A/N: I really need to stop letting my mouth write checks my body can't cash. My job's been keeping me brutally busy lately, so I only just got this chapter finished.
Disclaimer: Code Geass and Warhammer 40k are property of their respective owners.
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Respite's End
Black Knights Production ShipBehemoth, Orbit of Luna
017.M51, Day Eighty-Seven of the Battle of Mars
The Black Knights had adapted surprisingly quickly to their new Tulun allies, and nowhere was the newfound trust more evident than the scene surrounding the Behemoth. The Arcadia-class production ship lazily drifted within the main firing arcs of a Cairn-class tomb ship, its weapons and hadron fields on standby mode. Even at nearly four and a half kilometers long, the twin-hulled factory ship was dwarfed many times over by the Necron warship. A steady stream of shuttles flowed between the two ships, ferrying personnel and equipment back and forth.
"Get this block in place! They've got another one waiting on the production floor already!"
The Behemoth's largest production bay was located outside the ship: nestled between the massive twin hulls and capable of refitting six Yggdrasil-class dreadnoughts at once, it had become the only facility in human hands with both the technological sophistication and floor space to carry out its current task. Massive nondescript blocks, some so large that they barely fit between the enormous armored bay doors, were floated out into the waiting swarm of unmanned drones and brightly-colored Knightmares for final positioning.
"All stations confirm clear! Gravitric tethers deploying!"
The grey slab slowed then halted as directed gravitational fields from the Behemoth slowly dragged it towards the larger assembly secured at the bay's center. Tiny drones, little more than gravitric impeller units with basic guidance and navigation systems, attached themselves to the block to perform fine adjustments.
"Ten seconds to contact!"
Compared to the exotic technologies utilized elsewhere, final inspection was performed the old-fashioned way. Dozens of Knightmares painted in high-visibility neons floated around the bay, their onboard sensor packages and squad uplinks supplementing the Behemoth's own sensors to ensure precise placement.
"Contact!"
The block simply flowed into the larger structure, the seam between them vanishing as soon as the two pieces made contact. As the Knightmares and drones took up positions to receive the next block, a half-dozen Crypteks leading hundreds of skilled Tulun craftsmen descended upon the structure, laboriously carving an intricate pattern of channels into the surface with handheld thermal cutters.
Two berths over, another group of craftsmen gave their work a final approving look and pushed away from the completed monolith. Running lights blinked to life as the crew scrambled to secure their stations. The scaffolding that kept the kilometer-and-a-half-long structure in place through final assembly slowly retracted into the walls and gravitric tethers gently guided the pylon out of the Behemoth's bay and into open space.
By now, the sight of another completed pylon floating out to join the network around Terra had become such a mundane sight that none of the other eleven work crews so much as turned to look. The Behemoth's armored bay doors slid open, and the crew assigned to the now-empty berth prepared to receive the incoming block.
"In addition to the numbers reported here, two additional pylons have been completed and another will be complete in half a Terran day, bringing our total to five hundred forty-seven complete."
A half-dozen Black Knights plant managers and Necron Crypteks stood around the table, the holographic image of a completed pylon projected in the middle. External cameras were connected to a massive screen that replaced the back wall, allowing the room's occupants to view construction in real time if they so desired. Two Black Knights militiamen stood at one end of the room, arms crossed in front of them and feet shoulder-width apart as they stared down the pair of Tulun legionaries standing at parade rest against the opposite wall.
The largest and most heavily-ornamented of the Crypteks wordlessly seized the nearest chunk of blackstone, making a noise akin to a tut of disapproval as he turned the sample around in his hands. Instruments embedded in his hands discreetly analyzed the material with a level of speed and precision beyond even the younger races' most advanced instruments. While the Behemoth's quantity of output could not be denied, the quality left much to be desired.
"The quality is only marginally worse than what I would expect from a new apprentice's alchemy table, and I cannot reasonably hold your workers to any other standard under the present circumstances," the ancient Necron rumbled, "The material is adequate for our purposes, and the reject rate remains within expectations."
The Black Knights delegation exchanged surprised sidelong glances. Master-Transmorgifier Inesret was perhaps the most staunchly traditionalist member of Menkhetaruk's inner circle and not-entirely-unjustifiably viewed the Black Knights as technological upstarts toying with forces they barely understood. To say that output met his expectations, low as they were, was high praise indeed.
"I have allocated additional craftsmen to ensure we can finish pylon segments as quickly as we can construct them," the Master-Transmorgifier continued, "They should arrive aboard within four Terran hours."
Normally harvested from the heart of a collapsing star in the moments before the event horizon formed, blackstone could also be transmorgified from lighter elements at great cost. Knowledge of the process was hoarded and jealously guarded by the Cryptek conclaves, and Inesret had undoubtedly extracted many concessions from Menkhetaruk before agreeing to teach the Black Knights how to manufacture the substance. The Behemoth's solar forges were quickly jury-rigged to produce blackstone, but the makeshift equipment and arcane processes meant actual yields remained frustratingly low. Yet, multiplied by the sheer industrial output of an Arcadia-class production ship, the final output still dwarfed all but the largest Cryptek workshops.
Chaos Battleship Chaos Ascendant
017.M51, Day Eighty-Seven of the Battle of Mars
To no small amount of relief on the part of his mortal thralls, Abaddon the Despoiler had spent little time aboard his flagship over the past solar month. The few times he acknowledged his bridge crew, typically to demand an update on the vortex cannon's repairs, his attentions were clearly focused elsewhere. Even when an unlucky thrall—chosen by drawing lots—reported that a scaffolding collapse delayed their repair efforts by at least one week, the Despoiler had simply grunted in displeasure and ordered the man leave his sight.
Currently, the Warmaster of Chaos stood at the front of the bridge staring at the red planet below, his hands folded behind his back and expression pensive. Mars, once the grandest of the Imperium's innumerable Forge Worlds, was reduced to a mere husk of its former self by a combination of the savage Chaos incursion and the defenders' all-encompassing and uncompromising scorched-earth policy. From lasgun stamping presses to partially-complete Titans, any materiel in danger of capture was put to the torch. Many Tech-Priests had succumbed to heresy rather than oversee the destruction of so much priceless knowledge, and some even survived long enough for the Dark Mechanicum to welcome them.
"My lord," an Astartes sworn to Tzeentch approached and bowed deeply, his eagerness evident even with a helmet hiding his features.
Abaddon did not acknowledge the messenger at first, his attentions instead focused on the scene before him. Explosions, tiny due to distance but each easily dwarfing a Titan, blossomed across the hull of one of Mars' few surviving equatorial shipyards. Accumulated battle damage and deliberate Mechanicum sabotage had destroyed most of the docks, but the defenders had lacked the time and firepower to torch the ammunition and fuel stores before the Despoiler's forces drove them off the station. Once the warship hulks were salvaged and the runways cleared of burning attack craft wreckage, the shipyard would make an adequate secondary staging point for Chaos fleets.
The Champion of Chaos Undivided allowed himself a muted chuckle as the irony sank in. The Mechanicum of Mars desperately tried to level any forge that fell to Chaos before the Despoiler's armies could secure them, sometimes even succeeding but stretching itself thin in the meantime. The holes inevitably opened in their defenses allowed Abaddon's forces to flood through and claim other forges relatively intact. In trying to defend everything, the Mechanicum succeeded in defending nothing. Somehow, an ancient Terran king had figured out what the Adeptus Mechanicus could not.
After a few more moments, the Despoiler deigned to acknowledge the messenger.
"Speak," Abaddon ordered without turning around.
"The sorcerers report that the Warp storm is subsiding, my lord. They estimate we can safely traverse it within the next twenty-four hours."
"Excellent," Abaddon masterfully hid his delight, "Relay a message to the Terminus Est. They are to complete attack preparations and begin their final approach towards Terra. However, all ships will remain outside of Imperial active auger range until told otherwise."
"Yes, my lord," the fallen Astartes warrior rose and pushed past the mortals unlucky enough to be in his path as he made a beeline for the communications crew.
"What is the status of the vortex cannon?" the Warmaster of Chaos Undivided turned towards the approaching thrall.
"My lord," the thrall immediately dropped to one knee, "The cannon is operational but can only fire at half power. There is not much more we can do without a drydock."
The thrall flinched as Abaddon turned to face him, the Warmaster's eyes drilling straight through the top of his skull. The massive Astartes took a few plodding steps forward, or perhaps it was the thundering of the thrall's own heart.
"I want the cannon as close to fully operation as possible before we enter Terran orbit," Abaddon stopped several paces away from the thrall, much to the man's relief, "Any resources you need are yours."
"Yes, my lord," the thrall practically sprinted off the bridge.
Black Knights Production ShipLeviathan
Orbit of Terra
With no planets to call their own and the need for secrecy, the Black Knights could not sustain their voracious industrial complex with mobile mining and harvesting operations. Most raw materials the Fleet consumed were instead synthesized from stellar hydrogen in immense fusion refineries, each a replica of the very fires at the heart of a living star, aboard their Arcadia-class production ships. The Leviathan's fusion refineries had ignited as soon as the massive ship settled into Terra's orbit, churning out mind-boggling quantities of base elements for processing into a huge variety of materials: stainless plasteels, exotic superalloys, advanced polymers and plastics, and ceramics. The automated production lines required little human intervention, freeing up precious manpower to prepare Terra for Abaddon's invasion.
Compared to such near-sorcerous manufacturing methods, the final product appeared surprisingly underwhelming. Squat and angular and constructed almost entirely with cast metals, each machine stood roughly five meters tall and weighed ten metric tons. Broad sheets of explosive liner sandwiched between ceramic plates were secured to the well-sloped armor with quick-release latches, and weapons were simply plugged into slots on the chassis and secured with epoxy. Best described as the unholy spawn of an Imperial Sentinel and a Tau battlesuit, the vehicle could be called a "Knightmare" only by millennia-old definitions. Yet, the deceptively-simple construction allowed the Leviathan to literally produce them faster than they could be shipped: of the eighty-four thousand combat-ready units, only forty-five thousand had been shipped to the Imperial Palace, and another sixteen thousand were in various stages of completion.
Finding pilots had proven easy enough: mounting combat losses and a critical shortage of replacement parts left many a Sentinel pilot without a Sentinel. Smuggling them aboard the Leviathan proved even easier: any Guardsman with functional self-preservation instincts knew better than to question why the Commissar had taken their buddies away, and the presence of Psychic Special Warfare operatives kept those without such instincts from asking too many inconvenient questions.
Though the escorts had made no efforts to quiet them, Lieutenant Hanna Giehl and the forty other passengers within the drop shuttle dared not make so much as a peep. Their escorts were dour and stony-faced, a far cry from the generally-friendly but somewhat reserved Black Knights they were slowly growing accustomed to seeing. The differently-colored uniforms and ceremonial daggers at their hips distinguished them as some sort of special unit, and the fact that even other Black Knights seemed to give them space did little to assuage the Guardsmens' fears.
The oppressive atmosphere did not dissipate as the drop shuttle touched down. It took considerable self-restraint to not dash towards the ramp as it lowered. The hangar bay proved only marginally more inviting than the shuttle: armed militia troopers lined the walls, the rifle barrels pointed the floors doing little to put the unarmed Guardsmen at ease. A squad of Knightmares bade them to follow, and the guards only grew more numerous as they moved deeper into the Leviathan's bowels. The walk lasted no more than ten minutes, but minutes felt as hours to Hanna as she walked down the nondescript metal hallways, the pounding of her heart virtually indistinguishable from the Knightmares' footfalls.
The Lieutenant let out a deep sigh of relief as the blast doors opened to reveal a massive warehouse, and fear gave way to curiosity as she spotted the machined lined up before her. The Knightmares ushered the group through then wordlessly turned around and headed back to the hangar, the armored doors slamming shut behind them.
"Don't mind them. Plenty of bark and very little bite unless they catch you snooping," Hanna and several of her companions nearly jumped in surprise at the voice.
"Karolina Stuber," a mousy-looking woman apparently in her forties walked out from behind the nearest Knightmare and tapped the leg plating, "And this is a Raijin Type 85."
Though Lieutenant Giehl had no doubt that they were still being watched, she and her fellow Sentinel pilots were allowed relatively free rein to inspect the Raijins. Contrary to initial impressions, the warehouse was far from empty: dozens of technicians flitted between the crude Knightmares to perform last-minute adjustments and to answer any questions the Guardsmen might have. From the way the others deferred to her, Karolina was pretty clearly in charge of the group.
Hanna hesitantly clambered up the leg of the closest available Raijin, cold tendrils of claustrophobia creeping up her spine. Between the primitive instruments—some of the displays were outright analog—and limited fields of view, the layout was hardly recognizable as a Black Knights design. Yet, like many things in the fifty-first millennium, the low-tech exterior concealed surprisingly sophisticated controls. Hesitantly flipping a few switches, noting how closely the button layout resembled that of a Sentinel, Hanna settled into the seat and scanned the startup diagnostics. Even before touching the controls, she could see that software handled terrain adjustments, load balancing, and dozens of other tasks to allow her to focus on navigation and targeting.
"Don't sweat the 'Type 85' part," a technician announced from behind, "We just call it that because we shipped the first few with 76.2mm cannon. Ones like this mount the heavier 85mm."
Hanna experimentally twisted the controls, quickly discovering that the cannon-arms boasted impressive articulating for such bulky and blocking limbs. In contrast to the constant rumbling and screeching of her Sentinel, the Raijin's motors were quiet enough that she could still hear her companion as he continued his lecture.
"They don't look like much, but they'll put a hole through a Leman Russ' armor at two hundred fifty meters out. Further with a lucky shot. Our engineers reckon it could penetrate a Baneblade at maybe a third of that if you can hit the sides or back, but it's not like the Mechanicum will hand over the armor samples to let us try."
Frankly, Hanna doubted both claims, though she had seen Black Knights weaponry in action enough times to know that it packed disproportionate punch for its size.
"Weapon pods on the hips can be swapped out depending on what you need. We got three-cell missile pods mounted on this one, but there's also autocannons and heavy flamers. Completely self-contained, so you can just pop 'em in and out as needed."
In the corner of her eye, Hanna could see one of the Raijins take a plodding step off of its scaffold. For such a primitive-looking machine, the thing moved surprisingly smoothly if gracelessly. The Knightmare took several more steps, paused, then slowly started to rotate in place.
"Wheels in the feet for fine adjustments," the technician unnecessarily explained.
Long-practiced hands guided the Raijin through its startup sequence. Sensing the Guardswoman's intentions, the technician hopped off and reappeared on external camera feed with marshaling wands in hand.
Just before the armored hatch slid shut, Hanna could have swore she heard the man claim, "We couldn't get them ready in time for these, but I reckon the next batch will ship with the flight gear."
Hanna immediately imagined the sleek lines of Eldar and Tau tanks, compared them to the Raijin, and promptly concluded that the technician was having a laugh at her expense.
C's World, The Warp
Forty-Eight Hours Later
Euphemia leaned heavily against her staff, her body sagging in exhaustion as she felt her years for the first time in ages. When the Warp storm around Mars subsided for the first time, she deliberately delayed reinforcing it until Abaddon's vanguard committed to its advance. The Despoiler's rage burned bright as he watched rough Warp currents and unstable shoal zones rip apart over a thousand warships and troop transports. The storm's renewed vigor cost the Champion of Chaos Undivided more than just a handful of ships: the failed fleet maneuvers had drawn the defenders' attention, and the posting of additional picket ships ensured Terra would immediately know if Abaddon's forces attempted another advance.
The second storm, while fierce, barely lasted two days. Euphemia had simply used up too much power manifesting herself on Terra, and any further action would doubtlessly invite overwhelming retaliation from the Ruinous Powers. Thus, the pink-haired Warp entity could only watch with helplessness and exhaustion as the Warp storm subsided for good.
She had but one card left to play.
With a wave of her hand, Euphemia opened a small window into Zero's quarters aboard the Ikaruga. Despite the situation, she allowed herself a small giggle at the scene before her: the room was trashed, and enough articles of clothing to make up three whole uniforms were strewn about. CC and Kallen snuggled up against Lelouch while his arms wrapped possessively around their bare forms. Had his soul not been wiped from existence, Charles zi Britannia would undoubtedly have roared in approval. The Guardian waved her other hand, bringing up an image of Suzaku's lodgings. She felt a brief pang as her eyes settled upon her one-time knight, his form curled protectively around Nunnally's petite frame, but she quickly quashed the sensation.
Physically manifesting in the Materium would require more energy than Euphemia was willing or able to spend, but sending visions was another matter entirely. The Guardian leaned towards the images, two whispered words passing between her lips.
"It's time."
Necron Tomb Ship Tears of Sastiea
Orbit of Terra
Lieutenant Karen Schneider strode through the massive double doors with purpose: eyes pointed straight ahead, back rigid, and footsteps echoing loudly against the bare metal floor. Dozens of Lychguards armed with phase swords and dispersion shields lined the path from the door to the throne, the massive Necrons standing statue-still. Another pair wielding Warscythes flanked the throne. Karen paid the intimidating bodyguards little mind and hardly slowed as she approached the throne.
"Lieutenant Schneider. Punctual as always," Phaeron Menkhetaruk greeted, stepping off the throne.
The Raider-turned-minor-nobility stopped several paces before the throne, stood at attention, and saluted. The Phaeron returned the salute, and Karen shifted into a parade rest.
"Leave us," the Phaeron dismissed his guards and bade the Lieutenant to approach, "Come, walk with me."
The Lychguards pivoted on their heels as one and marched out of the throne room in two razor-straight ranks. Karen's gaze focused on a Lychguard clad in a newly-forged suit of armor, his old one having been destroyed in their duel on Mars, and the two exchanged a brief glance as he passed by. The pair of Warscythe-wielding bodyguards tapped the hafts of their weapons against the ground in salute and followed the others out.
Hidden passages snaked throughout the Tears of Sastiea's massive hull, and Menkhetaruk's throne room was no exception. A hidden door slid open, and Karen could see the dull green glow of a teleporter hidden around the corner. Karen wordlessly fell in one pace behind and to the right of the Phaeron.
"Your influence had spread further than you know," Menkhetaruk announced without preamble as the pair rounded the corner, "Lychguard Harsiomeyht has emulated your technique while sparring with his peers, and many have begun adopting it."
"With your permission, I would be willing to offer them formal instruction."
"I'm sure you will not want for students," the Phaeron allowed himself a chuckle, "Though more traditionalist members of the nobility may not approve of you, Karen Schneider, you have a great many admirers among my armies. Do not be surprised if you receive courting poems in the near future."
The concept of Necron love poetry threw the former Raider for a loop, and she nearly stumbled through the teleporter's event horizon.
"Does it truly surprise you that ancient Necrontyr cherished poetry?" Menkhetaruk spared a glance backwards, his tone inquisitive, "My ancestors lived short, brutish lives toiling under an unforgiving star. Epics sung around the hearth not only allowed them to pass on knowledge and traditions, but it also provided an escape from the harsh reality."
If Karen still had hairs on the back of her neck, they would have stood up as soon as she took a step away from the teleporter. It took her a few moments to pinpoint the cause of her mental alarms: the walls appeared unusually thick for internal bulkheads, and Canoptek constructs were embedded into the frame. Even Phaeron Menkhetaruk appeared slightly perturbed, though he hid it well.
"The Tulun Dynasty's alliance with the Black Knights is secured, so do not feel pressured to entertain any suitors if you do not wish to. Lelouch would never have agreed to this arrangement otherwise," the Phaeron reassured as he guided his companion through the twisting hallways.
A pair of heavily-armored doors slid open to reveal a large, open chamber. A pedestal stood at the chamber's center, suspending a fist-sized metal cube within a field of arcane energy. Karen involuntarily took a step back as Menkhetaruk strode up and grabbed the cube.
"I trust you know what this is?" the Phaeron asked in an unusually-serious voice as he placed the device into the Lieutenant's hands.
"A tesseract labyrinth," Lieutenant Schneider gulped.
"Then you know what is inside. This is the seventh of so many shards, but it is still powerful enough to raze entire worlds. Do not break the seal lightly, but do not hesitate to do so once you make the choice."
Karen swore she could hear a faint whisper come from the center of the labyrinth.
"Can you show me the Warp?"
Combat Information Center A
Black Knights Space Station Ikaruga
"Status report!" Lelouch demanded as he burst through the armored doors, briskly walking past the sentries as they snapped to attention and saluted.
CC and Kallen entered moments later. If anyone noticed how the two immortals wore their collars ever-so-slightly higher than usual, they stayed silent.
As if on cue, the centraldisplay blinked to life with a projection of the Martian airspace. Sensor readouts and intelligence reports scrolled past at dizzying speeds. Peripheral displays zoomed in on a spot in high Martian orbit, where Chaos red triangles were clustered so densely that they appeared as a single writhing crimson mass. The immortals' genetically-enhanced senses spotted the worrying trend in energy readings a split second before the Ikaruga's processors did.
A shrill warning alarm shattered the relative silence of Combat Information Center A as the main display swapped over to a view of high Martian orbit. Moments later, the local communications channels erupted into a flurry of activity.
"Massive energy spike from the Craftworld!"
"They're trying to bring reinforcements through…" the three immortals simultaneously muttered as a steady stream of Chaos red began appearing on the display.
"Alert the rapid-response units! Get some eyes on that thing!"
"Mechanicum fleet is moving to contain the advance!"
A tide of Imperial yellow, representing the remnants of the Mechanicum's space forces, surged forward to meet the enemy. The two waves crashed into one another, holding steady for several moments before the red slowly but surely pushed the yellow back. Enemy reinforcements continued to pour out of the corrupted Craftworld, gradually widening the crimson gulf until it finally broke out of high orbit. A large blob of red triangles vanished, and nobody needed Warp signature readouts to know that it was not due to Imperial weapons fire.
"Attention all Black Knights fleet elements," Lelouch slid his helmet on and patched into the Ikaruga's communications network, "Chaos forces have resumed their advance. All hands to battle stations. This is not a drill."
Lifetimes of drills and the real thing made the transition near-seamless. Additional CIC crew and sentries streamed in, wordlessly taking their places. The sterile white lighting was replaced with dim red as the central holographic display switched over to a view of the system ecliptic. Dozens of smaller displays flickered to life, speeding through startup diagnostics as data streamed in from the picket fleet. The Ikaruga's passive sensor net blanketed the entire star system, and the station's logic engines set to work matching sensor profiles to known Chaos designs.
Black Knights Dreadnought Paris
Orbit of Luna
Captain Felicienne Lavoie shifted her gaze from the holographic display to the external visual feed, mentally cataloging the ships that flew past. A flotilla of Tau ships roared past before disappearing behind the massive form of a Necron tomb ship. The unfathomably-ancient warship floated past the Paris' nose as if adrift without power, and Felicienne suppressed the instinctive shiver that ran up her spine. Shifting her gaze back down as a pair of Eldar cruisers screamed past, the Captain let out an annoyed huff as she took stock of the situation over Mars' equatorial region.
"Frustrating, is it not?" a husky near-whisper asked from over Felicienne's shoulder.
Nemesor Isetnoclea glided across the floor, her cloak slightly open to reveal the scepter that signified her rank. Captain Lavoie glanced back at the diminutive—relatively speaking, as the Nemesor still stood as tall as a Knightmare—Necron before moving aside to allow her to approach the display.
"Our term for it does not translate well into your tongue, but I believe ancient Terrans called it 'fleet in being.' Hundreds of warships simply sitting at anchor, vulnerable to a good bombing run and not numerous enough to push out of Martian orbit," Isetnoclea jabbed at the hologram with her scepter for emphasis, "Yet, both are irrelevant. There's enough ships that the Mechanicum can't afford to leave them unchecked, and gathering enough firepower to destroy them will open gaps elsewhere in their lines. They've suppressed much of the defending fleet without needing to fire a single shot."
Out of the corner of her eye, Felicienne spotted Fleet Admiral Domitille Alban engaged in a muted debate with Kor'o Vior'la Oraon over some application of tactical Warp jumps. She assumed from their absence that the Imperial and Eldar representatives had already returned to their flagships. The Paris was as close to neutral territory that all the races could agree on, and so the dreadnought was used as a meeting place to discuss matters too sensitive to transmit. The meeting had clearly concluded some time ago, thus explaining Isetnoclea's presence.
Whatever response Captain Lavoie had for the Nemesor was lost under the shrill report of a klaxon. Thoroughly trained and exhaustively drilled, the crew of the Paris transitioned from patrol mode to battle mode so smoothly that an untrained outsider would think nothing had happened at all. Several personnel sat up slightly straighter at their stations and additional displays flickered to life, but little else had visible occurred. Felicienne watched as Tau Fire Warriors spirited Kor'o Oraon off the bridge.
"We've just received confirmation from the picket fleet: Chaos ships have engaged in-system Warp jump!"
As the New Delhi and its squadron spectacularly demonstrated above Mars, precise jumps within gravity wells were trivial for the Black Knights. The Chaos fleets lacked the knowledge and the know-how to consistently replicate such a fleet. Even with the aid of their infernal masters, their ships re-emerged from the Warp piecemeal and scattered across a vast area of space. Dozens of ships disappeared from the tactical display as soon as they appeared, colliding with debris or one another as they re-entered the Materium or ripped apart by the Terra system's gravitational fields.
"The Warp is turbulent and dangerous, even for them. They will be drawn to the calm patch generated by the pylon network as moths to a flame," Nemesor Insetnoclea verbalized her companion's thoughts, "It's clear from the jump patterns that they lack the computing power to calculate such a jump and are plotting routes through trial-and-error. Brutally efficient if you criminally undervalue your crews and ships."
True to the Nemesor's prediction, more and more Chaos ships arrived intact and in ever-tightening formations with each successive wave. Felicienne watched as the Paris' main guns carved up an enemy cruiser that emerged from the Warp within the dreadnought's engagement zone. By now, the defending fleet had recovered from the initial shock and began organizing for a counterattack: Imperial warships boiled out of Port Luna by the hundreds like a swarm of angry wasps, and weapons emplacements on The Ring had already launched their opening salvos.
"Signal Battle Group Lisbon! Have them tactical jump to these coordinates and engage at their discretion!" Fleet Admiral Alban ordered as she indicated an area behind the bulk of the Chaos fleets.
Wordlessly, Insetnoclea backed away from the central display and disappeared in a green flash as arcane technology embedded in her living metal body teleported her directly onto her bridge.
"Engines to half astern! Get us some distance from the enemy lines! Target the closest enemy jump point and commence saturation FLEIJA bombardment!" Felicienne barked in rapid succession, stopping to breathe only between orders, "Launch Excaliburs! All secondary weapons batteries switch to point-defense mode! Keep those torpedoes and bombers away from our allies!"