An Imperial probe wasn't some fragile satellite drifting quietly in orbit.
It looked like a shard of iron torn from the spire of a cathedral and hurled into the void, bristling with antennae and sensor vanes that twitched like insect feelers. Its body was armored in brass and etched with scripture, wax seals pressed flat against its plates. When its sensor-dishes unfurled, they opened like metallic feathers—cold wings drinking in data.
Beneath its armored belly, grav-thrusters hummed with a low growl. Weapons pods hung like clenched fists, not made for war in the human sense, but precise enough to be terrifying. Its lenses blinked and rotated—some round and almost human, others faceted like insect eyes, others utterly alien. Watching them, you had the sense of being studied by something that never blinked, never tired, never pitied. A fragment of a god's will made iron.
Whooosh....whooosh...whooosh.
they zoomed past the clouds, too fast to perceive accurately.
At NORAD, the control room was chaos. Screens flared red, voices clashed over headsets.
"Control, this is Sentinel-Three—multiple fast movers have breached atmospheric entry. No warning. No burn signature."
"Copy that, Sentinel-Three. Stand by, cross-checking telemetry."
Another voice broke in, hard and sharp.
"All ground stations, be advised: objects confirmed inside atmosphere. Unknown origin. Unknown intent. Repeat—unknowns are in atmosphere."
"Edwards Air Force Base, copy."
"Copy, Edwards. Fighters are scrambling."
"Offutt Command, confirm readiness?"
"Offutt confirms. Interceptors already in the air."
The controller slammed down the final line, voice clipped and steady despite the panic buzzing under the surface.
"Mark it: Priority One. Threat designation—possible hostile. Engage on visual. Repeat, engage on visual."
Far above, on the Custodian's Oath, Maloris said nothing. He stood before the vast hololith as Earth swelled into view, magnified until its oceans and cloud systems filled the dome like a sacred relic set on display.
Scarlet trails crawled across the globe, probes mapping tectonic plates, wind currents, ocean depths—unfolding the planet layer by layer with a surgeon's precision.
The Custodes flanking him stood still as statues, their golden armor catching the glow. Not one shifted. Even awe was contained, buried beneath discipline older than empires.
Terra was never the same from one age to another—broken, reshaped, reforged in war. To compare coastlines was foolish; too much had shifted. But subtler signs whispered: the old curve of mountain chains untouched by industry, the ghost-marks of long-dead rivers, fossils embedded deep in ancient rock. Creatures whose bones had been inked into Imperial archives now flickered back to life in red lines across the hololith.
"Even in death," one murmured, voice low, "Terra remembers herself."
Behind them, the mortal crew—Chalstrom among them—watched in reverent silence. They weren't here because of rank or nepotism. They were chosen. Chosen by Malcador the Sigillite, and that fact alone carried the weight of destiny.
Static hissed, cutting the silence. A robed figure stepped forward, mechadendrites twitching like nervous serpents. An Archmagos. "his" vox-grated voice rasped through the chamber.
"By the Omnissiah's hand, I hear resonance in their noosphere. Crude transmissions.Resonance detected. Binary degraded… corroded into base analog waveforms. I've detected a source of..... machine spirit. though shackled in primitive shells. We must find the source."
Maloris didn't look at him. "Do it."
On Earth, a probe descended.
Civilians inside a broadcasting station heard it before they saw it—a shriek like tearing metal rolling through the sky. Windows rattled. Dust sifted from the ceiling. Someone screamed as the roof groaned above them.
Then the building shook. The probe came down like a falling star, its vast iron wings blotting out the sun. It didn't land so much as tear into the radio tower, ripping through steel and concrete as glass exploded and alarms howled. People scattered—some praying, others cursing, all terrified.
For a heartbeat, the wrecked tower seemed to hold its breath. Then, with a hiss of hydraulics, a hatch slid open…
From the darkness came a servo-skull, its hollow eyes glowing a steady crimson. Brass plating glinted as it hovered forward, cables dangling like entrails. It ignored the humans entirely, drifting toward the nearest console. Mechadendrites stabbed into outdated circuit boards. Sparks cascaded, lights flickered, and the skull began to speak—a whispering hiss of Binary Cant, incomprehensible yet deliberate, like a priest coaxing secrets from a stubborn spirit.
On the Oath, the Archmagos' voice thickened with triumph.
"Signal located. Machine-spirit subdued. Integration commencing."
The hololith pulsed red.
"Proceed with information acquisition," Maloris ordered, his voice like a closing door.
Above the city, jet squadrons ripped into the sky.
"Raptor One, visual acquired—fast mover, low over city grid!"
"Copy, Raptor One. You are weapons free. Engage, repeat, engage!"
Missiles streaked. Contrails arced across the sky.
The probe moved like a dancer mocking its hunters. It twisted ninety degrees in an instant, breaking every law of physics the pilots trusted with their lives.
Boom!!!!
Missiles slammed into nothing.
!!bgrrrrrzzzrr..bgrrrrrrrzzr. bgrrrrrrrzzrrr.....!!!
Gunfire rattled, tracers cutting the clouds—but the machine was already gone.
"Negative impact! Target's jinking—radar can't hold it!"
"Holy shit, it just stopped mid-air! Did you see that?"
"That's not an aircraft… it's something else."
Another probe split into three mirrored decoys, tricking sensors. Jets scattered wide, pilots sweating inside their helmets.
"Control, Raptor Two—we can't keep pursuit. They're playing with us."
"Copy, Raptor Two. Maintain visual. Reinforcements inbound."
In the conference of the ministry of defense, the atmosphere was suffocating. Screens showed shaky footage from pilots, from satellites, from panicked civilians with phones held high. The President gripped the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles turned white.
"Mr. President," the Defense Secretary said, grim and steady, "they've made contact first."
"I can see that," the President muttered, jaw clenched, voice sharp with frustration.
On one screen, probes dipped over Paris like predatory birds. On another, one sliced across Tokyo's skyline. Another vanished into the Pacific with a flash. They didn't move like machines. They moved like hunters.
Across the video conference, the French President rubbed his forehead as if fighting off a migraine. "What do we do? These things ignore our defenses. If they wanted us gone, we'd already be ash."
No one had an answer. Silence pressed on the room like a physical weight.
And then came the real terror.
Earth's satellites caught them. Vast shapes sliding into orbit, silhouettes so huge they swallowed the stars.
They weren't ships so much as drifting cathedrals. Hulks of steel and stone, carved with arches like ribcages, crowned with spires and buttresses. Whole districts of towers clung to their spines, towers lit by thousands of faint windows. Engines burned like dying suns, vomiting halos of fire into the void.
One ship turned slowly, its prow a blade of stone and iron, vast enough to dwarf any station humanity had ever built. Another bristled with towers and shrines, every surface armored, its windows glowing like the eyes of something that had watched humanity for far too long.
The fleet anchored itself in Earth's orbit, vast and unmovable, like a noose tightening around the planet.
And in that moment, every soul who looked up understood. this wasn't contact. This was judgment.