As the words fell, a titanic surge of psychic energy roiled within the hall. Every soul present felt an indistinct, crushing pressure emanating from the Golden Throne, a weight that bore down upon the very spirit. Axion alone remained untouched by this taphysical burden. His pale blue ocular sensors contracted slightly as he observed the gathered humans, his synthesized voice breaking the heavy silence.
"I am uncertain if you possess the capacity to maintain this singular apparatus. If it is within your paraters, this unit suggests you optimize the energy transmission ley-lines of that machine. My sensors indicate the power reaction is unstable; there appears to be significant leakage."
"Should I be permitted to analyze the device, I may be able to refine the chanical harmonics to ensure a more consistent output."
Axion's proposal was t with an imdiate, cold rejection.
"We cannot permit any threat to approach the Emperor's Holy Seat," a Custodian barked. "Not even the smallest fraction of a possibility shall be tolerated."
As the psychic pressure from the Throne intensified once more, the Custodians moved with an involuntary, preternatural speed, interposing themselves between Axion and the Golden Throne. It was the first ti in ten millennia that those present had felt the Emperor's divine will so clearly and explicitly. The Custodians were moved almost as if their Auramite power armor were being jerked by invisible tethers.
This manifestation of the Emperor's power was vast enough to inspire true dread.
Guilliman felt it most acutely, a clear, resonant pulse of rejection bleeding out from the Throne, an unmistakable intent translated through the Primarch's own soul.
Axion scanned the Emperor's Guard with a clinical, detached curiosity. In his energy-detection overlay, he could see a massive torrent of power bleeding from the withered remains atop the throne-machine, flowing into the Auramite lattice of the warriors to drive them forward.
"Hm. A fascinating phenonon," Axion mused. "While the Federation once conducted research into 'psionic' or 'soul' harmonics, this exceeds my projected models. I have no record of the soul manifesting in such a tangible state, nor have I encountered energy in this specific configuration. Data logging complete; rging into background analysis for probability modeling."
Fearing Axion might provoke an even more volatile reaction, Guilliman spoke up imdiately.
"Axion, since this place holds no further utility for you, let us depart. I shall take you to the archives. Perhaps there you will find what you seek."
Axion showed no sign of displeasure at the interruption. He turned and followed the Primarch.
"A sound proposal, Guilliman. I concede that, compared to the Adeptus chanicus, you are a far more efficient collaborator."
Guilliman stiffened for a fraction of a second, then led the way out through the deep, echoing vaulted tunnels. This ti, the Custodians did not follow. In the distance, the muffled, booming vox-grille of a Dreadnought could be heard.
"For the first ti... I have felt the Emperor's majesty so vividly."
…
After traversing a labyrinthine network of transit-veins, Guilliman and Axion returned to the surface. Borrowing a grav-bike from the Custodian motor-pool, they soared away from the Imperial Palace.
Guilliman remained silent throughout the flight. Axion, anwhile, was occupied with precisely recalibrating the anti-gravity modules within his chassis to compensate for his weight. Even a Custodian-grade grav-bike, designed with exceptional load-bearing tolerances, was never intended to carry a machine with the density of a Dreadnought, let alone one shared with a Primarch who weighed nearly three tis as much as a standard Astartes.
The Imperial Archives did not sit within the Palace proper. Guilliman piloted the craft away from the Himalayan peaks, flying several dozen kiloters westward along the outer curtain walls before descending in front of a colossal edifice.
The building bore the massive seal of the Adeptus Administratum, alongside a unique sigil resembling a stylized scroll. This was the largest repository of records in the Imperium. Dozens of heavy transport haulers were currently offloading the latest shipnts of logs and data-slates for registration. These records originated from every corner of the Imperium's intelligence apparatus, consolidated by the Departnto Munitorum, organized by the Administratum, and finally sent here for eternal storage. Every day, hundreds of such convoys arrived to exchange and deposit archives.
Under Guilliman's lead, Axion entered the gargantuan structure. However, the hundred-ter-tall spire was rely the tip of the iceberg; the subterranean levels extended many tis deeper into the Terran crust.
For Axion, this was a logistical nightmare manifest.
Countless servo-skulls drifted through the air, their crude chanical pincers snatching disordered volus and scanning them briefly before shoving them into the nearest vacant shelf. What shocked Axion was not the scale of the facility or the haphazard filing system, but the dium of storage itself.
Books. Mountains of physical, hard-copy books.
Every volu bore the purity seals of the Ecclesiarchy and the bureaucratic stamps of the Administratum. Their spines were marked with simple, archaic notations of sector coordinates and rough date ranges. Axion perford a rapid structural scan of the facility and arrived at a conclusion that would have made a lesser processor seize: there were over 35 million individual records and historical volus stored here.
Worse, they were vellum and leather-bound physical books. A single history could exceed four thousand pages, possessing a thickness three tis that of a comprehensive dictionary from the Era of Terra.
In this chaotic, tomb-like archive, locating the specific data Axion sought would be an agonizingly slow process. It ant Axion would have to manually flip through and scan every page, sheet by sheet, to ensure no data-voids occurred.
The reality, however, was even grimr than his projections.
Should he descend into the lower levels, he would find that the records were not even neatly shelved as they were on the surface; instead, they were piled in mountainous, disorganized heaps. Down there lay at least 100 million additional volus—intelligence reports, military logs, and planetary tithe-records spanning the entire galaxy across different eras.
Few realized that the Imperial Archives served as a regulatory body for the Munitorum itself. Its duty was to preserve and provide data for every organization in the Imperium. Its chief held the rank of an Administratum High official and occupied a rotating seat on the High Lords of Terra. This political prestige, however, had not prevented the facility's maintenance from falling to the bottom of the priority list ever since the Siege of Terra in M41.
Even Guilliman looked upon the scene with a rare sense of dazed frustration.
A Logis of the chanicus, clutching a data-slate, followed a withered, elderly mortal toward them. The old man knelt piously, prostrating himself upon the floor, while the tech-priest offered a standard binary-cant salute.
"Honored Lord Guilliman, your presence brings a radiance to this place we are unworthy of. You are as a celestial star descending upon this mundane realm; every step you take carries the hope and glory of the Imperium."
Guilliman, accustod to such adulation, remained unmoved. There were few in the Imperium who did not recognize him.
"My Lord, you are a legend of the Great Crusade. We humble archivists have witnessed your greatness through countless ancient tos and records. To see your countenance today is a profound honor..."
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