"A little to the right... good... a little forward... NO!!!" Belisarius Cawl howled in digitized agony once more. "The sixth time, Crane! The sixth time! Why can these damned servo-skulls not traverse even a fraction further into the resonance field?"
"Peace, Cawl. Calm your processors. This is standard exploratory frustration," Magos Crane replied, his electronic voice carrying a synthesized sigh. "I, too, dedicated cycles of logic to this endeavor, only to harvest naught but static."
"No, this is a statistical anomaly!" Cawl immediately retorted, his mechanical limbs twitching. "Qvo-88, report. How many servo-skulls have we expended?"
"Twenty-one units remain operational, My Lord. Sixty-four units have suffered catastrophic logic-failure during transit. The maximum data-distance achieved is currently sixty meters."
"Blast it all," Cawl's vox-grille buzzed with high-frequency static, a clear sign of his mounting fury. He slammed a heavy, bionic fist against the obsidian surface of the Blackstone structure. The impact echoed through the cavernous subterranean vault, a hollow sound that seemed to mock the gathered tech-priests.
"Oh, very well, I acknowledge the structural integrity of the pylon, Crane! We have squandered solar days here, and all our data confirms is that these Blackstone structures are part of a singular, ancient network. Beyond that, we are blind!" Cawl grumbled. "How precisely do these xenos communicate across such vast interstellar voids? Is it a form of quantum entanglement? A sub-spatial resonance?"
Crane watched as Cawl excitedly brandished an array of multi-tools, his optics whirring. He was about to offer a rebuttal when a dry, aristocratic voice drifted from the shadows behind them.
"Actually, your preliminary analysis is surprisingly close to the mark."
"Throne! You finally reveal yourself! Speak—" Cawl spun his massive, multi-legged frame around, only to freeze. Standing before them was a tall, metallic figure, its skeletal frame radiating a faint, baleful green glow from the reactor housed within its ribs.
"Abomination!" Cawl and Crane shouted in unison. Their combat protocols engaged instantly, targeting arrays locking onto the slowly advancing Necron. Heavy weapons whirred as they aimed at the xenos. "Halt, Xenos! Do not take another step!"
"Abomination? You are fluent in High Gothic, Low Gothic, Binary, and a dozen dead dialects, yet you resort to such a pedestrian slur?" Trazyn the Infinite said slowly, leaning casually upon his glowing Empathic Obliterator. "I am Trazyn the Endless, Overlord of Solemnace, Chief Archaeologist of the Prismatic Galleries, and—"
"Silence, soulless horror!" The Solar Atomizer on Cawl's chassis began to hum with a blinding light. "Vacate this sanctum or face total deconstruction!"
"Now, now, let us not be hasty. Do you not wish to fathom the principles governing these Blackstone pylons?" Trazyn raised his metallic hands in a gesture of mock surrender. "If your goal is truly to witness this world—and eventually the entire galaxy—drowning in the tides of the Warp, you are more than welcome to incinerate my current host-body."
The two Magi exchanged a brief, static-laced look. "Xenos," Cawl began, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "Do you claim to understand the mechanics of these constructs?"
"I am insulted by the question," Trazyn replied. "Understand them? I have specimens in my collection that make these look like primitive toys. I assure you, no one in this sector possesses a more comprehensive understanding of Blackstone resonance than I."
Cawl slowly powered down the Solar Atomizer. "Then... demonstrate your knowledge."
"Hiss~"
Koda, a Chosen of Slaanesh and champion of the Black Legion, flicked out a long, bifurcated tongue. He stared with rapturous intensity at the mortal form before him—a body he had sculpted into a tapestry of agony. The victim's piercing screams were like celestial harmonies to his ears, sending waves of exquisite pleasure through his mutated nerves.
"Exquisite..." Koda whispered. He used elongated, obsidian-tipped fingers to delicately part the skin of a captured Ghost warrior, meticulously exposing muscle, vein, and nerve. He reached a state of ecstatic climax as the warrior let out one final, ragged howl of despair.
"I hunger for the coming slaughter!" Behind him, a warband of Emperor's Children and Slaaneshi heretics were engaged in a cacophonous celebration of madness. These depraved warriors had been deployed by Abaddon to anchor the eastern flank of the Spire Plains.
They had constructed foul sorcerous arrays from the twisted remains of thousands of Cadian refugees. Fueled by the energies of the Empyrean, shimmering portals tore open across the eastern plains, vomiting forth a cloying, pink mist that carried the scent of musk and rotting lilies—bringing both pleasure and madness to the defenders waiting in the distance.
Redoubts and fortifications were complete. Alexei stood within the command center of his orbital outpost, staring at the tactical display. The enemy's precise movements were being masked by Warp-interference, leaving him reliant on his remaining Ghost teams.
"Report: Twenty-one Ghost operatives have failed to check in. No vitals detected," the adjutant's voice informed him.
Alexei frowned. "Acknowledged. Order all remaining Ghost squads to break contact and withdraw to the perimeter. The storm is about to break."
He stepped out onto the high ramparts of his fortress. On the horizon, a wall of pale, shimmering pink mist was rising, driven toward the Imperial lines by an unnatural wind.
Even at this distance, Alexei could detect the cloyingly sweet, nauseating fragrance of the Prince of Pleasure. "Slaanesh..." he whispered. He could feel the weight of the Warp pressing against reality; the gaze of the Dark Gods had settled upon this ground.
Within the fortress, the scramble alarms blared. Strike craft roared from their bays, and infantry in precision-engineered power armor took their positions at the firing slits. Tank divisions slaved their targeting computers to the command grid, and the massive Thor walkers anchored themselves into the earth. The planetary fortress cannons hummed, their barrels tracking the horizon.
After repeated demands, Creed had reluctantly yielded the eastern defense of the Spire Plains to Alexei. It was a gamble—Alexei held the line with fifty thousand Aiur Guards and a thousand assorted armored units. It is enough, Alexei thought coldly.
A piercing, discordant scream suddenly echoed across the plains, a sound that bypassed the ears and struck directly at the soul. For a heartbeat, the defenders felt their resolve falter, a hollow dread blooming in their chests.
Alexei let out a sharp, dismissive snort. A massive psychic shadow—the collective weight of his Hive-mind network—surged outward, shielding his men and snuffing out the daemonic influence. "No more games. All batteries: open fire! Sieve the mist!"
The world turned to fire. A thunderous volley of 180mm shock-rounds slammed into the pink fog. The explosions tore the veil aside, revealing a writhing ocean of daemons. Succubi and Seekers charged forward with unnatural speed, their shrieks filling the air. The next moment, their lithe, twisted bodies were shredded by the relentless saturation of high-explosive ordnance.
Overhead, Liberator gunships transitioned to siege mode, focusing their plasma fire on the larger daemon-engines and the 'Slaaneshi Conquerors'—monstrous machines of brass and silk that Alexei watched vanish from his tactical display one by one.
Yet, Alexei's expression remained grim. He knew this was merely the overture. The veterans of the Black Legion had not yet committed, and the Chosen Lord, Koda, remained hidden in the shadows of the warp-mist. They were waiting for the Imperial ammunition to run dry.
"Patient as spiders," Alexei muttered dismissively. He would play their game of attrition. They believed his fire would eventually wane, unaware that every daemon banished was fuel for his own ascension. "Let them come. I have a gift prepared for their arrival."