock of Adeptus Mechanicus high-rankers in red robes, bristling with tubes and bionic limbs. Leading them was the planet's Tech-Priest Dominus and Fabricator-General, designated "Sigma-7." This individual stood three meters tall, his lower body long ago replaced by an anti-gravitic floating base, with a dozen servo-skulls hovering behind him.
Currently, Sigma-7 was cursing in a harsh, synthesized electronic voice at someone who hadn't shown up.
"Zor, that waste! That lazy organic residue! How dare he miss an Astropathic meeting of this level?! Claiming a reactor overheat requires manual maintenance? I see right through him; he's just slacking! Once this meeting ends, I shall send the Skitarii to demand an explanation!"
Listening to this, the corner of Jessia's mouth curved slightly. Priest Zor of the Mid-hive was an old acquaintance of hers—a true talent, truly lazy, but also truly brilliant. In his eyes, a meeting full of nothing but bad news was just a nuisance; he'd rather stay home and count his money.
Dong— Dong— Dong—
Three heavy bell tolls rang out. The chatter in the hall vanished instantly. Everyone straightened their clothes and bowed their heads toward the massive golden cage in the center of the hall.
Locked inside was the most precious—and most pitiable—person on the planet: the Astropath. He was a skeletal old man whose eyes had been gouged out, leaving dark, hollow pits. He was plugged into various life-support tubes, with thick psychic-amplification cables inserted directly into the back of his head.
Astropathic communication sounds grand, but its principle is primitive and horrifying. In this universe, FTL communication cannot be achieved via radio or quantum entanglement because the distances are too vast—often thousands of light-years. Physical signals would never arrive. The only shortcut is the Warp.
Astropaths are a special kind of psyker who can project their minds into the Warp to send or receive messages. But the process is anything but pleasant. The Warp is filled with demons, dark gods, and various unspeakable horrors. For an Astropath to send a message is like skinny-dipping in a pool of piranhas while trying to shout a message. Receiving is even worse; they intercept distorted nightmares, screams, and maddened whispers. They must filter out the noise that drives men mad to extract useful information. Consequently, Astropaths are usually short-lived and mentally unstable.
"Aaaargh!!!"
The Astropath in the cage suddenly threw back his head and let out a piercing shriek. His body convulsed violently, his withered fingers clawing at the air as if trying to grasp something invisible.
The nearby servitors immediately went to work. The auto-quills in their hands began writing rapidly on long parchment scrolls, recording every broken word that tumbled from the Astropath's mouth.
The atmosphere in the hall grew oppressively heavy. Saul's hand on his scepter trembled slightly. Jessia remained expressionless, but her heart was pounding. Every time this happened, it was like opening a mystery box. You never knew if the box contained standard bad news or the kind of despair that makes you want to commit suicide on the spot.
The first parchment strip was printed. An Administratum official read it with a trembling voice:
"Coordinates... Northern edge of the Segmentum Obscurus, Agripinaa Sector. Status... Destroyed. Orks... a green tide... extremely high energy signatures. Three agri-worlds lost contact. Planetary defense systems offline. Requesting reinforcements... we need the Astartes..."
A low sigh rippled through the crowd. Orks again. Those "mushroom men" who could never be fully eradicated—if a single spore hit the ground, an entire tribe would grow by next year. Losing three agri-worlds meant the surrounding food supply would be strained.
But it wasn't over. A second strip came out.
"Coordinates... border of Segmentum Tempestus. Status... Consumed. Shadows... the shadow in the sky has eclipsed the stars. Tyranids... tendrils of Leviathan. Forge World 'Iron Tomb' declared fallen. Last signal was the sound of boiling biomass reclamation pools."
This time, even the Mechanicus members grew agitated. A Forge World couldn't hold? Those were tough nuts to crack, defended by Titan Legions and Skitarii armies! If a place covered in iron was eaten by bugs, how long could a second-rate industrial world like Forge VII last?
Then came the third, the fourth...
"Warp Storm 'Screaming Maw' is expanding, severing the main route to Holy Terra."
"The vanguard fleet of the Chaos warband 'Black Legion' has appeared in the Grimm system."
"The Inquisition has declared Exterminatus on the planet 'New Bonn'."
"Around the Fenris system, the Space Wolves Chapter... communication silence. Last Astropathic report indicates their homeworld is under massive siege by the Thousand Sons Legion. Current status... unknown."
"Coordinates... 'The Rock,' mobile fortress of the Dark Angels. Massive Warp fluctuations detected. Internal intelligence suggests the gathering of 'Unspeakable Enemies.' The Dark Angels have recalled all successor chapters; the Chapter has cut regular communication with surrounding sectors and is no longer responding to calls for aid."
"An expeditionary fleet of the Black Templars was ambushed en route to Cadia and is requesting emergency resupply and refit."