THE SOLAR SYSTEM
SOMETIME AGO
Terra.
Few—whether alive or long-dead—could recall what it once looked like. Even before the Unification Wars, it had been little more than a scarred wasteland, its surface choked with ruin, its skies ruled by techno-barbarian warlords.
On the Oath, the mortals gazed at the projection suspended in the hololithic chamber. The planet before them seemed familiar in size and position,
one orb among others displayed in the shifting lattice of light. Yet something in its curve, in the muted hue of its oceans, stirred unease.
To those skilled in void-navigation, the system was unmistakable. The star burned with the same pale intensity as Sol, and the alignment of its worlds mirrored the course charts of humanity's cradle.
The tech-priests of the Veritas Victa whispered in metallic tones, their mechadendrites twitching in agitation. Venus and Mercury bore the right mass, yet neither carried the furnace-worlds or forge-citadels that should have blanketed their surfaces. Mars—beloved of their creed—was barren, stripped of the holy scars of industry. The planets were empty, silent, awaiting a destiny not yet written.
For Maloris and the Custodes, there was no question. This was Sol. The pale-blue orb glimmering in the projection was Terra itself.
There could be no doubt.
The only uncertainty lay in how they had come here, when by every expectation they should have been journeying ever farther from Terra, and from the Imperium entire. More troubling still was the absence of those vast, world-piercing structures—the orbital bastions and atmospheric cathedra—that had for millennia dominated the sight of Sol's heavens.
The bridge of the Oath fell into silence. It was the silence of recognition, heavy and absolute. Even those who did not fully grasp the truth felt its weight pressing upon them.
"Maloris, it has been confirmed—there is indeed an anomaly."
N'Kjaka emerged at his brother's side, his voice low but certain. Maloris did not answer at once. His eyes clung to the shifting light of the hololith, where moments earlier he had conferred with the astropath of the Oath, establishing communion with the Spear of Chronos, vanguard of their fleet and sanctioned gateway to Atrius.
At last he turned to the Custodes, pausing before giving a slow, measured nod.
"Very well then. A temporal anomaly is hardly unfamiliar to us; with the warp, any semblance of regularity is rare." His gaze drifted back to the projection, his tone carrying more to the chamber now.
Captain Chalstrom lingered at the edge of the deck, careful to remain beyond the Custodians' notice. He knew well the danger of overhearing what was not meant for mortal ears. On a ship such as this, knowledge could be as fatal as ignorance. The crew knew it too, and fear curled in their bellies—fear not only of the strange skies revealed before them, but of the grim possibility of culling should they fail in word or deed.
"The Lord sent us here; we shall not question His actions," Veranon murmured, stepping closer to his golden-armored brothers, his voice a private vow of certainty.
Maloris broke the stillness.
"Hhm. Send more probes to this world. I want every minute inch of it charted." His voice rang sharper, carrying authority across the deck. He gestured toward the blue orb, and at once the mortals around him straightened in their stations. His order carried the weight of inevitability, and they scrambled to obey.
Earth
The recruits sat in serried rows, their faces half-lit by the cold fluorescence of the makeshift hall.
"You are R Force, which stands for Research Force. You will join your counterparts in 2051 at a fortified research facility. Your mission is to contribute your skills and knowledge to theirs and help prevent our extinction."
The speaker — a woman clad in black tactical camouflage — moved with the poise of someone long accustomed to war. She was leader of the Time Jumpers, veterans of 2051, and her voice carried the clipped authority of one who had repeated this address too many times before.
Among the drafted civilians sat Dan Forester and Charley, still fidgeting, his unease written plain in every shift of posture.
"Excuse me, why don't we just jump back to earlier in the war?" asked a woman in a light brown sweatshirt. The question was hesitant, yet it carried the weight of what everyone else was thinking.
"Unfortunately, the jump link doesn't work that way," answered a young man among the 2051 Jumpers. A strip of fabric tied across his forehead marked him, along with his dark-blue mechanic's overalls. His hands were calloused, his eyes quick — a man of machines, not of war.
"Jump link?" another conscript muttered. For most, this was the first time hearing the term.
"The jump link is the temporal displacement device located in a fortified structure in the middle of the ocean, and it's what powers your armbands," the young man explained. His tone was patient, practiced, the voice of someone who had explained this far too often already.
Another spoke then, adjusting his glasses as though to anchor himself in reason.
"Time only flows in one direction, like a river. The jumplink places two rafts on the river, thirty years apart. We can jump back and forth between them, but both rafts will always keep moving forward."
There was a hush at this, a cold recognition of inevitability. Even Charley and Dan noticed it: the unsettling truth that everyone from 2051 looked young, too young — while those conscripted from 2021 appeared weathered, burdened, older.
"So why can't we build more rafts?" Charley asked, holding up his hands playfully, fingers mimicking the motions of drifting boats.
"The jumplink tech is held together with chewing gum and chicken wire. We've barely managed to create one very rudimentary wormhole. If this weren't an extinction event, we'd still be testing it on lab rats," the young man in blue overalls said sharply. His earlier patience faltered, replaced with grimness.
Eyebrows raised, silence spread. The fragility of the machine upon which their lives depended became clear.
"Now we can jump you to 2051 and back. Period." His voice cracked the quiet, final, unwilling to entertain further questions.
"Every six days, the Whitespikes disappear. They crawl back into their nest," the woman in camouflage cut in, her tone like iron.
"We call it the Sabbath, their day of rest. And that is when we insert troops," the young man finished for her.
The recruits shifted. The revelation pressed against them like a vice — survival was a matter of timing, not strength.
A hand rose from the back. "But why don't we have videos or pictures? It might help if we knew what we were up against," asked the woman in the brown jumper, notebook poised, her knuckles white against the pen.
They were Research Force, after all. Nearly every one of them had been chosen for their intellect, their capacity to analyze and deduce.
"The consensus was that when the public realized what they'd have to face in the future, filling that hangar would become nearly impossible," the woman in tactical uniform said. Her voice was flat, stripped of comfort, her gaze measuring the faces before her.
"Cool. Next time someone asks that, you should probably just lie," the woman in the sweatshirt said dryly. Laughter flickered, brittle and nervous, yet it broke the suffocating silence for a heartbeat.
Hours Later
The recruits lay in their temporary quarters, a cavernous dormitory of bunks and metallic walls that seemed to sweat with the heat of too many bodies. Some slept uneasily, some stared upward, their thoughts gnawed hollow by what lay ahead. Tomorrow they would resume training; a week of preparation was promised before they would face the abyss of the future.
Then —
Woooow. Woooow. Woooow.
Alarms shattered the fragile silence. Red lights bled across the walls in frantic rhythm.
The recruits bolted upright, confusion dissolving into panic. Boots slammed against metal flooring, shouted orders collided with the thundering sirens.
"Wake up! This is not a drill. Gather your equipment and follow. I repeat, this is not a drill!" the woman in tactical uniform roared, storming through the rows as soldiers shook the civilians awake with little regard for their fear.
Dan Forester was already on his feet. A soldier once more in instinct if not in station, he cut through the chaos to confront her.
"Wait — what is going on? I thought we had seven days," he demanded.
Charley stumbled behind him, chest heaving though he had barely run.
"The future doesn't end on a schedule. Grab your gear and get ready. This is not a drill," the woman snapped, not sparing him a glance as she drove the civilians forward.
"We are not ready for any kind of appointment. We don't even know what we're going to do," Charley stammered, words tumbling out as his panic bled through.
"You will get your appointments in the LLC's. Stay on comms. You will be contacted as soon as you land," she replied curtly, power-walking past them, still barking orders at others to move.
Dan tried again, his voice harder. "I understand that it's urgent, but these… these people have—"
"The research facility is under attack," she cut him off. Her tone was sharp, unyielding. "It is the last lab studying the Whitespikes. If it is lost, then the war is lost."
Her words were a hammer blow. Dan turned without reply, moving for his gear. Charley stumbled after him, pale and trembling.
Within minutes, hundreds of recruits — half-prepared, weapons barely slung to their sides — were being herded toward the jump link chamber. Their footsteps thundered across the concrete, a ragged echo of an army being hurled unready into the maw of the future.