Dead silence in space.
The old tug Skiff drifts through the void, pushed by slow impulse burns. Inside — stillness. Too dense. Too thick.
As if the universe itself is holding its breath.
Every sound here is an event. Every flicker of light — a heartbeat before arrest.
And suddenly — it flares.
An indicator.
A dead, cold eye on the panel ignites, slashing the darkness like a scalpel's edge.
A blinking signal.
A pulse.
A call.
A scream ripped from the impossible.
Pietro jolts upright.
His head snaps to attention.
Eyes locked. Face frozen.
"This isn't just a signal. It's fate compressed into bytes."
"We're receiving a transmission," he says — quietly, but with the edge of a general hearing the first shot of war.
On-screen — chaos, folding into order.
Numbers. Symbols. Coordinates.
Ghostly blueprints of something vast. Alien. Lethal.
Pietro stares into the scrolling data like it's a mirror from the other side of the front.
Manuel steps forward like a shadow that's never known light.
In his eyes — curiosity laced with dread.
He doesn't ask.
He already knows.
"Look," Pietro points at the indicator. "The transmission's complete. All of it. It got through."
Just then, Vikhar enters.
Not an android — a presence. A sharp-edged gaze. Authority made flesh.
He walks in as if he'd never left.
"Explain this," he snaps. A command, not a question.
"Information," Pietro answers, eyes still locked on the screen. "A signal from Earth's orbit. Narrow-beam. Someone knew how to punch through."
"Ivor," Vikhar says. Low. Without drama.
And his face hardens to stone.
"Looks like it," Manuel nods. But tension rises in his voice — like something surfacing that he doesn't want to name.
"He… promised. To atone. For Aspid. For Mercury. For everyone we lost," Vikhar almost whispers. Almost a prayer.
"Don't rush to forgiveness," Manuel cuts in, sharp. "We need to understand what he sent. And why."
Manuel types a command.
A hologram bursts to life.
Massive. Terrifying. The Kairus Platform.
Tons of steel. Nodes. Tunnels.
Architecture not meant for human hands.
A heart that should not beat.
"There it is..." Vikhar stares, unblinking. The reflection of a monster caught in his pupils. "The whole layout. Every weakness. Every artery."
"And what does it give us?" Manuel's voice is quiet. Cold.
As if his mind has already crossed into a battle that hasn't begun.
"Not sure yet," Pietro studies the coordinates. "But there's a point of origin. He marked a location."
"You saved it?" Vikhar asks quickly.
"Automatically," Manuel replies — and in his voice, the ache of an engineer who already knows the cost of every bit.
And then the pressure snaps.
"This is our chance!" Vikhar steps forward like a beast breaking out of its cage. "We strike. Now!"
"With what?" Manuel meets his eyes. Direct.
No fear. No doubt.
Like a duel.
"We have a tug. Not a fleet. Not even a strike wing."
"We've got escort ships! Heavy modules on board!"
"Not enough." Manuel shakes his head. "The Platform is shielded. We're far. We're blind."
The air thickens.
Viscous, like panic no one wants to name.
Vikhar paces. His face twisted.
Rage. Fear. Impatience.
He can't stand still.
He can't stand waiting.
"Chairman," Manuel's voice is steady — the voice of a psychotherapist in a burning room. "Cool your head. This isn't the time to play with fire."
Silence.
It crashes into the room like a slab of concrete.
And somewhere, far away,
inside that monstrous platform,
something answers.
As if the heart of darkness has started to beat.
"What if…" Vikhar starts, but his voice no longer trembles. Now it carries revelation.
"…what if the Martians strike instead? I'll contact Marcus. Their fleet could wipe the Platform off the orbit."
Silence.
It goes nuclear.
Manuel looks at him. Long. Heavy.
As if trying to decide — is this already the end?
"We're asking the enemy to destroy their own?" His voice is the surface ripple of a deep, rising dread. "This isn't war. It's…"
"Capitulation."
"It's reality," Vikhar snaps.
His eyes don't burn. They reflect. Cold glass.
"Kairus is already here. On Earth. In the mind.
He holds the entire Central Belt. He severs will without leaving a trace."
"We either strike first," his voice sharpens —
like an order that brings death,
"or we're erased. No delay. No explanation."
"He took Ivor."
"He took Jamal."
"He took Yulia."
"And soon, he'll come for the rest."
Manuel says nothing.
He doesn't interrupt. Doesn't blink. Doesn't look away.
His eyes are ice in vacuum.
Cold. Cutting.
They drill into Vikhar, searching — as if forging a verdict in silence.
The air thickens again.
Dense. Pulsing.
Like the moment before a storm, when lightning cracks but hasn't struck.
"What am I doing right now? What am I letting go? What am I betraying?"
Inside Manuel — a war.
Duty. Fear. And something older.
Blind. Primal. Nameless —
but impossible to ignore.
Then finally, quietly, with a restraint like a death sentence, he says:
"Pietro. Contact Marcus's fleet."
He doesn't look away from Vikhar.
This is not an order.
It's a leap into the abyss.
Into the irreversible.
**
Pietro leans silently over the console.
His fingers move with cold precision.
A few taps.
And — a flash.
Above the panel, a hologram ignites.
A hiss. A flicker. Static distortions.
And then — him.
Marcus.
Regal and repulsive, like an ancient god behind a cheap mask.
Predatory profile. A smug grin.
The kind of man who wins battles by making others bleed for him.
"Well, look who we have here..." he drawls lazily. "Chairman Vikhar. Did you call to surrender?"
Not a hint of courtesy. Just venom, dressed as charm.
Vikhar doesn't smile.
He steps closer to the projection table.
The light cuts across his face, outlining his jaw.
His cheekbones are tight. His gaze — a needle.
"No," he says, low but steady.
"I won't surrender."
"I've burned everything behind me. There's only forward now."
"Have you heard of the platform above Earth?"
Marcus leans back in his chair.
Waves a hand, as if the subject bores him.
As if he just stepped out of hell for a smoke and doesn't plan on going back.
"Heard something's rattling in the sky..."
He yawns —
but then freezes.
His eyes lock in. Like an animal that's smelled blood.
"What about it?"
"I'll send you the schematics," Vikhar says.
"And the coordinates. But — under one condition."
Pause. Tension tightens like a wire.
Marcus chuckles.
But his tone has shifted —
a sharp undertone now. Something hungry just woke up.
"Interesting. But you're on the run, Vikhar.
We've traced the signal.
You're approaching Earth."
His voice lowers.
"When we catch you — no deals. Only chains."
Vikhar smiles — but it's not human.
It's not a smile. It's bare teeth.
"Keep dreaming, Marcus.
But you know that platform must be destroyed.
Now. Or it'll destroy us all."
Marcus stills.
The hologram shivers. His face is a mask — but in his eyes...
...something cracks.
Something that knows the truth.
"You're asking us to strike our own?"
"Our allies?"
"What the hell are you, Vikhar, if not one of them?"
Vikhar doesn't blink.
His voice is vacuum — stripped of all oxygen.
"There are no 'sides' anymore.
No factions.
There's only one front now — and Kairus is already on it."
"He's in reality.
He's inside the mind."
"He is the platform. He's the gate."
"Everything you still believe is 'real' — will vanish.
And you'll lose the war without firing a single shot."
"Because this isn't a war against armies."
"It's a war against the very concept of 'self'."
"They don't take prisoners.
They take will.
They rewrite the soul."
Silence.
Marcus says nothing.
His face caves in — like the mask has fallen off.
Something changes.
His voice is suddenly dry. Military.
Lethal in its clarity.
"Send the coordinates.
And the schematics."
"We'll find the weak points. Strike."
But his tone sharpens:
"Just remember, Vikhar...
Destroying the platform severs your last thread to Earth.
Once it falls —
we'll come for you. With fury."
A pause.
Brittle, like ice cracking at the core of the heart.
Vikhar doesn't look away.
There's a storm inside him.
But outside — stillness.
He's already in the future.
The one where the platform survives.
Where everything goes wrong.
And he's ready.
"Then come," he says.
A challenge.
The end of diplomacy.
"The package is sent."
"Let's see if you've got the courage to finish what you started."
The hologram flickers out.
The room sinks into shadow.
Only red lights remain — like the slow breath of a beast —
and the steady hum of engines reminding them:
Time still moves. For now.
Manuel breaks the silence first.
His voice is even —
but beneath it, fury simmers like magma beneath skin.
"I wouldn't trust them."
He stares at Vikhar,
deeply — as if searching for a betrayal that hasn't happened yet.
"I agree," Vikhar replies.
He doesn't look away from the dark screen.
And in his words —
there's no panic.
No fear.
Only cold clarity.
"If the platform survives, we don't get a second chance."
"Marcus may not make it. Or worse — he may not want to."
"We need a Plan B."
And he's already building it.
In his mind.
In his heart.
In the infernal backrooms of will and sacrifice.
If it all falls apart —
he'll be ready.
Even if that means the end.