"Commencing countdown protocol."
"One minute to jump."
The voice—female, calm, chillingly mechanical—reverberated through the vast chamber.
Rows of recruits stood rigid in formation, rifles clutched in trembling hands. Overhead lights flared to blinding intensity, banishing shadows, exposing every flicker of fear in their eyes.
Dan Forester stood among them, jaw tight, shoulders coiled like wire. His thoughts seemed far away, though their weight pressed visibly against his frame. At his side, Charlie's breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, chest heaving too fast, panic swelling in wide, glassy eyes.
At the rear, Dorian leaned his rifle casually against his shoulder. But his gaze betrayed him—dark, haunted, heavy with memories no swagger could bury. Those who knew combat recognized it instantly: the quiet terror of a man who had seen too much.
The chamber groaned alive. Sparks spat from exposed conduits, blue-white arcs of energy crawling across the walls like captive lightning.
Then the lights converged.
Above, threads of brilliance braided together, weaving into a pulsating cone of raw energy. It stretched upward like an inverted tent, its apex a perfect circle, swirling in furious motion. Within it, matter and light bled together—liquid, gas, brilliance—writhing like the eye of a storm.
"Prepare for the drop! Jumplink will deploy you five to ten feet above ground!" barked an instructor. She prowled the ranks with cold precision, voice sharp and unshaken.
"That should be fun," Dan muttered, sarcasm dry as ash, though the knot in his stomach told another story.
"Fifty seconds—rifles up!"
The command thundered from the control deck. Rifles snapped upward in unison, though some wavered in nervous hands. The silence that followed was suffocating, heavier than steel. This was the point of no return.
Everyone knew the numbers. Mortality wasn't a question—it was a fact. Elders drafted beside them—grandmothers, men stooped with age—already looked like corpses-in-waiting. Yet they were calm. Calmer than the young. Resignation, or acceptance—no one could tell.
"Forty seconds—tuck position."
Bodies bent low, folding into crouches. Eyes darted, searching for comfort where none could be found. Fear was everywhere—stark, naked, contagious as plague.
"Where are we going?" one man asked, voice cracking.
"Miami Beach," Dorian answered without looking at him, words laced with venomous sarcasm. His eyes burned sharp and unyielding. The nervous man looked away at once.
"Ten… nine… eight…"
Breathing quickened. Jaws clenched. Tears spilled freely, unashamed.
"…seven… six… five…"
The chamber shook. The storm above pulsed.
"…four… three… two… one."
"Launch."
From the front ranks, recruits began to rise. At first, it looked like levitation—gravity abandoned, bodies drifting skyward.
Then came the unraveling.
Flesh tore apart into dust and light, atom by atom dissolving. Screams ripped the air, cut short as the storm devoured them. Ash and brilliance spiraled upward, dragged into the ravenous maw of the wormhole.
The sound was monstrous—air shearing, atoms splitting, a thousand voices wailing at once.
Line by line, bodies were seized, shredded, consumed.
This was the Jumplink. This was how they were sent.
A Few Miles from Earth – Spear of Chronos
"TEMPORAL ANOMALY DETECTED.
DISTORTION IN MAGNETIC FIELDS.
ENERGY SPIKES REGISTERED.
CALIBRATING… CALIBRATING…
DESIGNATION: ONE POINT FIVE FOUR TWO TIME-KNOTS ALONG VECTOR."
The machine-spirit's voice filled the data-hall of the Spear of Chronos, vox-tones neither wholly mechanical nor wholly human, but a chant—half binary, half hymn.
This was no ordinary vessel.
Most Imperial ships clung to the Astronomican's guiding light. The Spear moved differently—its path charted by psykers harvested from the secret Ordos Chronos, their bodies wired into the ship's very core. Forced to sense fractures in the warp, to track the faintest echoes of Atrius.
Its hull bore the sigils of the Mechanicus, but not of Mars. Forged in black secrecy, sanctioned by the Sigillite himself, the Spear's warp-drive did not travel so much as slip—folding time around itself, dragging entire formations in its hidden wake. Not faster than light, but sideways through it. Heretical in principle. Tolerated, because it worked.
Red runes pulsed across the strategium.
Shield-Captain Aurex Veynar of the Adeptus Custodes stood at the center, motionless, auramite armor catching the hololithic glow. His hand rested on his spear, his voice calm, absolute:
"Magos. Speak plainly. What have your engines found?"
The Tech-Priest twitched, binary spilling like static before he translated into Gothic.
"The anomaly is… crude. A wormhole, perhaps. Irregular. No symmetry. It consumed matter as raw pattern, not an efficient translation."
One of the bound diviners convulsed in its cradle, drool and blood streaking its chin. Through shuddering lips it whispered:
"Mortals… dust into the void… their essence screams. The path… brushes close—too close—"
At once, the Sisters of Silence pressed their null-field tighter. The psyker fell slack, twitching in silence.
The Magos continued, mechadendrites rattling.
"It is primitive and dangerous. Temporal alignment: thirty-seven percent probability. Stability negligible."
Aurex inclined his helm a fraction. His private vox activated, linking him to the Custodian's Oath, where Tribune Maloris waited. Such things lie beyond the province of Astropaths.
"Tribune. Shield-Captain Aurex aboard the Spear of Chronos. A temporal rupture has been detected within the planet's atmosphere. It was primitive and brief. Coordinates have been secured. Awaiting directive."
The vox crackled with Maloris' voice—iron, unyielding.
"Hold. Do not interfere. Thier crudeness implies ignorance. Continue calibration. Report every fluctuation."
"By your will," Aurex answered.
The machine-spirit thrummed again, like a prayer:
"CALIBRATING… ANOMALY PERSISTENT.
HARMONIC THREADS ACTIVE.
DIRECTIONAL ANCHOR: HOLDING."
Back on Earth, the barracks reeked of ozone and scorched circuitry. Lieutenant Hart stood with arms folded, her black tactical gear cast in shadow.
A soldier approached, snapping to attention.
"Lieutenant Hart?"
Her eyes narrowed. "What is it?"
"You are needed by the Ministry of Defense," he said stiffly, like a man reciting rehearsed lines.
"For what?"
"Classified." His gaze flicked to her squad—watchful, hands hovering near their weapons. He shifted uneasily.
Hart exhaled slowly, then nodded. "Understood." Turning to her team, she raised two fingers. "Stand down."
They obeyed, though their eyes followed him like wolves. The Jumplink had malfunctioned, and tension coiled tight.
"It's been months we've held this line," Hart said evenly. "Any misstep now could burn it all. I'll be back. Find out what went wrong."
Her unit straightened. The tension eased, but never fully.
Hart adjusted her rifle strap and followed. Her boots struck sharp against the concrete as the blast doors sealed behind her, white corridors stretching ahead beneath sterile lights and gray walls lined with checkpoints.
An hour later, the Ministry of Defense lay sleepless, bathed in the pale glow of screens.
The conference room smelled faintly of coffee and recycled air, residue of sleepless nights. Screens lined the walls, alive with satellite feeds and scrolling telemetry. A digital clock read 04:17.
President Harris entered with his staff. Generals, officials, and world leaders joined by video feed. Fatigue hung on every face.
General McConnell, head of NORAD, began briskly:
"Ladies and gentlemen, at 03:02 EST, anomalous energy signatures were registered. Not atmospheric—lunar distance. NASA, ESA, JAXA confirmed. This was no error, nor local."
The main screen lit: jagged blooms of light against the void, cones flaring and collapsing, unnatural scars across the dark. Radar sweeps followed—erratic, alien interference.
"These are not natural phenomena," McConnell pressed.
Infrared footage followed—city-sized furnaces burning red in the cold void. Silence fell.
The French President whispered, "Mon Dieu… what are those?"
NASA's Dr. Klein stepped forward. "They are not satellites. Not debris. And definitely not human. The energy output is… unprecedented."
Eyes turned to Hart. The President gestured. "Lieutenant Hart. You're from 2051. Do you recognize this? Are they the White Spikes?"
Hart stepped forward, composed.
"Mr. President, I can't confirm that. I wasn't alive in 2021. The White Spikes' origin was always a mystery—whether they fell from the sky or were always buried here. But this—" she nodded to the flickering structures "—this is not how they appeared. In my time, nothing like this was ever recorded."
The British Prime Minister leaned forward. "So you cannot tell us if it's them?"
"No, ma'am. And if governments in 2021 had known of such a presence, they would have concealed it. To prevent collapse. That's how history works."
Her words landed heavy.
"Then we are in the dark," muttered a NATO general.
"Have you attempted contact with these… things?" the Secretary of Defense asked, cutting the silence.
The British Prime Minister arched an eyebrow. "Contact them? You suggest diplomacy?"
The Secretary leaned forward, voice measured but firm.
"What I suggest is caution. We've all seen the White Spikes. Do those creatures look capable of this?" He gestured to the shifting alien lattice. "Their behavior was feral. Mindless. What we see here has structure. Intent. This is not the work of wild animals."
A murmur rippled through the room.
"Exactly my concern," he continued. "If the White Spikes were bred for extermination, they were weapons. But this—" he tapped the display "—this is something else. If it is a threat, it is not the same one."
The President frowned, voice grave.
"So, what you're saying is… we cannot assume these are the same enemy?"
"Correct, Mr. President. Panic serves no one. We must understand this before the world sees and spirals."
Hart spoke from her post at the back.
"In my time, she nodded at the screens, eyes narrowing "…this is not how they revealed themselves. If they had technology like this, our systems in 2051 would not have missed it. It is illogical to assume these...things belong to them."
The NASA Director leaned forward. "Then who does it belong to?"
Hart's silence was answer enough.
The French President cleared his throat. "If not the White Spikes, then perhaps… this is contact with something else. Something intelligent."
The room thickened with dread.
President Harris straightened. His voice was deliberate, heavy with authority.
"We will not sit idle. We cannot allow the unknown to remain unknown. General McConnell—prepare a transmission. Formal hails, all standard frequencies. Binary, Morse, smoke signals—I don't care." He paused, jaw set.
"If something intelligent is out there, we need to know what it wants. Try to contact them."