The forward ramp of the Thunderhawk Gunship lowered slowly, hydraulics humming softly.
When the ramp met the ground the dull thud made outside light flood in, stinging Sibyla's eyes till she squinted.
She drew a deep breath, straightened her Inquisition uniform, and stepped out.
Her boots felt solid ground and the tremors told her distant drilling rigs were still working.
Sibyla raised her head, sweeping the area with the appraising gaze of an Inquisitor.
It was an orderly makeshift camp: machines of every pattern aligned in neat rows, pipes and cables forming tidy grids, Servo-Skulls humming past overhead.
Two figures dominated her view—the very people she had come to see.
One was monstrously huge, a steel titan woven from metal and mechanisms, tiny mechadendrites dancing. A single fleshy eye rolled behind a metal mask as it sized her up.
The other was an Astartes in unique power armour, taller than most of his kind, calm and heavy with presence.
Sibyla's gaze lingered, wondering silently.
Archmagos Cawl needs an Astartes bodyguard?
Probably a Techmarine sent by some Chapter to study—no idea which one.
Then Archmagos Cawl stirred first.
His colossal frame inclined, a mechanised voice booming through amplifiers:
"Inquisitor Sibyla Barrios, it has been a long time."
Sibyla collected herself and nodded. "Archmagos Cawl, well met."
After the brief civilities his tone hardened.
"Let us skip the pleasantries—may I ask you something?"
Sibyla blinked. "Please do."
A mechanical limb pointed at her left wrist: empty; the device that once suppressed her violent psyker talents was gone.
"Ah, you mean that gadget?"
"I no longer need it. By my lord's grace, the Emperor's contractor has removed any chance of psychic overload; he is the one I shall serve for life."
What?
Archmagos Cawl froze.
What in the world is an "Emperor's contractor"?
Some obscure Ecclesiarchy term?
A title for a Living Saint, perhaps?
That still made no sense.
Even a Living Saint couldn't permanently free an Alpha-level Psyker from psychic collapse.
"…What is an Omnissiah contractor? Are you certain?"
Clinging to a last shred of hope, he pressed on.
In ten millennia he had seen too many tragedies born from simple miscommunication; he would not let it happen here.
But her answer crushed that hope.
"I'm certain. He is the one to whom I will swear fealty,"
She said firmly, "and the final hope of the entire Imperium of Man."
Recalling the two Primarch-decreed projects he had pursued for ten thousand years, Cawl lapsed into thought.
Even the scheme that could resurrect a Primarch dared not claim to be the Imperium's final hope—so who was this expert?
The picture was clear.
Like most Inquisitors, she had started a Puritan and slid into radicalism, sprinting toward heresy.
The Inquisitor he once favoured was no exception.
Cawl's vast metal frame unfolded, radiating menace; Sibyla felt her temples throb.
Every Adeptus Mechanicus Magos hides untold augmentations—and firepower—beneath red robes.
"Stop,"
Sibyla said calmly. "I know it sounds insane, but it is the truth."
She paused.
"Since you refuse to believe, I shall give you proof."
"Proof?"
In this dark millennium of endless war, where "innocence proves nothing," the word was almost quaint.
Let's see how you prove he's the Omnissiah's contractor… Sibyla snapped her fingers, for the first time wielding her Reality Warping Ability in realspace.
The Servo-Skulls orbiting Cawl were instantly overridden, slipping from his control.
They drifted to her side, crimson eyes fixed on the pair.
Archmagos Cawl fell silent.
He leaned inward, conferring via internal vox with The Firstborn.
Even his proudest creation had sensed no psychic ripple.
The conclusion was obvious.
Yet the conclusion was so absurd the ever-innovative scientist could not accept it.
It was the machine spirit.
The ever-loyal machine spirit had, in an instant, betrayed its master and sworn itself to the Inquisitor.
No circuitry, clearance, or design could prevent such an eventuality.
Knowing how unfitting the words were, Cawl still wanted to shout—
This is unscientific!
"Very well, that is compelling evidence."
After a pause—brief to mortals, but long enough for the soul-fragments in his mind to debate countless rounds—he yielded.
"Then take a seat in my base. Give me time and we shall examine this…"
Suddenly his electronic voice cut off.
"What happened?"
Sensing Cawl's spike of emotion, Sibyla frowned.
"Bearing one-fifteen, south-southeast twenty-six degrees, seventy-three kilometres line-of-sight."
Without elaboration he rattled off, "Our Augur has detected a craft that does not belong to the Imperium of Man."
"Oh? Is it xenos?"
Realising he was serious, Sibyla lashed out with her psyker senses, sweeping toward the bearing he had given.
What she perceived was a dark fighter: black hull, ghost-green core, crescent shape, hovering silently amid the clouds as though held by anti-grav.