Chapter 511: The Steady Advance
The Ancestor Cores. The most renowned and guarded technology of the Leagues of Votann.
Within the Imperium, countless legends—particularly those whispered by the envious factions of the Adeptus Mechanicus—had draped these engines in layers of hallowed terminology. Shrines of Total Knowledge. Relics of the Golden Age. The End of Calculation.
Many Imperial scholars mistakenly conflated them with the Abominable Intelligence of the Dark Age of Technology. Some even hypothesized that the Leagues were a collective puppet-state, ruled entirely by these machine-gods.
But the Ancestor Cores were fundamentally different from a standard AI.
To understand why, one had to look at the Emperor's ancient prohibition. What is an AI? An AI is a sentient digital organism developed during the Dark Age, capable of self-iteration, independent evolution, and the collection of data to redefine its own existence.
Take the world of Azure (formerly Pythos). It was now a planetary-scale super-AI fueled by the very core of the world. Its algorithms were so advanced they could reconstruct hyper-realistic digital models of reality. Input the variables, and it would run a simulation identical to the material world.
Unlike a singular reality, an AI could run infinite world-lines simultaneously, using "Temporal Acceleration" to produce centuries of results in a matter of standard hours.
Belisarius Cawl's optimization of the Primaris project and the forging of Guilliman's Armor of Fate had relied heavily on this "cheating" of time.
Currently, the Dawnbreakers were deeply dependent on its processing power. Technical validations that would have drained a sector's resources for decades were completed in days. The threats of the galaxy were fed into its maws, generating counter-measures for every possible permutation of a Tyranid or Chaos incursion. Policy was vetted in the digital space, tested in pilot programs on the ground, and only then implemented across the sectors.
Compared to these strategic boons, the AI's raw "math-speed" was a mere secondary feature.
And this was with the Dawnbreakers treating the AI as a tool. They had refused to let it govern. Had they linked the Azure to "The Preserver" on Dawnstar and plugged it into Ramesses' vox-network, the logic-engine could have managed the entire Dawnstar Sector with its eyes closed.
It was no wonder the Emperor viewed AI with such clinical dread.
Imagine a Chaos-corrupted AI, Ramesses mused. The conversion-rate for the Dark Gods would be exponential. A whole sector turned to the Pit in a single logic-cycle.
Compared to an AI, the Ancestor Cores of the Votann were more akin to Imperial Cogitators—vast, legendary storage units. They responded to the user's queries, but they lacked the spark of self-evolution. They were tools of a political entity, not the entity itself.
However, the Votann Cores operated on a metaphysical scale. Their storage logic was so advanced it bordered on sorcery. They could archive weapon patterns, complex theorems, philosophies, entire genealogies, and even the STC matrices. Most provocatively, they could store the consciousness of sapient life.
The irony was not lost on the transmigrators. While the Kin looked down upon the Adeptus Mechanicus as superstitious fools, the two were mirrors of each other. The Tech-Priests viewed the Emperor as the Omnissiah and sanctified the machine. The Kin viewed their Cores as the Eldar viewed their Pantheon—they were hallowed Ancestors. Their behavior was, by any objective standard, a form of religious obsession.
The reason the Mechanicus suspected the Cores were true AI was simple: the machines were starting to show "wear and tear."
After eons of over-calculation, the Cores' processing speeds were slowing. "Trash data" was clogging the pipes. Machines that should have responded with lightning speed were beginning to stutter, making errors—much like a human exhausted by repetitive labor.
This was a byproduct of the Kin's obsession with bloodlines. Their ancestor-worship was a religious frenzy. At some point in their history, it had become law that the mind of every dying Kin was to be uploaded into the Core.
According to the Ordo Originatus, the original intent was noble: to bolster the Core with a wealth of experience to guide the next generation. Somewhere along the line, it had drifted into deification.
For the Core itself, the exponential population growth had become a terminal burden. It had to monitor the genomic data of every living Kin while simultaneously processing the redundant, overlapping memories of billions of dead souls and the constant input from the prospecting fleets.
The most advanced Cores in the galaxy were visibly overloaded. In extreme cases, the stored consciousnesses would bleed into the output systems. The machines would display "Human" traits: hesitation, error, and ambiguity.
One might think this made them inferior.
On the contrary. This was their greatest strength.
They were not AI, yet they were more than AI.
They lacked the capacity for iteration, effectively eliminating the risk of a "Cybernetic Revolt." Yet, because of their staggering processing power and the unique soul-logic of their algorithms, they were preternaturally resistant to Chaos.
Even with the Leagues on the verge of extinction, Chaos could only inconvenience the Cores through the corruption of the technology—distorting the data or physically attacking the hardware. They could not "infect" the logic-stream from the Warp.
The Cores possessed the best traits of both worlds. And the requirement for a "Qualified User" to direct them fit the Dawnbreakers' centralized command structure perfectly.
"Is it truly stable?" Guilliman asked, staring at the data-slates with the hunger of a man who had finally found a library.
"Relax. I've been trying to hack it from the Empyrean side for hours. I can't get a single ping," Ramesses replied.
The Formless Lord was currently conducting a psychic stress-test on a live Core provided by the Kin. The Thurian League had been generous; they had delivered a unit for "Audit."
"...The 'Ancestor Core' is hereby classified as a Sanctioned Relic," Romulus noted, his stylus moving across a decree. "The Council of Thrones recognizes it as a non-sentient storage matrix, fundamentally distinct from Abominable Intelligence."
He chuckled, watching Guilliman hurry to sign the legitimacy papers.
The only bottleneck was capacity.
"Tsk. It's a bit... dense. Maybe I should just 'off-load' the consciousnesses into my sector?" Ramesses suggested.
Romulus looked at the visual feed Ramesses provided.
Beyond the stress-test results, there was a recording from Huron's campaign. It showed a strike against a corrupted Core. A Lord of Change, sensing a ritual completion, had attempted to "infect" the machine to secure a promotion within Tzeentch's library. A second later, the daemon had recoiled as if it had "eaten manure."
The "Trash Data" was absolute. Before the daemon could even begin its sabotage, its mind was swamped by trillions of redundant memories of mining reports and daily meal-logs.
It was a strategic deterrent.
The Dawnbreakers knew that if they wanted to manage the Imperium with clinical precision, they needed stable, high-capacity logic-engines. The Votann Cores were the answer.
"Lord Romulus."
Thorgrim Grudgebearer, the High King, looked ready to weep.
He understood the problem. Without the weight of those redundant memories, the Kin might have weathered the Chaos storm with more grace. But the problem wasn't a choice; it was their identity.
In Kin culture, the stored minds were family. The "Ironkin"—automatons injected with these consciousnesses—were treated as brothers. This wasn't a policy; it was hard-coded into their DNA. To "cleanse" the Cores would be a racial lobotomy.
History showed that such cultural purges were the height of cruelty. Thorgrim could not abandon his ancestors.
"I am not demanding a purge," Romulus said, waving a hand. "But static preservation is not the only option."
The transmigrators could bypass the "Cultural Stalemate" through the Warp.
"Would you consider a... relocation?"
Romulus pushed a plan for "The Pioneer Heaven" across the table.
Drakus handled the handover. It was a domain constructed from the logic-base of Vashtorr, refined by Ramesses. Eventually, they would integrate the "Wicked Arts" of the Forge of Souls into it.
"We aren't just storing minds," Romulus explained. "We are providing a Warp-Anchor."
Ancestor-worship was harmless as long as it didn't hinder progress. In the current era, it was a liability.
"What?" Thorgrim asked, taking the file with trembling hands.
"This is not a charity," Romulus added.
From a tactical perspective, the redundancy of the Cores represented a massive, untapped labor force. These minds—specialists in every field for ten thousand years—were a treasure-trove.
Under the Dawnstar, they would be "Rehired."
"Your ancestors will serve as the administrative and technical backbone of my 'Pioneer' domain. In exchange, they are granted eternal sanctuary within a Warp-Citadel shielded from the Four."
"...I understand," Thorgrim whispered.
He had no leverage. He knew a "Thigh" when he saw one.
The pressure was immense. He could sense no malice from the Primarchs, yet the aura of absolute dominance was suffocating. He felt like a clerk being reassigned by a god.
"Lord Romulus and the others have adapted to their roles quite well," Yvraine whispered to Eldrad, her lips twitching with a smile.
Compared to Guilliman, who still tried to treat xenos relations as "Politics," the Dawnbreakers were unapologetically sovereign.
Faced with a statesman, you can negotiate. Faced with a God, you pray for mercy.
"Excellent." Romulus saw the Kin yielding. His "Basic Plan" was expanding.
"Let us move to Phase Two."
He signed the documents Guilliman provided and opened the next file. The "Relocation, Management, and Personnel Assignment" protocols.
For the High King, the paperwork was tedious, but it was a burden he carried with a light heart. It was better than carrying the shroud of his species' extinction.
Armageddon — The Front Line
BOOM!!!
The smoke from the explosions completely obscured the viewport of the Capitol Imperialis.
The offensive was total. Relentless. Even as the Orks threw themselves into the breach—using weapons, psychic fire, and their own bodies to plug the holes in their line—it was for naught.
"All-In" was a strategic doctrine the Imperium had mastered. When Mankind went all-in, the galaxy trembled.
In the trenches, Orks and Guardsmen were butchered in equal measure.
Under the influence of the Warp, the blood of both sides was waking the ancient curses buried beneath the soil. The Khorne-host, manifesting periodically to join the fray, turned the future of the war into a shifting, bloody maze.
Had Yarrick not galvanized the resistance, had Armageddon's industrial core not remained functional to pump blood into the lines, the campaign would have ended years ago.
Lives were being spent. The "Emperor's Coin" flashed like a falling star and then vanished.
The dead were ferried to the rear, where the "Cremators" worked under the glow of a thousand bonfires that looked like a black lake reflected in fire. After repelling a charge or breaching a hive-sector, the teams would sweep the field, clearing the corpses to prevent the Orks from rising again. The wounded were ferried to the medicae-bastions.
It was a gruesome, clinical task. In an age where "Gods" responded to the dying, there was no time for formal funerals. Only the work remained.
"I require an audience with him."
Inside the command vehicle, a Magos from Incaladion rose from her station.
"Priority?" the Chief of Staff asked, not looking up from the sea of data.
As the fighting intensified, communication speed was life.
Most tactical data was processed at the user-level. Troubling variables went to the Regimental staff. Only the most critical matters reached the Chief of Staff.
And only a strategic decision of the highest order reached Yarrick.
"Priority One," the Magos stated.
The Director of Mechanicus Liaisons froze. He cut off a reporting officer mid-sentence.
"PRIORITY ONE! CLEAR THE CHANNEL!"
The Chief of Staff stood, gesturing for the Magos to follow him to the command dais.
As they walked, the air was a cacophony of groaning war-engines, the click-clack of vox-relays, and the gasping breaths of the operators. The smell was a thick, metallic soup.
She saw an operator collapse, his hands unable to grip the dials. A medic told him he needed rest or his sight would be lost. She saw a staff officer slumped over her desk, her adjutant holding her hand while reporting that an Order of Battle-Sisters was being extracted from a breached salient. The line was shifting. The pressure was moving.
The Magos heard a report of a sub-sector victory—the Orks there had been broken by a single captain's initiative—but the casualties were so high the gains could not be held.
The strike had lasted three days. The Ork counter-thrusts were being delivered with an absolute disregard for cost.
Imperial resources were being drained at an alarming rate. Visibly, the offensive was reaching its limit as the army drove deeper into the wastes.
But the Orks... the Orks were getting stronger. Their bodies were vibrating with vitality; their mobs were becoming an infinite, surging tide.
They are evolving, the Magos realized, her ocular sensors narrowing.
Mankind was on the brink of a collapse.
But Yarrick was there. The Salamanders were there. The Wolves were there. And—
A thunderous roar drowned out her thoughts. She reached the command platform. A voice—clear, clinical, and absolute—rang in her mind.
"You have two minutes."
The Commissar looked up from the table.
He looked vibrant, his grey eye reflecting a hint of the "Ork-Red" light, as if his biology were synchronizing with the enemy.
"And then you return to your post," Yarrick stated. "No arguments."
"Now, Magos. Who issued your command?"
"Arthur Pendragon, Lord of Knights," she replied, her voice steady.
"We are ordered to begin the Webway Deployment."
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