Secrets of Kni’thokon

[crisrko]

Two years have passed since the liberation of Na-Swe-Swuk by the forces of the Mirati Imperium. Reconstruction efforts have begun under the direct control of the Empress, with the Galactic Council sidelined from the terraforming and repopulation of the former Behrfrangi Worlds.

Despite the best efforts of the Mirati bioengineers and artificers, some of the worlds have been lost, destroyed by the Swarm’s colonization process. For those worlds, the verdict was annihilation; they were fractured to remove any traces of life and corruption, so that they be stabilized and reconstructed in the future.

Several factions in the Galactic Council have called for the Imperium to allow the Council to take over the reconstruction effort and install a democratic government under the oversight and tutelage of the Galactic Community. In a dramatic shift of foreign policy, the Imperium told the rest of the Galactic Council to effectively pound sand.

Despite initial political fallout, the displeasure of the Galactic Community would quickly be overwhelmed by their need for support, as the Katgan Swarm continues it assault in the eastern side of the galaxy almost unopposed. Taufean, Vissari, Lofanasi and Ashkhety vessels engaged the Katgan forces, initially repelling the assaults. However, the attrition suffered by the allied forces was greater than the rate at which they could replenish and refortify their territories. Katgan ships have broken through all over the allied systems, annihilating several worlds in the process.

Faced with this new threat, the Galactic Coalition has finally passed the Katgan Crisis Resolution act. A new Galactic War had begun.

---

Alarms were blaring. A deafening cacophony of panic as Aleksander and Iris Cordero sprinted down the corridor of the Lualua Space Station. The walls shuddered with the impact of the alien barrage, each hit sending sparks and debris into the air. Red emergency lights flickered, casting eerie shadows over the corridors.

“Commander, the Katgan fleet is rapidly approaching! Our rapid defense force has been annihilated at the edge of the system!” a voice crackled over the comms, barely audible over the sounds of distant explosions. “At this rate, they will reach Lofanasi!”

Aleksander and Iris shared a terrified glance as they rounded the corner and found themselves at the airlock of their airship, their only hope of escape. It was a new human model, fitted with the latest jump drive technology. As they watched a squad of marines run past them, Aleksander threw the communication device to the ground, stomping and breaking it apart, before stepping onto the ship.

“Are we going to make it?” Iris barked, slamming her hand on the control panel to seal the door behind them.

“I sure hope so,” Aleksander replied, breathless as he strapped into the pilot’s seat.

Each explosion shook the hull of their ship violently as the space station was breaking apart around them. To their horror, they could see the entire Katgan fleet bear down on the Lofanasi defenses, their strike craft overwhelming any autonomous strike systems. Their grotesque, organic shapes silhouetted against the backdrop of the star. Hundreds of ships, ready to descend on the home world of the Conglomerate.

“Engage the Jump Drive!” screamed Iris as the ship’s defense systems were engaged, alarms and alerts coming to life; one of the Katgan strike crafts had targeted them. “They’re locking onto us!”

“We’re going to have to jump into Imperium territory. We’re going to blow our cover!” he yelled back as the strike craft approached fast.

Another explosion went off behind them, and the hull of the space station split open like an egg under pressure, knocking their ship adrift into space. Iris watched as the final Katgan volley hit the station, engulfing it in a blue maelstrom.

“Come on, Aleksander! We can worry about that if we’re still alive!” Iris screamed.

The ship’s thrusters roared to life, propelling them through the incandescent abyss. Katgan strike craft chased them through the wreckage, firing their matter disintegrators at the ship with no regard for their own lives.

They came from the Swarm and they will return to the Swarm in death.

Aleksander swerved the ship hard, narrowly avoiding a chunk of wreckage, before exiting the ball of fire into the void beyond. Space distorted around them as the jump drive activated, and with a blinding flash of light, the ship tore through the fabric of reality, leaving the burning remains of the space station behind.

---

It’s been a week since they’ve landed on Cemesta, an urban world and the capital of the Cemesta Polity, located in the former territories of the Holy Behrfrangi Foundation. It was part of the reconstruction effort underwent by the Imperium; the planetary governments reported directly to the Mirati and there were several Starfleets within jump distance to the capital world.

Aleksander and Iris did not have any major issues landing on the planet. After being given a security clearance at the Cemesta Spaceport, they landed on the planetary surface and were vetted by customs. Their employment with the Human Republic raised a few eyebrows, but they were ultimately allowed on the planet itself.

For the first few days they waited in one of the hotels off the main road, aware that they would be flagged in the Imperium’s records. Such was the nature of their arrangement with the Imperium, and the only way for them to move forward after their capture in Dark Space.

Today, however, the pair decided to visit one of the local establishments, a café.

The café was bathed in soft light, casting a warm glow over the assortment of tables scattered across the room. An array of diverse patrons filled the space: tall, insectoid beings clicking their mandibles as they sipped from steaming cups, short, molluscoid creatures whose bodies wobbled with every motion, and even a few Behrfrangi sat on elevated stools, their thin skin glowing as they hummed harmoniously to one another.

The smell was a strange mix of roasted spices, sweet oils, and even something metallic, though it was not unpleasant. Aromatic smoke permeated the air from one of the hookahs used by a Sylosi patron.

At a corner table, Aleksander and Iris sat close, nursing cups of something that passed for coffee on this planet. A black liquid, closer to tar in consistency and viscosity than coffee as they knew it. It shimmered with a faint glow as it swirled in their mugs.

“Not too shabby,” said Aleksander as he leaned back in his chair. His eyes never stopped scanning the room, taking in every face, every exit, waiting. His posture was casual, but his hand rested on the hidden dark energy pistol under his jacket. “The Mirati have been investing a lot of resources in this reconstruction, haven’t they?”

Iris chuckled, adjusting the collar of her buttoned shirt, trying to keep the scar on her neck concealed. “I like it here. Good atmosphere, and I haven’t had to look over my shoulder every five minutes since coming on the planet.”

“That’s because I’m the one who’s had to keep watch ever since we landed,” he groaned.

Iris stuck out her tongue in response.

“Has the Ministry of Truth contacted you ever since?” she asked quietly, her voice barely a whisper now. “Do you think we’re compromised?”

Aleksander glanced over her shoulder, watching as a group of Mirati soldiers entered the café. A man and two women, clad in the typical violet Mirati power suits, but neither of them was holding any long arms. It was not a patrol. For a moment, their gazes met, and the two women split off, heading over to the clerk.

Aleksander’s hand tightened over the handle of his pistol, while he grabbed Iris’s hand with his spare, squeezing hard. Iris frowned, nodding.

Eventually, the Mirati man approached their table, looking down at the pair. Judging by his armor’s ornaments and attachments, he was not a simple foot soldier. His shoulder decorations betrayed his association, the Ministry of Truth; though neither Aleksander nor Iris recognized this man.

With no regard for etiquette nor their status as spies of the Imperium, he simply pulled a chair and sat down next to them. Both Aleksander and Iris smiled, but beneath that smile they were cursing at his callous disregard for their position.

Soon enough, the entire café was cleared out, and even the clerk scurried off to one of the staff rooms. The two Mirati women stood guard by the entrance, switching the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED.

“I am Executor Udrin, your new direct handler in the Ministry of Truth.”

Executor? Aleksander and Iris shared a glance. This title belonged only to a select few members of the Order of Ecclesia and had nothing to do with the Imperium’s Ministry of Truth. Udrin continued.

“I will be replacing Miss Rolto as of this moment and reassigning you a new mission.”

“What happened to Miss Rolto?” asked Iris, taking a sip from her cup. If there was nothing she could do, she may aswell enjoy the rest of her beverage.

Executor Udrin pinched the bridge of his nose before answering. “She’s been… discharged. Her services are no longer of any use to the Imperium.”

In other words, they killed her. Aleksander and Iris nodded, but they were growing increasingly uncomfortable with this arrangement.

Udrin raised his right hand as psionic energies coalesced around him. In the next moment, the coffee mug was transported from the barista’s station onto their table, pouring himself a cup. After taking a sip from the beverage, he scowled, moving the cup away with disgust.

“As I was saying. As of this moment, you are being reassigned a new mission.”

“What of our cover?” asked Iris, interrupting him again.

Aleksander watched the Executor take a deep breath, visibly annoyed by her untimely interruption. Before he could say anything, the Executor answered by glaring daggers at her. She could feel an invisible pressure, something like a rope coiling around her neck; it tightened. She coughed, initially dismissing it, but reality would slowly sink in as she could no longer breathe, clutching at her own throat.

“Enough!” yelled Aleksander as he drew the pistol from beneath his jacket. In a swift motion, the Executor grabbed his wrist, twisting it and releasing the pistol from his grip. With a loud thud, Aleksander found himself crashing face first into the table, unable to escape the Executor’s hold.

“I don’t know how that woman educated you, but you will never interrupt me again when speaking,” he barked, releasing both Aleksander and Iris from his grip.

He sat back down, dusting off his shoulders as Iris took in desperate mouthfuls of air. Aleksander held his bleeding nose, nodding to the Executor. Udrin seemed satisfied with their reaction.

“Your cover is fine. We made sure to doctor the flight and travel records. As far as the fools on Nymonax are concerned, you have taken a detour due to the latest Katgan incursions in the eastern half of the galaxy,” he explained, pulling back the slider of Aleksander’s pistol and removing the dark energy clip. “If you’re concerned about Benjamin Kastner, then don’t. He will not be an issue.”

Aleksander and Iris nodded.

“Good. Now make your way back to Nymonax. Your job is to get an adept of the Order of Ecclesia through security and inside the vaults of the Shadow Council,” he said curtly.

Both Aleksander and Iris practically shot out of their seat. This order was effectively a death sentence. It was one thing to get them on Nymonax, but to access the rumored vaults of the Shadow Council? Insanity.

“Now, now,” he waved his hand dismissively before motioning them to sit back down. “Don’t worry. We’ve already obtained all the keys and codes necessary to access what we’re looking for. All you must do… is to get her there.”

“You expect us to get a psionic down there, undetected?” Aleksander growled.

“I do.” he answered. “Or you can spend the rest of your lives either in an Imperium prison, or dead on a Human world.”

“This is a breach of--” Iris tried to speak, but the sound of Udrin’s laughter cut her words short.

“A breach? A breach of what, girl?”

He turned to look at her, a savage glint visible in his eyes. It shook her to her core.

“As far as I am concerned, you two are disposable. You live simply because it would take too long to obtain new assets in the Human Republic.”

Udrin shrugged, leaning back in his seat.

“Quite frankly, no one expected you to survive this long, especially with Rolto’s departure. You should be proud of yourselves.”

Aleksander’s fists tightened, and he looked like he was about to strike the Executor. Iris looked at him desperately, shaking her head. It was not worth it. There was little doubt in her mind the Executor will kill him for it.

“Alas. Sometimes, things have a way of falling into place. The psionic you must get down there is also human, so you won’t have to worry about disguising her. Despite my distaste for her, she is quite the competent psionic.”

Aleksander sat back down, scoffing. Iris breathed a sigh of relief. Udrin simply smiled, an insufferable smile, before standing up.

“One more thing. Should the worst come to pass, then I suggest you die with her.”

With those words, Udrin tossed a data shard on the table and left with his two bodyguards.

 

[crisrko]

A small human girl emerged from the darkness of the Nymonax spaceport, dressed in a hooded black robe. A silver sash, inlaid with golden and violet ornaments, wrapped around her waist in a tight circle, accentuating her figure.

She was perhaps a head, maybe two, shorter than Aleksander, and about the same height as Iris. She did not seem to be older than her early twenties, and a thin scar ran from her left eye down to her cheekbone.

As she drew closer, Aleksander could notice a sword handle sticking out; she had come in armed, somehow bypassing the scanning devices at customs. Perhaps the weapon was already waiting for her on the planet. He did not really know what the Mirati Ministry of Truth pulled to get her on the planet, especially now that there is a travel ban due to the increasing Katgan incursions in Republic territory.

Iris noticed him staring and elbowed him in the ribs, puffing loud enough to make her displeasure known. He rubbed the back of his head, smiling awkwardly. He’d have to repent for this later, but for now, they need to get her on the planet proper.

“You must be Anastajia,” he said, extending his right arm towards her.

Anastajia lowered her hood; silver locks of hair flowing down to her midsection. Her hair was kept in a high ponytail, secured with an assortment of ornamental hair bands. For a moment, he was stunned, causing Iris to elbow his once again, this time in his liver. He guffawed and grimaced, knowing he’d pay for this heavily.

For her part, Anastajia seemed amused by the interaction. She extended her right arm, shaking hands with both Iris and Aleksander.

“Iris.” “Aleksander.”

After the introductions, the trio departed from the station, taking one of the transporters to the surface. A variety of different humans, some organic and some indulging in varying degrees of cybernetic enhancement. At one point, Anastajia had even seen a bona fide Android. None of this would fly in the Imperium. Some combat enhancements aside, the flesh was sacred.

Her incessant staring was noticed, and Iris wrapped her arm around hers, linking them together. For what it’s worth, the two girls were built similarly, around the same age and shared common facial traits. It would not be impossible to pass off as distant relatives, cousins even.

“Sorry about that,” Iris chimed in. “My cousin here, she comes from one of those backwater agri-worlds in the Conglomerate.”

“Oh no,” the Android gasped. “Poor thing. I heard they live in mud huts over there.”

It shook its head, full of understanding.

“It’s okay. I understand. I hope you’ll take care of her. Don’t let her go back to that dreadful place.”

Iris smiled and nodded. It was an uneventful trip down to the surface.

---

“Estimated arrival, seven minutes,” said a voice, monotone and professional, from the onboard AI.

Anastajia sat in the back of the vehicle, watching the planet pass below. The hum of the engines was the only sound, though through the reinforced glass, she could see the frenetic movement of life below; an endless stream of other air-vehicles and pedestrians, winding between megastructures in swarms. Nymonax’s artificial sun neared the distant horizon, sending shafts of golden light across the steel plains and high-rise towers. It was not too dissimilar from Miresh.

The grid-like structure of the city grew denser the further they traveled into the inner zones. Each sector of the planet had its own pulse, its own rhythm. As the transporter banked gently to the left, Anastajia got a full view of the most expensive districts in the city. Towers of mirrored duraglass reflected the fading orange of the artificial sun, their facades fleek and sculpted, a testament to the cutting-edge architecture of the city-planet. Everything was pristine, intentional. No shanties, no sprawling cables, no market stalls to clog the streets or smoke belching from industrial complexes.

“You will be staying with us for a few days, before we manage to get you in the Shadow Tower,” Aleksander explained from the front seat. “We’ve already received the necessary keys and data from Executor Udrin.”

“You will have your own room and we will give you access to the residence’s servitor intelligence,” said Iris as she scooched over to Anastajia. ”We have a very nice entertain—”

“I will be exploring the planetary surface in my spare time, if that’s not much of an issue to you,” Anastajia cut her off.

“It is,” Aleksander answered curtly. “We cannot guarantee your safety outside of our residence, and I don’t want to catch a plasma round to the back of my head from the Executor.”

They passed by a towering skyscraper crowned with a floating garden. Rows of towering trees stood in precise, cultivated patterns, their branches swaying in the wind. Beneath them, a private promenade glistened with water features and statues. Anastajia had only seen such displays of opulence in the residential districts surrounding the Seat of Power. After sparing the sight a few glances, she refocused her attention and Aleksander and Iris.

“I am more than capable of ensuring my own safety,” she answered, sighing. “As for the Executor, if he says something, tell him that you could not stop me.”

Iris frowned and Aleksander scowled. After an awkward moment of silence, Iris perked up.

“Aren’t you afraid he’d...” she paused, looking for the correct words. “Be upset at you jeopardizing his mission? He's your superior, is he not?”

“His mission? Superior?” Anastajia squinted. “Is that what he told you?” she forced herself to laugh, shaking her head.

“Pardon?” muttered Iris.

“Executor Udrin's pride sometimes outweighs his better judgement. I have no doubt he's been a pain your ass so far, hasn't he?” said Anastajia.

Iris and Aleksander nodded along, though they both felt they were listening to something they shouldn’t be. Anastajia frowned, realizing their discomfort.

“Oops. Ah, well, please forget what I said,” she said, wafting her right hand. “If he gives you trouble regarding my leisure time, do let me know.”

“You seem to know him quite well,” said Aleksander as the transporter banked right before easing into a descent. Soon enough, they will be at the residence.

“I’ve met him before. He used to give me some grief for not being Mirati, though we are on much more cordial terms nowadays,” she smiled impishly.

“What changed?” asked Iris curiously.

“I broke his arm.”

---

As the trio stepped out onto the landing platform, a breeze stirred, carrying the scent of freshly oxygenated air, processed and purified to an almost unnatural clarity. The platform was lined with polished black stone, and lush greenery surrounded the entrance-- a curated contrast to the cold, sleek design of the city. It was tranquil here, an engineered escape from the chaotic world below.

“Nice place,” said Anastajia as a pair of servitor automatons came out to greet the trio.

“Pays off to work for one of the strongest men on Nymonax,” said Iris.

“I can see that,” said Anastajia as one of the automatons waited in front of her. “And this…?”

“It wants to take your luggage,” explained Aleksander as he left his and Iris’s jackets with the other automaton. “Just humor it.”

Anastajia stretched out her bag, dropping it in the automaton’s hands.

The Cordero’s apartment was as beautiful inside as it was outside. A cavernous space, with ceilings at least three stories high, walls made of dark, polished stones offset by the warm glow of amber lights embedded in the floor and ceiling. Hanging from above were intricate chandeliers made of sculpted glass, their designs futuristic yet elegant.

To the right, a massive open lounge stretched out, framed by plush, white furniture and sleek glass tables. A fireplace feature ran down below the holographic display, the crackling of fire the only sound breaking the otherwise perfect silence. Beyond the lounge, the windows revealed a panoramic view of the entire city.

“Are you sure you two are working for the Ministry?” asked Anastajia, somewhat stunned by the display of wealth. “You two are ex-military, are you not?”

Aleksander plopped down onto one of the couches as Iris made her way into the kitchen for some refreshments.

“That’s how the Imperium got its hands on us,” he nodded. “And the experience that got us the job at Kastner’s side.”

Aleksander fiddled with a small electronic device before throwing it on the glass table. Slowly, the windows were covered with blinds.

“Iris will show you to your room. Get some rest. We can talk tomorrow.”

---

“So, to summarize, I will be on my own the moment I enter the Shadow Vaults,” said Anastajia. “How will you extract me from the location?”

Aleksander tapped the holographic display a few times, switching from a two-dimensional to a three-dimensional rendition of the vaults. Multiple levels stacked on top with different access points and patrols. A job well done by the Ministry of Truth; this was a very detailed map of the Shadow Vaults.

“You will need to exit through the maintenance tunnels,” he explained, zooming in on the maintenance shaft. “I will arrange a vehicle for you as you exit onto the planet’s lower levels.”

Anastajia nodded.

“You uh…” Iris stammered. “You think you can manage it alone?”

“Shouldn’t be much of an issue,” she answered confidently. “Worst case scenario, I will fight my way out of these vaults.”

Both Aleksander and Iris laughed nervously, but Anastajia meant it earnestly. The two did not really know what she was capable of.

“Very well,” said Aleksander, awkwardly. “I’ll let you know when we’ll manage to get you an opening.”

---

Anastajia stood on the balcony, watching over the city-planet of Nymonax. In the distance, a crystalline bridge connected the upper floors to several luxury high-rises, offering a dizzying view of the city for those who dared to walk it. Private aerial pools clung to the edges of the high-rises, glimmering like rare jewels as evening settled over the planet. In comparison, the Cordero residence, though lavish, was not quite on that level.

“That’s where the members of the Shadow Council live.”

A female voice spoke out, causing Anastajia to glance over her shoulder. It was Iris. She was carrying a small metal tray with a cup of coffee and several sweets. She gave Anastajia a curt nod before setting it next to her on the railing.

“When we first came here, we had to rent an apartment on a much lower level. Could barely get any sunlight,” she explained, handing Anastajia the cup. “Well. Even here, most of the light is artificial.”

Anastajia took the cup, thanking Iris and taking a small sip. It was coffee. Real, genuine, coffee, unlike the caffeinated swill she could get on Miresh. Idrithrel was a fan of tea, so she did not really appreciate good coffee beans. Her Mirati physiology had little use for caffeine anyway.

“I hope you like the coffee. I know it’s hard to get this outside of the human territories,” smiled Iris, rubbing the back of her shoulder like an elder sister.

“It’s good,” Anastajia answered curtly.

Iris nodded, turning around to leave.

“If you need anything else, go ahead and help yourself or tell the automatons.”

“Wait,” Anastajia stopped her. Iris arched an eyebrow, placing her right hand on the railing. “Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.” she nodded.

“You and your husband. You seem like nice people. How did you end up in this position?” Anastajia asked, setting the empty cup back down on the tray.

Iris let out a sigh before explaining.

She took Anastajia through her whole life story and experience. How she became an indebted to the Qwumx Autocracy through her family’s status as a refugee. How she joined the Qwumx Naval Forces and met Aleksander on their last assignment. How everything went wrong in Dark Space and their capture by the Mirati forces stationed nearby. Their forced recruitment by the Imperium and their assignment to infiltrate the upper echelons of Nymonax.

Anastajia nodded through the story, occasionally indulging in the sweets that Iris had brought out. She sympathized with her, since her experience in the Imperium was not too dissimilar. Yes, she was the protégé of the Grand Executor herself, but she was still a warrior of the Imperium. A tool, an instrument, to further the designs of the Empress of Mirati.

After a while, Iris finished recounting the events that led to their current position.

“And that’s that, I suppose,” she summarized. “We’ll see what’s next after this, huh?” she laughed nervously. Anastajia could tell that they’d grown jaded. It’s not the kind of life for everyone.

“Do you want out?” Anastajia asked, staring hard at Iris.

Iris remained silent, swallowing the knot in her throat.

Frowning, Anastajia tried to allay her fears.

“It’s not a trick question,” she said. “Answer honestly,” as she placed her right hand over Iris’s.

“I do,” Iris answered.

“Alright,” said Anastajia. “We’ll talk again after I’ve wrapped up everything on this planet.”

---

The transporter hummed to life as it departed from the sleek landing pad of the Cordero residence, slipping into the low-traffic sky lanes of the upper levels. It glided smoothly at first, slicing through the high-altitude air where the upper-class towers stood like polished monoliths.

As the transport descended, the skyline began to change. The shining glass towers became fewer, their height shrinking with each kilometer, replaced by less extravagant buildings of reinforced steel and older alloys. The atmosphere grew denser, heavier, as they dipped below the clouds.

Anastajia’s transport passed through the first set of mid-level barriers where checkpoint drones lazily scanned passing traffic. Nymonax’s vibrancy dimmed here, though it was still a far cry from the decay waiting below. These mid-levels housed the middle-management, corporate enforces and the professional classes. Buildings here were still tall, but they lacked the architectural elegance of the upper reaches.

Massive holo-ads draped the sides of megastructures, pulsing with vibrant colors as they hawked everything from synthetic food supplements to cybernetic enhancements and entertainment experiences far beyond the reach of most.

The air grew smoggier as they descended further, tinged with the faint scent of recycled ozone and the exhaust of endless transporters. The pristine chrome and colors of the towers above was replaced by dull, utilitarian structure. The streets teemed with life, but it was a more frantic energy – workers leaving their shifts, neon signs flickering in uneven intervals, and below the sky lanes, foot traffic filled the streets, swarming between smaller buildings.

‘What a shithole,’ Anastajia thought to herself. ‘And it’s only getting worse, it seems.’

She was correct. It was a gradual change, but it was unmistakable.

After the transport passed through another checkpoint, the luxury of the city continued to peel away layer by layer. The dull, utilitarian structures gave way to a patchwork of old metal, rusted over in parts, their surfaces marred by decades of grime and graffiti. All the advertisements here were different – cruder, louder, and more desperate. Drugs, back-alley cybernetics and unlicensed augmentations flashed across broken holo-screens, their colors casting an eerie glow over the streets below.

After a while, they passed beneath the level where sunlight could still reach, and darkness crept in from all sides, broken only by the sickly green and red glow of artificial streetlights and the ever-present flicker of failing neon signs. Eventually, her transport reached the levels where millions were packed in – modular habitation blocks stacked on top of each other like endless shoeboxes. Bridges and walkways crisscrossed between the structures, some so thin they looked ready to collapse.

Drones buzzed around the streets like oversized insects, performing menial tasks or delivering packages to people too afraid to leave their units.

Eventually, the transporter landed, and Anastajia stepped out into the streets below. She grimaced as the atmosphere was thickened with pollution; a thin, gray fog clung to the streets, curling between the buildings and wrapping around the lower levels of the habitation blocks like a suffocating veil. Shouts, clattering machinery, the faint echo of music and the occasional burst of gun shots created a symphony of disorder.

No police patrolled here. No armed warriors maintained the peace. It was the survival of the fittest, the land of the poor and other undesirables. She watched as two gangs came head-to-head, solving their grievances with blades and blunt weapons like savages. It was pointless violence.

‘Humans have always had a penchant for suffering,’ the voice of the End called out to her from the deepest crevices of her mind. ‘It seems that not much has changed on human worlds since the Human Empire.’

Anastajia passed through the area, avoiding pipes jutting from the walls, spewing steam and waste. Entire sections seemed to sag, weighed down by neglect; a hazard for anyone having to pass beneath them. She looked over her shoulder, seeing shadows darting between alleyways, the faint glow of fires burning in metal barrels as some people huddled together for warmth.

She was being followed. A couple more turns, and she reached a dead end. Quickly, her pursuers also made their appearance, staring her down with ill intent and a crazed glint in their eyes. Three men, armed with a variety of melee weapons sought to make short work of her, be it for the valuables she was carrying or for the pleasure and thrill. They were malnourished and in poor condition.

One of them spoke, his voice distorted by shoddy vocal implants and patchy cyber-work.

“What’re you doing here, little girl?” he asked, tightening the grip on his knife. He paced left and right nervously, twitchy and itchy.

When he noticed that Anastajia did not answer him, he pointed his blade at her and scowled.

“How about you give us all of your valuables, huh?” he asked, looking at her up and down.

“She seems to be a pretty one, boss,” another one said, scratching violently at a raw wound on his chest. “She’d fetch a pretty price, wouldn’t she?”

“We could just keep her,” the third one said, practically drooling at her sight. “Why don’t you come with me, girl?” and approached greedily, stretching his hand out to her, “I’ll take care of you.”

As soon as he raised his hand, a purple flash whistled through the air in a severing arc. His arm went flying and blood gushed everywhere from the stump. A black sword was now visible in the girl’s hand, glowing with an eerie violet hue as crimson dripped from the edge.

At the sight of their friend’s injury, the other two troublemakers broke off, stumbling and running away through the alleyways they came from like rats scurrying away, crying and screaming.

Anastajia coldly stared down at the man writhing in pain at her feet. Crimson continued to leak from his stump as he lay on his knees in a mixture of his own blood and urine. He’d wet his pants from the pain.

“What’s wrong?” she mocked as she kneeled to his level, turning her head to get a better look at his bleeding hand. “I thought you said you’re going to catch me.”

Her icy words washed over him with a sudden realization. He was now painfully aware of his situation. He raised his head slowly, turning to see her face beneath her cowl. A pair of violet eyes burning brightly, contrasting with the black rebreather mask attached to the powersuit hiding beneath the robe.

He realized his mistake. It was not a simple small girl, but a monster.

“I suppose you won’t be able to catch me, though. Not without a hand, at least.”

Before he could even plead for his life, he could feel the cold metal of the blade on the skin of his throat. Anastajia was holding the blade with a reverse grip, ready to slit his throat with a single, efficient movement.

“Wait, wait!” the man cried out as the blade pressed into his skin, drawing blood. “Please, let me go!”

“Why?”

“I – I can be useful! Yes, I know things around here!” he said, pleading for his case. “Many things! Like gang hideouts and—”

Anastajia pressed the blade harder against his throat, causing him to whimper loudly as tears and snot streamed down his face. Why would she care about the Nymonax’s criminal troubles? It’s for them to sort it out, not her.

“Wait! Wait!” he screamed out, gagging on rough lungfuls of air.

Anastajia paused, sheathing her weapon and standing up slowly.

The man breathed a sigh of relief before receiving a kick to his head, sending him in a daze. He watched the girl disappear into one of the dark alleyways as his gaze slowly darkened.

Whether he’d survive was up to him and him alone.

 

[crisrko]

“You’ve been active in the slums for the past few days, haven’t you?” asked Aleksander, displaying a series of recordings from CCTVs and Drones on the holodisplay.

Anastajia merely shrugged her shoulders, dismissing his question.

Aleksander sighed, “Some of the gangsters you killed down there were informants or muscle for several politicians on Nymonax.”

“And?”

“It complicates things for us. We do not need heightened police presence on the lower levels due to a blood-thirsty justiciar cleaning the streets.”

Anastajia shot him an irritated glance, sending shudders down his spine, “I am not interested in your lectures. Have you found a way to get me inside the vaults yet?”

“It is proving more difficult than we expected,” said Aleksander. “It appears that Benjamin Kastner has been found dead by planetary authorities.”

---

Aboard a lone Battlecruiser, cloaked several star systems away from the capital of the Human Republic, Executor Udrin was overseeing the subterfuge operations on the planet.

His vessel, the Nerwe, was a standard template Battlecruiser of the Imperium’s Naval Forces, granted to him by the Grand Executor when appointed to the Ministry of Truth. In reality, this was a demotion; he was being separated from the structure of the Order of Ecclesia and given a role that does not impact the functions of the Order itself.

“What a blunder!” roared the Executor, smashing his fist through the holotable on the command deck.

Reports of the discovery of Benjamin Kastner had begun flowing in. His body was discovered in the planetary sewage network; discovered by a technician during a maintenance run on the lower levels.

His two bodyguards, Adepts Tirnaea and Hiasha shuddered at his display, though their reaction was a mixture of disdain and disgust, rather than fear; this assignment was beneath them, and they were not fond of the Executor either.

As the Executor continued cursing and destroying the furniture around him, the holoterminal flashed blue. He was being called.

‘Incoming transmission. Incoming transmission.’

The device continued nagging incessantly. With a curt nod from the Executor, Adept Tirnaea stepped forward, opening the transmission channel.

A young Mirati man with dark, purple hair, probably not much older than a century, appeared on the screen. His military uniform and the decorations on the uniform made it clear that he was a high-ranking figure. It was the former Fleet Admiral of the Cenduines Starfleet, Cirdiore Wilderarrow.

Quickly, the Executor and the two Adepts straightened their spines and saluted the Fleet Admiral. His sudden appearance was, for lack of a better word, foreboding.

“My lord,” said Executor Udrin. “How may I be of assistance?”

“Executor Udrin. I am receiving reports from all active cells that the Republic is now on high alert, following the discovery of Benjamin Kastner’s body,” said Fleet Admiral Cirdiore coldly.

“A temporary setback, my lord,” said the Executor, calmly; though, beneath the façade, he was growing increasingly concerned as to how his superiors will regard his utility.

Fleet Admiral Cirdiore continued to regard him with a cold gaze, unmoved by the Executor’s declaration. Several files appeared on the holoterminal and were downloaded almost instantaneously.

In the backgrounds, adepts Tirnaea and Hiasha were navigating through the new information.

“Executor Udrin, I have released additional assets and information that will assist you in this operation. Be advised that we are now aware of Shroud Cultist activities on the planet,” explained the Fleet Admiral. “Judging by their modus operandi, they seem to be the same cultists that made attempts at artefact transports in the past.”

Executor Udrin took a moment to look over the secondary screen and read through the information while the Fleet Admiral continued.

“Additionally, we believe that the same cultists that assisted the Boellian rebellion on Stavanger are present on Nymonax.”

“Are you referring to the human psionic that is in contact with the leadership of the Dannian Confederacy?” he asked.

Fleet Admiral Cirdiore squinted, and for the first time in this call, gave a hint of unease and displeasure. Udrin frowned, realizing his mistake.

“This information is classified,” said the Fleet Admiral. “For your sake, I will not inquire further as to how you’ve obtained this information, but yes, that is correct.”

Udrin took a moment. “In this case I request permission to deploy additional assets on the ground to assist Adept Anastajia Grezeiros.”

“Denied,” answered the Fleet Admiral. “With the Human Republic and the Shadow Council now alert, it is impossible to infiltrate further assets on the ground, let alone psionic ones.”

Indeed. A Human member of the Order of Ecclesia was a rarity. If one was to have a deep look at the Order, they could find other species in its service, but she was the only Human. Smuggling in Mirati psionics was impossible.

“Understood,” said the Executor. “I will make do with current resources. What are we to do with the cultist elements?”

“Terminate them all if you can. If not, ensure that they do not seize the assets either.”

Udrin saluted the Fleet Admiral as the holoterminal dimmed, moving to end the transmission.

“Executor,” the Fleet Admiral cut him off; Udrin stood in his tracks, looking at Cirdiore with increasing concern. “Grand Executor Grezeiros may be busy with the campaign on Acara, but make no mistake, she is aware of your failure today. Your failure has now put her adopted daughter at risk. If she dies, you can be sure you will have a most excruciating death.”

---

Anastajia waltzed through the alleyways with little regard for her surroundings, bumping and moving past scores of low life thugs and criminals unopposed.

A rumor had spread of a psionic woman dressed in a pitch-black cloak killing gangsters left and right in the lower levels. They called her ‘The Justiciar’. Her violet eyes pierced through the darkness, sending the downtrodden in a terrified rout. Their rapid footsteps echoed off the walls, mixing with the occasional clang of a kicked-over trash can.

Eventually, Anastajia reached a small, dark doorway that looked like it had been carved into the side of a habitation module made of rusting metal and living vines. The door was flanked by two large creatures, each standing well over eight feet tall, with skin that seemed to shift colors in the dim light. It was a pair of Sylosi bouncers.

She looked them up and down, inspecting their equipment. Duroceramic armor, shock batons and dark energy pistols dangling at their waistlines. By the looks of it, their equipment was modern and well maintained. She had come to the right place.

“Are you a client?” one of the guards grunted, its voice like gravel being ground together.

Anastajia stepped forward, lowering her cowl and exposing her face. Her voice was distorted by the vocal device embedded in her rebreather.

“I’m here to see Zennel.”

The two guards exchanged a look, then stepped aside without a word. The door slid open with a hiss and Anastajia entered.

Inside, the air was much warmer, almost stifling, and was filled with the low hum of machinery. The room was lit by low, amber lights, revealing a compact but lavish space. Trinkets, artefacts of both human and alien origin were strewn across the room in display cases along the walls. At the end of the room, pillows and silk-like fabrics were strewn across the floor, and in the center of the room, lounging on an elevated platform, was Zennel.

Zennel was a human; sort of, at least. He was more machine than man—tall and lanky with long, spindly mechanical arms. His skin was a dark, shimmering chocolate, and his eyes glowed a piercing crimson from the bionic implants. He wore loose, flowing white robes, giving him an almost spectral appearance.

“Well, well,” Zennel drawled, his voice distorted by the vocal implants. “Is this the rumored justiciar cleaning up the lower levels of Nymonax?”

Anastajia felt an unnatural uneasiness, though she could not say whether the discomfort came from his appearance or not. She stepped forward, her gaze steady, though she could feel the tension in the room.

“I am told that you are the one to seek for information.”

Zennel’s pupils flickered as the bionic implants readjusted their focus on Anastajia, his lips curling into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“And what information would that be?”

“A route into the Shadow Council’s vaults on the planet’s lower levels.”

In the background, the two Sylosi enforcers hissed, moving their hands to draw their pistols.

Zennel stared down at the human girl and raised his hand, motioning his guards to stop. They complied, but Anastajia could feel that they are still on edge.

With the sound of a mechanical whine, Zennel stood up, his robotic lower half creaking and popping as the cyborg straightened. He stood over seven feet tall, almost a foot and a half taller than Anastajia.

She took another glance over her shoulder than refocused on Zennel; his bionic implants shifted again. Slowly, she moved her hand up, grabbing the rebreather device and decoupling it from the rest of her suit, allowing those present to see the rest of her face.

“Let’s talk price,” she said, moving to reach for an attachment at her waist.

Zennel chuckled, a distorted sound that made the hairs on the back of Anastajia’s neck stand on end.

“Straight to the point. I do indeed possess this information, but can you pay?”

Anastajia squinted, then lowered her hand. He was not after credits.

“What do you want?”

Zennel’s grin widened. His limbs unfolded like a predatory insect as he stepped down from the platform with a fluid grace, each metallic step thudding against the surface. He stopped just a few feet away from the girl, considering his words carefully.

“A package,” he said at last. “Something that used to belong to me. It’s been stolen several years ago and is now in the possession of one of this world’s criminal syndicates.”

Anastajia remained silent, unsure of the terms. It wasn’t that the terms were too dangerous, she could make short work of any gangsters on Nymonax, but she had already gone overboard with the killings of criminals on the lower levels. Now that the Shadow Council and the planetary authorities are on high alert due to the death of Benjamin Kastner, it is impossible to tell if they will monitor the situation in the lower habitation modules.

“Retrieve this package from me and I will ensure that you receive the information you need… and I’ll even throw in something a little extra.”

Anastajia nodded.

“Fine.”

Zennel’s smile became something close to genuine. He returned to his seat, reclining as if the matter was already settled. “My men here will transfer the details to your personal device. Try not to get caught—and if you do, make sure to clean after yourself.”

Anastajia turned to the two guards, holding out a datapad in her left hand while she placed the rebreather on her mouth. In a few moments, the details were transferred to her device, and she left the room, leaving an intrigued Zennel behind.

---

Nymonax’s lower habitation modules were a labyrinth of dark, decaying structures, lit only by flickering neon signs and the occasional sputtering light overhead from travelling transports. Its streets were narrow, crowded with vendors selling everything from counterfeit implants to scavenged mechanical components, their stalls pressed up against walls that oozed moisture and grime.

Anastajia moved quickly, blending in as best as she could, but the atmosphere was suffocating. Even with the rebreather, the air smelled of rust and chemical fumes, making it difficult to breathe.

She pulled the cowl closer to her face, keeping her eyes forward as she passed a group of locals who were arguing in a language she didn’t recognize. According to her translation module, this appeared to be a local dialect, a regressive form of human common. She soon came across a larger group and followed in behind them, constantly scanning her surroundings.

Eventually, she broke off from the group and made her way through a series of dimly lit alleyways and sharp turns before exiting into a large atrium-like area. It was dirty, but oddly well maintained. Based on the information she received from Zennel, this was part of the syndicate’s territory.

She tapped a few buttons on her left bracer then held it up in the air as red rays of light streamed into the room. A quick scan later indicated that there were several cameras in the area, but judging by their positioning and field of view, she had not been seen yet. Anastajia pondered for a moment before pressing a few buttons on the bracer again, releasing an electromagnetic pulse into the room; the cameras were disabled for a few seconds, allowing her to dart across the room.

A large metallic door blocked her away. She tugged at the door, but it was locked. Looking around, there appeared to be no terminal to input a passcode or key, just the disabled camera peering down from above. Stretching her right arm to the side, she balled her fist as psionic energy gathered at her fingertips, plowing through the door as she punched it open with a deafening thud. Zennel failed to tell her that stealth was never an option.

Anastajia moved through the corridors quickly, her dark energy pistol drawn and ready. Seconds later, the inhabitants of the building came into view, their weapons aimed towards the end of the corridor.

A first salvo rocked the habitation module as ballistic and energy weapons were fired at Anastajia with little regard for their surroundings; the ballistic rounds bounced off her energy shield, while the laser and plasma rounds dissipated into nothingness as the energy was scattered across the shield’s surface.

“Kill her!” “She’s got an energy shield!” “Keep shooting!” “Get the rest!”

Their shouts echoed through the room as Anastajia returned fire, expertly grouping her shots; two enforcers dropped to their knees, their wounds burning and sizzling as their life faded away.

As soon as she tried to reload, an automatic turret dropped from the ceiling, opening fire with a barrage of large caliber kinetic rounds, shredding the habitation module’s metal and scattering rusted iron in every direction.

Anastajia stopped abruptly, launching herself through one of the doors on the right, breaking through and falling with the door. Before she could even rise to her feet, the turret’s rounds pounded the walls, ripping apart metal and concrete in an arc, the sheer force of the impacts shaking the habitation module at its core. Anastajia felt the wind of a slug whip past her head, deflected by the energy shield, close enough to make her ears ring. An alarm blared in her ears, the energy shield had overheated and temporarily disabled.

Eventually, the turret relented, either due to overheating or running out of ammunition. She could hear the enforcers screaming and shouting back in the hall. In this moment of calm, Anastajia scanned her surroundings. It was a normal habitation module apartment; small, cramped, smelling of mildew. Whatever contents it used to hold now laid broken on the floor, torn apart by the high caliber kinetic rounds from the turret.

She could hear their boots crunching against the shredded concrete, they were closing in. In a powerful stride, she darted through the opening in the wall, stabbing her knife in the closest enforcer she could see; the knife etched in his throat, cutting apart his carotid arteries as blood shot from the wound. She drove forward, using the body for cover as the two enforcers behind him opened fire, tearing his body apart with kinetic and plasma rounds.

Anastajia let the knife go as her eyes shimmered with a blinding violet light and a stream of psionic energy shot forth from the tip of her hands, releasing an unstoppable blast of force through the corridor; the enforcers were sent flying, the turret ripped from the ceiling, before eventually crashing against the wall at the end of the corridor and tearing through it, painting the area in blood and gore. There was no way for any of them to have survived that.

She let out a labored breath and knelt, picking up one of the rifles off the ground. It was Mirati made, an older dark energy rifle model. On closer inspection, the serial and tracking ids were scraped off with some sort of acid. This was not your run of the mill criminal syndicate gear.

Her investigation was cut short by a robotic voice ringing out in the building.

“Who are you?” the voice inquired, distorted with static. It was coming from the habitation module’s intercom. “What do you want? You’ve already killed several of my men and destroyed an auto-turret, do you even know how expensive these are?!”

Anastajia looked around, trying to locate the speaker, but to no avail. She continued moving forward, turning past the corner where the remains of the turret and enforcers were strewn across the rooms. Eventually, she stopped; at the end of the hall was another fortified door, protected by two auto-turrets and several enforcers. The voice on the intercom continued to reach out to her.

“Are you ignoring me?!” the voice spat out in frustration. “What do you want?! I’ve got money, a lot of money. We can solve this peacefully!”

Anastajia squinted, trying to get a better look at the enforcers at the end of the hall. Something felt off about them, like they were not entirely organic; her suit’s biometric systems confirmed this. Two of them were Androids. Combat models, by the look of it, military grade; at one point, even employed by the forces of the Human Empire and later, this Human Republic.

“I’m here for the RulerChip,” said Anastajia, staring at the forces guarding the door.

Static and profanities blared out of the intercom. There was a loud commotion in the background; someone was fighting, throwing items around in a rage. Anastajia couldn’t tell exactly, since the quality of the transmission was poor, at best.

“If you don’t open the door, I’ll simply make my way through.” she said, reaching for the sword attached at her hip. Her eyes were burning a bright violet once again, causing the two organic enforcers to take a step back in fear; she planned on resolving this quickly.

“Screw you!” the voice screamed through the intercom, further distorted by the blown-out speakers.

Before the two auto-turrets could even spring into action, Anastajia stretched out her left hand, enveloped in psionic energy. In the blink of an eye, the two turrets were crushed, sending shrapnel everywhere. One of the enforcers collapsed, clutching at his femur to stop the bleeding and crying out for the others to help him. At the same time, the two Androids sprung forward with powerful strides.

Chaos ensued, as the voice continued to shout profanities through the intercom, barking orders at the enforcers between each insult. Explosions went off as one of the Androids was torn in half, sent flying backwards into the two guards, crushing them underneath its weight.

“I told you I’m not leaving without it,” said Anastajia as she ducked down under the Android’s strike, sending her sword upwards in an arc, severing one of the Android’s elbow joints. Oil and other mechanical fluids spewed out of the severed limb as the Android twisted its lower body to deliver a downward spinning heel kick.

Anastajia nimbly dodged out of the way as the Android’s heel dug into the ground, leaving behind a hole of splintered metal. A single strike carries an immense amount of force; without her armor, she cannot bear the brunt of the damage.

At this point, the damage sustained by the habitation module was severe. Alarms were blaring in the background, alerting residents and nearby citizens that the structure had become dangerous. Anastajia would have to get out of here soon, lest she runs into some form of authorities.

With this in mind, Anastajia charged the Android once again, barreling towards it in a flash of psionic energy. In the blink of an eye, the Android was turned into oil and scrap metal. Whoever was on the intercom had become irate, continuing to shout profanities and threats towards Anastajia as she blew the door to their room open.

---

When Anastajia entered the room, she expected further resistance. Instead, what she came across was a single human male, not much taller than her. He was old, the hair gray and dull; his skin was oily and wrinkly, littered with purple patches from the pollution he’d lived through over the years.

All sorts of machines littered the room; cables draped over the surface of the floor, connecting one device to another all over the place. In the background, the noise created by the machines was deafening; they whirred incessantly as complex calculations and permutations were being done.

Whoever this person was, he was similar to Zennel in a sense. Anastajia could tell with a glance at the large holoprojector in the room; matrices of documents strewn across the projection. People, places, routes and plans. He was, to this criminal syndicate, what Zennel was to the rest of the lower levels.

“I am here for the RulerChip,” said Anastajia as she slid the black sword back in its place. “Give me the RulerChip and I’ll be out of your hair.”

His eyes regarded her hatefully, muttering something incoherently beneath his breath. He tried to reach for a device at the end of his table, but she nagged her finger at him, warning him to not do anything careless.

“Do you know who you’re stealing from?” he snarled, resorting to threats instead. “You’re a dead woman walking.”

“Am I?” she asked, leaning forward towards the old man.

Her eyes burned bright purple, a harrowing light in the dark room, sending shivers down the man’s spine.

“Give me the RulerChip before I decide you’re unneeded,” she said, moving her right hand slowly towards his neck.

Her fingers gripped around his throat, squeezing the life out of him with little emotion. He felt the cartilage in his neck crack and pop, wheezing violently as he gasped for air. His windpipe closed with a crackle; his eyes bloomed red as blood vessels burst in his sclera. His arms flailed about for a few moments before pointing in the direction of one of the computers, desperately trying to tell her that’s what she’s looking for.

Anastajia spared a glance in the direction he pointed, before releasing him back into his seat to convulse, gagging on rough lungfuls of air. She had found what she wanted, storing it in one of the satchels attached to her belt.

“That chip!” the man wheezed as he pointed his wrinkly, long finger at Anastajia. “It was meant for one of the Shadow Councilors! You will pay! You will see!”

Shivering, he continued to mutter incoherently beneath his breath, allowing Anastajia to depart the module without any further resistance.

 

[crisrko]

Anastajia made her way through the winding alleyways of the lower levels as if nothing had happened. Reports of the explosions and destruction of Habitation Module 8182-S-E blared through the news drones and were displayed on the public holodisplays, gathering large crowds of onlookers.

As soon as she reached the dark doorway leading to Zennel’s hideout, the pair of Sylosi bouncers reemerged, giving her a quick nod before pressing a button and letting her in. The door slid open with a hiss, revealing the familiar amber lights and stuffy air.

Inside, Zennel was lounging on his platform once again, his long, spindly mechanical arms draped over the cushions like a padishah enjoying the company of his harem. His chocolate skin shimmered faintly in the light, and his crimson eyes gleamed as Anastajia entered.

“Ah, my resourceful justiciar,” Zennel purred, sitting up slightly. His smile was wide, but it carried the same predatory undertone it always had, “I heard that you’ve raised quite the ruckus.”

“Unfortunately, they were not very cooperative,” said Anastajia, the annoyance in her voice easily discernable. She reached into the pouch at her waist, removing the small case containing the RulerChip and tossed it over to Zennel. “Here’s your chip. You failed to mention they were equipped with Imperium weaponry.”

Zennel’s eyes glinted with amusement, and he rose from his seat, moving towards Anastajia with large, unnatural strides. “I didn’t think it would be necessary. After all, you are a capable soldier of the Imperium, are you not?”

Anastajia crossed her arms, staring up at Zennel with malice, which caused the two Sylosi enforcers to reach for their weapons. Zennel quickly gestured towards them, motioning the two guards to put their arms away. Almost apologetically, he dipped his head lightly in her direction; though Anastajia could tell it was merely performative.

“I am an information broker, my dear. I am long aware of Mirati operations on this planet. Do not act as if you’re surprised.”

Zennel glanced at the case in his hand, pressing a small button and removing the RulerChip from its container. His long fingers traced over the chip before raising it in front of one of his bionic eyes, scanning it. Satisfied, he placed the chip back in its container and offered Anastajia a nod.

“As promised, I’ll help you get inside the Shadow Council’s vaults.”

Zennel reached into the folds of his robes and pulled out a small cube. It was sleek and black, about the size of Anastajia’s palm. Upon a closer look, it was evident that it was a databank. He held it out and Anastajia took it, her eyes never leaving Zennel’s.

“I presume that it contains everything and more, considering your competition will be unable to bother you for a while.”

Zennel’s smile widened. “It contains routes, plans, names and locations, from simple maintenance technicians to mercenary patrols on lower-level access points. I have no doubts it will assist you in your… mission.”

Anastajia pocketed the databank. “Then we’re done here.”

“Ah, one more thing,” Zennel said, raising a long finger. “I trust that you will not do anything as callous as using our deal against me.” His voice was soft, but it was undoubtedly a threat. “I am well aware that I could not kill you, my dear, but I can assure you I will do my hardest.”

Anastajia didn’t flinch, merely giving him a nod as acknowledgement.

Zennel chuckled, his voice distorted by the vocal device. “Do come back if you need anything else in the future!”

Anastajia turned to leave, but before she could take another step, the door slid open. One of Zennel’s guards stepped inside, escorting a single humanoid. A man, wearing a black robe and a crimson mask.

‘Interesting.’ said the End of the Cycle as Anastajia and the man brushed past one another. ‘It seems that you are not the only one interested in the vaults, princess.’ said the End of the Cycle again, ominously.

Anastajia rolled her eyes, instructing the transport to take her back to the Cordero residence.

---

On the other side of Nymonax, the Cordero family’s personal vehicle hummed with quiet efficiency as it glided through the upper layers of the ecumenopolis, cutting through the clean air that felt worlds apart from the slums Anastajia has been investigation for those past few days.

Aleksander sat in the back, his fingers drumming softly on the armrest as he gazed out of the wide, curved window at the holden horizon. Nymonax’s artificial sun was setting, its light casting long shadows across the gleaming towers and shimmering crystal structures that crisscrossed between the skyscrapers.

Seated beside him, Iris adjusted her dress – an understated yet elegant piece in deep crimson that flowed like liquid silk against her skin. Her fingers traced the silver embroidery along the neckline, though Aleksander could tell it was more from nerves than from any need to fix the dress. Tonight, Iris felt the weight of where they were going.

“I still don’t understand why we were invited,” she murmured; her voice low enough that the AI wouldn’t register it.

”Because we’re meant to be seen,” Aleksander replied, his voice equally soft. “Or maybe to prove that we were not involved in Kastner’s death.”

The truth was, they had no choice. When a man like Philimac Etienne summoned you to his banquet, you didn’t decline. It didn’t matter if you were only there to fill a seat at the table, to be one of the many faces in the background while the real power players exchanged favors and secrets. This invitation was a test; they were the aides of Benjamin Kastner, the man whom the Shadow Councilor personally worked with. Failing to show up would ensure that they would not see the end of the week.

The transporter banked gently to the left, turning towards the Tower of Light – the largest residential structure in the luxury district, the symbol of the upper class’s power. Only the wealthiest and most influential could afford to live here, and only the invited could enter. Permanent police and military patrols weaved through the traffic around the district, supplemented by the private protection details employed by the residents. No one could get in undetected, and no one could get out with force.

Aleksander watched through the window as they passed other aerial transports, sleek and luxurious, each of them ferrying guests to the same destination. Eventually, they reached the highest level on Nymonax, and the transport began to descend to the landing pad. Servants in sharp, black uniforms were waiting at attention, guiding guests towards the grand entrance, while soldiers stood guard at varying points on the platform.

“Remember,” Aleksander said quietly, "smile, say the right things, and stay out of the way. We’re here to make it through the night.”

Iris nodded, though her eyes flicked nervously towards the estate: “And avoid Philimac at all costs.”

Slowly, the transporter settled on the landing pad with a soft hiss, the doors sliding open to reveal the entrance to Philimac’s palace. The walkway leading into the estate was flanked by marble columns, their surfaces etched with intricate designs that pulsed softly with light. Statues of long-forgotten rulers lined the path, their expressions frozen in stoic judgement.

Aleksander stepped out first, offering his hand to Iris as she gracefully followed. They moved together, side by side, their footsteps silent on the polished stone beneath them. As they approached the entrance, a servant stepped forward, bowing slightly, before tapping the device in his hands a few times.

“Welcome, sir, ma’am. The Cordero family, I presume. You are expected.”

The towering doors to the estate swung open, revealing the grand hall beyond. Inside, the ceiling stretched impossibly high, adorned with cascading chandeliers that sparkled like constellations in the night sky. Everywhere they looked, there was opulence – flowing fountains, artwork that had been plundered from across the galaxy.

The banquet had already begun.

---

Aleksander and Iris stayed on the periphery, gliding from cluster to cluster with perfectly practiced smiles, exchanging pleasantries with people who wouldn’t remember their names tomorrow. They drank sparingly from the crystal flutes of champagne offered by hovering drones, careful not to let their nerves show. Every glance, every word, every movement was a performance. Here, even the slightest misstep could be noticed, or worse, remembered.

Aleksander’s eyes darted across the room, scanning for Philimac. For the moment, the Shadow Councilor was nowhere to be seen, causing a small flicker of hope to stir in his chest. Perhaps they could escape the night unnoticed.

But that hope was fleeting.

A ripple passed through the room, subtle but unmistakable. Conversations quieted, heads turned, and the atmosphere seemed to shift, like a collective breath. Aleksander froze. He didn’t need to look to know what – or who – had caused it.

Philimac Etienne had entered the hall.

The man was impossible to ignore. He moved with the kind of effortless authority that came from a lifetime of commanding others. His presence wasn’t loud – it was surgical, precise. He was dressed in a deep charcoal gray, his suit perfectly tailored to his lean frame, with subtle lines of shimmering silver embroidery tracing the edges of his lapel. His face was sharp, angular, as if carved from stone, with piercing eyes that seemed to see through the façade of every guest in the room. His hair, silvered at the temples, added an air of gravitas that made him look both ageless and untouchable.

Aleksander and Iris shared a brief, panicked glance. They’d done everything to avoid his attention, staying to the edges of the room, speaking only when spoken to. But Philimac’s gaze swept across the crowd like a blade, and when it landed on them, it lingered. His thin lips curved into the faintest smile – it was not one of warmth.

He began moving towards them.

Aleksander felt his stomach tighten. He forced himself to stand a little taller, to maintain the practiced air of confidence he’d honed over years of maneuvering through the upper levels. Iris, beside him, subtly adjusted her posture, slipping into the composed elegance she wore like a second skin.

When Philimac finally reached them, the crowd parted around him like a tide. He stopped just a step too close, his presence almost suffocating. Up close, his eyes were even more unsettling—like twin pools of dark water, their surface calm but concealing endless depths.

“Aleksander Cordero,” Philimac said, his voice smooth and deliberate. It wasn’t a question; he already knew who Aleksander was, which was somehow more unnerving. His gaze flicked briefly to Iris, taking her in with a glance that felt heavier than it should have. “And this must be your enchanting wife, Iris.”

Iris dipped her head in a slight bow, her voice steady despite the tension in the air. “Councilor Etienne. It’s an honor to be here this evening.”

Philimac ignored the platitude, his attention snapping back to Aleksander. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of speaking before. I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

It wasn’t an accusation—not directly atleast—but the words pressed down on Aleksander like a challenge.

“Not at all, Councilor,” Aleksander said, keeping his tone light. “We were simply trying not to impose. You’ve brought together such an extraordinary gathering—it’s clear this evening is for the most esteemed among us.”

Philimac’s smile didn’t waver, but there was something behind it now, something sharp and dangerous. “A humble answer. But you don’t strike me as the type who blends into the background, Mr. Cordero. Benjamin used to speak highly of your resourcefulness. I make it a habit to pay attention to such individuals.”

Aleksander felt his heartbeat faster, though he kept his expression neutral. “I’m flattered, Councilor. I only hope I can live up to such expectations.”

Philimac tilted his head slightly, studying him like a specimen under glass. “Tell me, Aleksander—do you believe in loyalty?”

The question hung in the air like a knife waiting to drop. Around them, the hum of the banquet continued, but it felt distant, as though the world had narrowed to just the three of them.

“I do,” Aleksander said carefully. “Loyalty is the foundation of trust, and trust is essential in... maintaining order.”

Philimac’s smile widened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “A diplomatic answer. You’ll forgive me if I’m not convinced. Trust, Mr. Cordero, is fragile. It must be earned, nurtured, and—when necessary—tested. Tell me, have you ever been tested?”

Aleksander hesitated for half a heartbeat—just long enough for Philimac to notice. “Every day is a test in its own way, Councilor. I try to rise to the occasion.”

Philimac’s eyes bored into him, unblinking. “Good. Because those who fail tend to... disappear.” He let the word linger, his tone almost casual, as if he were discussing the weather. “I’ll be watching you, Mr. Cordero. You and your lovely companion. I trust you’ll prove yourselves worthy of the opportunities you’ve been given.”

“Of course,” Aleksander said, his voice steady even as a cold sweat formed at the back of his neck. “We’re grateful for every opportunity.”

Philimac gave a slight nod, his smile fading as quickly as it had appeared. Without another word, he turned and melted back into the crowd, leaving Aleksander and Iris standing in stunned silence.

Iris exhaled softly, her composure faltering just enough for Aleksander to notice. “What the hell was that?” she whispered.

Philimac had just made one thing clear: they were expected to fill in Benjamin Kastner’s shoes.

A single word slipped through Aleksander's lips.

"Fuck."

 

[crisrko]

“That went horribly,” said Iris as she carefully exited the transporter with Aleksander’s help, “We’re neck deep in it now.”

Aleksander grimaced as he turned towards the entrance of the Cordero residence, feeling the watchful eyes of the Grand Executor’s apprentice. She was sitting on the balcony railing, swiping over the screen of an unfamiliar datapad. Aleksander didn’t think much of it, instructing the robot assistants to conduct the necessary inspections and maintenance on the transporter.

“So, what now?” Iris asked as the two entered the residence.

“We play along nicely, I suppose,” he answered, massaging his forehead in frustration. “I’ve already sent the Executor a status report. For now, we are to proceed as before.”

“I see.”

Before the two could settle down on the couch, the residence’s message terminal beeped. They’ve received a message.

Aleksander snapped his fingers and instructed the terminal to play the message. An unfamiliar face; a young man in his early twenties with surprisingly child-like features, but the pin on his uniform betrayed his station. He was part of the Human Republic’s administratum. Iris instructed the device to play the message.

“Greetings. I am Robert Carter, Councilor Etienne’s personal aide. Please be aware that the Councilor has instructed the rest of the administratum to begin proceedings for the transfer of power. As of tomorrow, you, Mister Cordero, will formally replace Benjamin Kastner as Councilor for the lower sectors.”

Aleksander and Iris frowned but nonetheless continued listening to the message.

“He expects that nothing will change with this transfer of power, and that he can count on your cooperation moving forward, just like he could count on Benjamin’s. His death, while a tragic event, is ultimately no real setback.”

“Setback, huh?” Iris muttered to herself. Aleksander spared her a quick glance.

“Finally, he will personally contact you to congratulate you on your new position within the next twenty-four hours. Please make yourself available.”

With that, the message ran its course, and the message terminal shut down. Aleksander stood up from the couch, only to see Anastajia stand in the corridor leading to the living room; her appearance caused him to shudder.

“You seem to be on edge,” she said, slowly entering the room. “Judging by the message you’ve received, looks like your appearance at the party didn’t turn out the way you wanted.”

“It was always going to be like this,” Iris explained “Our invites were simply a test, to see what we plan on doing now that Benjamin Kastner is dead.”

“Does he think it was you?” Anastajia asked as she sat down on the couch.

Aleksander shook his head from the side. “I don’t think so. Realistically, he knows that we could not pull off killing him, certainly not alone.”

Anastajia nodded.

“What about you? Have your investigations yielded any results?” he asked, crossing his arms at her.

“Enough to get me inside of the vault,” she declared, much to Aleksander’s and Iris’s surprise. “I am not going to make my move yet, though.”

Anastajia tilted her head, turning it towards Aleksander. Aleksander cleared his throat.

“We’re working on obtaining more information about the Shadow Vault, but we’ve only been acknowledged by the Shadow Councilor. It will take us a while longer yet.”

Anastajia shrugged her shoulders and nodded. “Fine. I’ll be leaving for the lower levels again tomorrow. Don’t contact me unless it’s important.”

---

His footsteps echoed through the long corridors of the facility. He’d been here before, before the start of the Coalition War, back when the project had only begun taking off.

The man stopped, yielding to the security checkpoint. A quick scan showed him to be unarmed, and the security officers allowed him to move past, entering into a wide-open room. Violet light painted the room in its colors; cables and devices were strewn throughout the room, all leading to the centerpiece, a stasis device containing a single tablet.

“It is a marvel, is it not?” an unfamiliar, robotic voice called out from the side. “It is the culmination of centuries of research, Lord Sukarno.”

Sukarno turned towards the voice, only to see a Synthetic Android. He furrowed his eyebrows, before pressing onto the locking mechanism at the base of his mask. His crimson mask came loose amidst a gasp of smoke and steam, displaying his disfigured visage to the Synthetic.

“You will have to forgive me,” said Sukarno. “I am not entirely sure to whom I am speaking to.”

“Oh!” the Synthetic exclaimed, staggering backwards in an exaggerated display of shock and dismay. “How could you?” it whined, before slowly straightening itself out, returning to an eerily calm. “I suppose that I do look different.”

Sukarno paused for a moment. “This way of speaking… Doctor Lazarus? You’re supposed to be dead.”

“I am, in a sense. Your memory does not fail you,” it explained, slowly making its way towards the stasis device. “I was indeed executed by the Galactic Council.”

“Then how?”

“I had my aides secure my personality matrix. As luck would have it, they managed to deliver it to a loyalist cell.”

“Forgive me, Doctor,” Sukarno bowed his head lightly, “I never would have expected you to accept being uploaded to a Synthetic body.”

The Synthetic shrugged lightly, placing its hand on the glass surrounding the stasis device.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Lazarus asked, reveling in the tablet’s light. “To think that I have finally succeeded in synthesizing it.”

“It’s brimming with psionic energy,” Sukarno noted, “Is this the result of the Runic Program?”

“It is. Soon, not only will we bridge the gap to the Imperium, but we will shatter it completely.”

A pair of purple eyes shone in the darkness. Then the second, the third, eventually, an entire battalion’s worth.

Sukarno spared The Synthetic a glance as if asking for his approval; as soon as he received it, he walked over to them, inspecting them one by one. State of the art, military grade androids, the kind that could single handedly lay waste to entire battalions.

“Marvelous,” he muttered under his breath, tracing his fingers across their cold immortal coils. “I can feel the psionic energy emanating from them.”

“Have you heard of our little Mirati visitor, my dear friend?” The Synthetic called out as he shut off the Androids remotely, cutting Sukarno’s fun short.

“Are you referring to the Ecclesian agent?” he asked.

The Synthetic nodded in confirmation.

“I have seen her when I was handling some personal matters on the lower levels. What about it?”

“My little spies have informed me that she is picking at information regarding these vaults. Soon enough, she will be paying me a visit… Thus, there is something I wish to ask of you.”

“I am a loyalist, Doctor Lazarus. Before, now, and forever.” Sukarno barked. “If you are looking for my assistance in capturing her, you shall not have it, though I will not get in your way.”

The Synthetic remained silent for a moment, as if shocked by his old friend’s outburst, but eventually produced a stream of incoherent sounds that could be mistaken for an exasperated sigh.

“Times have changed, Sukarno. You are loyal to something which no longer exists.”

---

Anastajia watched over the bustling activity below from the top of the habitation module. She’s been here for at least a week now, but she still could not get used to the pollution on the lower levels.

Zennel’s information has provided her with the routes and timetables for the maintenance crews that enter the vaults from the lower levels. Provided she could make her way in through those maintenance shafts, she would have unfettered access to the facility’s vents and tunnels.

‘You seem to be troubled, princess,’ said the End in a monotone voice. ‘Care to share your concerns with me?’

‘Aren’t you simply able to read my mind?’ she replied.

‘Of course, but that makes for horrible dialogue,’ explained the End. ‘After all, I’m stuck here with you, I need to pass off time somehow.’

Anastajia pushed herself up as soon as the maintenance convoy passed below them, tethering on the edge of the habitation module as she followed the vehicles with her gaze.

‘I thought time wasn’t really a thing for you,’ Anastajia replied, the snark in her voice not lost on the End.

‘Well, I do suppose I am as old as time itself.’

Anastajia stepped off the ledge, gracefully dropping down on one of the larger vehicles below. It weaved through the narrow routes, eventually leaving the market area and exiting into the maintenance district. Soon enough, the sulfuric smell of the facilities became overbearing.

‘Since you’re not willing to broach the subject yourself, I’ll do you the courtesy of taking the first step,’ said the End. ‘You’re worried about that psionic at the trade broker, aren’t you?’

Anastajia remained silent, holding onto the roof of the vehicle; the magnetic gloves tightly attached to the transporter’s metallic hull allowed her to hold on with minimal effort from her part. She got a few odd looks from the odd drifter and bum lurking in the dark corridors, but she wouldn’t need to worry too much about them.

Eventually, she rolled her eyes and broke her silence.

‘I had the feeling of déjà vu.’

‘Oh? Is it because of what he was wearing?’ the End asked, ‘Reminded you of the cultist on the Taufean home world?’

‘I thought you hadn’t awoken before Idrithrel—’

‘Yes, yes, I lied. Sort of. I am a part of this reality, remember?’

‘No, he felt nothing like that cultist on Kalealise. Honestly? I can't explain it. I just... I wouldn’t wish to fight this guy if I can help it.’

Soon enough, the convoy passed through a large gate and came to a halt. Anastajia rolled off the side of the truck and slid underneath, making use of the scarce lighting inside the complex. Footsteps passed her in every direction; heavy, armored boots and mechanical whirs moved all around, inspecting the vehicles.

Slowly, she crawled towards the front of her vehicle, inspecting her surroundings. She slipped through one of the guard’s blind spots and made her way under the next vehicle inwards.

‘Playing in the mud now, are we?’ the End mocked her with a snicker.

Before Anastajia could reply, the conversation between two of the guards caught her attention.

“Hey, did you see the weirdo with the crimson mask come see the Doctor today?”

“Guy who came on behalf of the Shadow Council? I didn’t get to have a look at him, I was on duty at the northern gate this morning.”

“I heard from a guy working in the lab that he’s old buddies with the Doctor, like, before he became a synth.”

Anastajia furrowed her eyebrows, leaning against the front right wheel as another guard looped around the vehicle.

“Bullshit! Guy would have to be hundreds of years old! What, does he bathe in life-boosters?”

“I don’t know man; I’m just telling you what I heard from Ronan. Apparently, the Doctor and this guy used to be buddies back when the Empire was still around.”

Anastajia peeked from under the vehicle, scanning her surroundings. Not much to hide behind around here, but atleast based on the information from Zennel, the entrance to some of the maintenance vents should be in this room. Picking her moment carefully, Anastajia crawled out and broke into a sprint, using her psionic abilities to dampen the noise.

“I wish I was born earlier, to have seen the Empire, when we used to rule the stars.”

Soon enough, she was out of earshot and inside the facility proper.

 

[crisrko]

By now, Anastajia had spent over an hour traversing those maintenance shafts; something was wrong, and she’d figured it out by now.

Unfortunately, there were only two paths; pressing on the way forward or turning around and finding a way out when the next convoy arrives. At this point, may as well press on and find the exit of the shaft.

Luckily for her, it was only a few more minutes of walking before she could drop down from the shaft inside an unfamiliar building. She looked around, but the shape did not really seem anything like the schematics provided by Zennel. A quick glance at the schematics confirmed her thoughts.

Zennel had duped her; and what makes it even worse, is that she blindly trusted that spindly, lanky, prick.

While the thoughts swirled in her head and she started planning how she would make him pay to cross her, one by one, floodlights turned on, lighting up the room around her. She grimaced, cursing as her eyes adapted to the bright lights.

A single synthetic voice would pull her back to reality.

“Hello.”

Anastajia looked up towards the source of the voice, seeing a single Synthetic standing in an observation room above. His right hand was connected to a control panel while his ocular devices constantly rotated, shifting around as they analyzed something.

Before she could even more, the shaft behind her shut closed with a heavy metallic thud.

“Sorry, it would be inconvenient if you managed to escape through the shaft,” the voice said as its eyes grinded to a halt. “I apologize, my appearance is… unrefined still.”

However, Anastajia was not willing to strike a dialogue, swiftly unholstering her dark energy pistol and shooting a few rounds towards the synth.

Her rounds dissipated in an energy field surrounding the observation room’s window.

“Distasteful,” the synth said, the sound of its voice grinding against Anastajia’s ears due to the heavy distortion, “I am trying to carry out a dialogue here. Is this the kind of education you have received in the Imperium?”

Anastajia frowned; was Zennel aware that she was a soldier of the Imperium? Or has she found herself caught in a larger plot? Her feelings were noticed by the synth, and it continued speaking.

“You seem surprised,” it said. “You shan’t be. I was aware of your identity before you even touched down on this planet.”

“Are you the guy I supposedly pissed off?” she asked, slowly lowering her pistol. Her question stumped the synth, having it tilt its head to the side. “If this is about the RulerChip--”

“You mean that shitty trinket Zennel had you fetch for him?”

That confirms it. Zennel had her tricked from the start, she thought.

“Please do not misunderstand. Zennel is a simple pawn in this entire game. You don’t believe an information broker lives that long on this planet without having some connections to the Republic’s council, do you?”

Anastajia sighed, shaking her head as she scanned the room for any way out. As her eyes darted towards the maintenance shaft once again, the sound of metal grinding across the floor got her attention; slowly, the walls beneath the observation room were coming apart. It was not a wall, but rather a reinforced gate perfectly blending in with the rest of the building.

One by one, additional synths entered the room, their eyes shining a beautiful violet. Odd, Anastajia thought to herself, before refocusing on the synth above.

“I doubt you went through all this simply for a discussion. What do you want from me?” she asked, reloading her dark energy pistol.

“I think you will find that your pistol will not do you much good,” it said, tapping the window in front with its spare hand, “Also, all of those synths you are looking at are cutting edge military hardware.”

Anastajia scowled, but she had already guessed. She knew that her pistol was going to be ineffective, which is why she used this time to configure the weapon to overload. Despite the small quantity of dark energy within these rounds, a detonation of a fully loaded dark energy pistol should be more than enough to blow a transporter out of the sky.

“Is there a reason you haven’t sicced your attack dogs on me?” she asked, unsheathing her sword; the blade’s purple hue briefly attracted the attention of the synth, though it refocused on Anastajia.

“Not particularly,” it said, as the floodlights slowly dimmed. “Nostalgia? I suppose?”

“Nostalgia? Do we know each other?”

For a moment, the noises produced by the synth’s vocal device felt like a sad scoff.

“We do not, though we are not too dissimilar, you see,” it explained. “I will have to capture you now, though, so please, do not resist.”

With a heavy metallic thud, the androids began moving forward, stretching out their arms to the side as they assumed a combat stance. All of them were equipped with lethal weapons. By the looks of it, xentronium. Those were not just military grade hardware; this was more than that.

Anastajia pointed her sword towards them with an open palm as psionic energy coalesced in her hand.

“Yes… let us see,” said the synth.

As the energy shot out of her hand, the unthinkable happened. One of the synths dodged the blast, its eyes burning brightly. Frowning, Anastajia released a stream of psionic energy towards them, but each shot was avoided by the synths with great precision.

Anastajia’s frown slowly grew ever wearier; before she could say something, one of the synths shot forward with incredible speed, a stream of psionic energy in its wake.

Psionic energy?

Anastajia parried the attack, psionic energy shooting to the side as the weapons collided. Their weapons were storing psionic energy! Or were they?

‘Humans will never cease to amaze me,’ said the End from the deep crevices of her mind, ‘This feat is nothing short of insanity.’

Anastajia had no time to think about it as she dodged a secondary attack, throwing her dark energy pistol towards the shaft she came from. An explosion went off upon impact, sending smoke and pieces of sharp metal towards her and the synths. Unfortunately, it was not enough to blow the door open, though it certainly left a dent.

“A special blend of hard-light materials and dark energy,” the synth explained. “Truthfully, this place was extremely expensive. I believe that the craftmanship is quite like what the Imperium can do with hard-light alloys, is it not?”

Anastajia regained her footing, charging forward as she hacked and slashed one synth, tearing its limbs apart one by one.

As her blade cut through its metallic body, she could feel psionic energy escape in all directions before it collapsed to the ground with a thud. This isn’t right, she thought. She’s not supposed to be feeling any psionic energy from the synth, yet reality was staring her in the face. All those synths… had psionic energy.

Before the second synth could stab at her, Anastajia materialized a thick shield of psionic energy, using it to block the attack. As the two collided, she felt it once again.

“What the hell is going on?” she asked aloud.

But this time, the synth did not answer; it was watching the fight with incredible interest. Its creations were losing, sure, but the manifestation of psionic energy by those synths was nothing short of a marvel. This experiment was unlikely to defeat Anastajia, and it knew this too, but to see the technology come to fruition was more than it could ever hope for.

Anastajia on the other hand was stuck in a duel with the rest of the synths; she had taken one down, sure, but there were still five more, and they were learning quickly. Her training with Idrithrel was keeping her alive, but this is a dangerous situation to be in when the enemy is at this level.

“Will you surrender?” the synth asked, though it already knew the answer, “I do wish to have a dialogue with you in less… hostile conditions.”

Anastajia slid forward, driving her sword through the head of one of the synths.

It was enough of an answer.

“Please do not be mistaken. I have no doubt you will eventually destroy all my little soldiers, but more are coming. I certainly do not wish to have to put you in a cage.”

Charming.

“Sooner or later, you will expend the rest of your psionic energy, and you will be subdued.”

Unfortunately for the synth, this would not happen.

Anastajia stopped dead in her tracks, coalescing a large amount of psionic energy around her, expanding it in all directions as the forces violently tore apart everything they touched. One by one, the synths were being shredded by the storm of psionic energy, until none of them remained.

“Fascinating…” it said under its breath, staring in awe at this display of psionic power. Though this awe quickly turned into concern as it watched Anastajia slowly compress the storm into a small ball of psionic energy. Was she going to blast the observation deck apart?

Before it could even gasp, the psionic energy shot towards the maintenance shaft, tearing a large hole through the door. Amidst the billowing smoke, Anastajia disappeared in a trail of psionic energy.

“I knew I made the right decision in coming here…” said the synth, disconnecting from the control panel as the dark energy pistol detonated below, lighting up the entire area in an eerie green.

---

Aleksander and Iris found themselves walking along the long corridors of the Administration, following in the footsteps of their former employer Benjamin Kastner. As they turned the corners and walked through the halls of the building, new faces greeted them with calculated curiosity.

“Those must be Philimac’s dogs,” Iris noted under her breath, just loud enough for Aleksander to hear her.

Aleksander spared a glance over his shoulder, watching their gazes trail behind him. Sure enough, they were being watched, like they thought they would be.

Eventually, the pair reached the former room of their employer; upon entering through the door, the room had evidently been redesigned. Gone were the machines and devices Benjamin used to connect himself to the planet’s informational grid.

Aleksander dragged his hand across the shiny furniture, scrutinizing every nook and cranny of the room. Iris spared no time to check the smaller objects and accessories for listening devices, going as far as scanning the room with her multi-tool.

“Looks clear enough,” she noted, sitting down on one of the couches.

On closer inspection, the redesign was tastefully done. It is certainly opulent, perhaps the Shadow Councilor’s way of saying that this is the kind of life they can live in his employment. Of course, so long as they were loyal to him. Something which they were not, nor could ever be.

Aleksander pulled up his chair, sitting down at the desk, where Benjamin himself used to sit. The AI assistant embedded in the room chimed softly, its voice neutral and sterile.

“Welcome, Councilor Cordero. Your itinerary has been updated per Councilor Etienne’s directives. Would you like a briefing?”

Aleksander and Iris both grimaced, sharing a look for a moment.

Benjamin Kastner’s death, at least in the mind of the Executor, was supposed to eliminate an obstacle in the Republic’s administratum; with careful maneuvering, the Imperium would ensure that a person more amenable to the Mirati would take up his position, and thus their intelligence network in the heart of the Republic would expand.

He was wrong.

At this point, Aleksander thought, the Shadow Councilor was aware that the Executor would move against Benjamin Kastner and secured the power to appoint the next Councilor of Nymonax’s lower levels.

Philimac may not believe that they had a personal hand in the death of Kastner, but he most certainly is aware that they are agents of the Imperium. This appointment, this room, everything about their new office supports this theory. Philimac may have framed this as a promotion, a gift for the sake of a new partnership, but that was not it. It was a warning to them.

It is a leash.

Aleksander clenched his jaw, exhaling through his nose. He looked outside the windows at the city stretched out beneath him like a labyrinth. It was dangerous enough when they were working under Benjamin, but now?

A soft chime broke the silence. It was another message.

Aleksander turned back to the desk, his fingers hovering over the interface before pressing down. Iris stepped to his side as a holographic display materialized, revealing a direct transmission from Philimac’s office. A simple line of text appeared, devoid of pleasantries or excess words.

“Attend to your duties. We will speak soon.”

The two stared at the words for a long moment, and then, with a slow, resigned movement, sat down in their chairs.

---

Anastajia jumped out of the maintenance shaft straight into the building where the convoy previously dropped her off.

Her metallic boots crashed into the ground with a loud thud as smoke and tranquilizing gas billowed behind her from the synths attempts at capturing her. Despite her blunder, she made it out safely, and judging by the scene prepared by the synth, it had no intention of raising any sort of fuss or alarm on a district level.

All of this makes the encounter even stranger. Who was he, really? What did he actually want from her?

Those questions had to wait for now.

“Hey you!” a voice came shouting from the side.

It was one of the soldiers that previously stood guard for the convoy. He screamed as he approached her with his weapon raised.

“Who are you?! How did you get here?”

Anastajia noticed him, slowly raising her hands up in the air. In the distance, another pair of guards was making their way towards them.

“Access to this area is forbidden! Where did--” he paused, looking towards the maintenance shaft. By now, the tranquilizing gas was filling up the entire room. “Gas! Gas!” he screamed towards the two, lowering his weapon to put on his gas mask.

Using this opportunity, Anastajia darted past him, breaking open the gate with a blast of psionic energy that sent all the alarms blaring.

This mission was a complete failure, even by her own standards. It’s not the first time she got herself caught and had to fight her way out of a situation, but to be duped by an information broker? This was embarrassing.

Anastajia cursed under her breath as she disappeared into the maze that was the lower levels of Nymonax.

 

[crisrko]

And slowly, we move to the later half of this arc...

---

Aleksander sat at the head of a long, polished conference table; his hands clasped together to keep them from fidgeting. Across from him sat Representative Elias Rho, a man from the lower levels under his jurisdiction.

Rho didn’t fit in here. His suit was well-made, but slightly worn, lacking the quiet opulence of those worn by the elite of the Republic. He had the look of someone who had fought for everything he had – graying hair combed neatly, but betraying signs of stress and sleepless nights, a scar along his jawline, barely visible against his darker skin. His eyes were sharp, intelligent, and filled with disdain for the setting around him.

Aleksander could feel the tension linger in the air. He had read Rho’s file before the meeting – an advocate for the lower sectors, one of the very few voices willing to challenge the policies handed down from the Shadow Tower. For years, the man had been pushing for resources and infrastructure repairs. And now, instead of speaking to a true Councilor of Nymonax, he was here, sitting across from Aleksander.

They both knew what this meeting really was. It wasn’t a negotiation. It was a dismissal.

Aleksander offered the man a sympathetic smile before speaking.

“You must understand the situation,” he said, keeping his voice level. “Current budget allocations have already been approved. As such, there is no room for additional--”

“There’s always room,” Rho interrupted him, leaning forward slightly. His voice was controlled, but Aleksander could detect a hint of frustration in it. “It’s a matter of priorities, not resources.”

Aleksander inhaled, already feeling the headache forming.

“All lower levels receive their designated funding based on projected needs and economic output. As you are aware, the projections haven’t justified an increase.”

Rho’s expression darkened. “You mean that the numbers have been manipulated to ensure we never qualify for more. Infrastructure on level 87 is failing – I’m talking power surges, water surges, even entire habitation blocks collapsing onto themselves. People are dying, Councilor Cordero.”

Aleksander clenched his jaw. He knew. He’d seen the reports. He even read some of the unsanctioned ones, the ones that paint a much bleaker, much more accurate picture. Unfortunately, knowing and acting were two different things.

“Representative, I don’t set these policies,” Aleksander said, choosing his words carefully. “I execute them.”

Rho let out a bitter laugh. “So then, what exactly do you do here, Councilor? Sign forms? Deliver messages from Philimac Etienne like a well-dressed courier?”

Aleksander exhaled slowly, forcing himself to remain composed, “I ensure stability.”

“Stability,” Rho repeated, whistling with widened eyes. “For whom?”

Aleksander didn’t answer. They both knew the answer.

Rho studied him for a moment before shaking his head.

“When I heard the news of Councilor Kastner’s death, I rejoiced,” he explained, “I figured there is a realistic chance of a new Councilor being appointed, one who was not directly affiliated with the Shadow Councilors.”

Rho smiled bitterly.

“To think we traded a sycophant like Kastner for Philimac’s personal lap dog.”

Aleksander’s balled his fists so hard he felt his fingernails bite into his palms; but he could not allow an outburst. It was not merely his own security at stake here, but also Iris.

“You know,” Rho added, “I investigated you before coming here. I know that you were Benjamin’s personal aide, that he hired you whimsically quite a long way back. I read the reports, on how you personally made small changes to the Councilor’s directives in order to aid the lower levels. You and your wife were instrumental in the relief of the Behrfrangi refugees.”

Rho folded his arms across his chest, staring directly at Aleksander.

“I don’t buy this. I don’t think you like this situation any more than I do.”

It caught Aleksander completely off guard.

“You’re not the kind of man who enjoys being Philimac’s dog,” Rho continued, “So tell me, Councilor Cordero, how long do you think you can pretend the blood is not on your hands before you start drowning in it?”

Aleksander felt a knot in his throat. He could not answer.

Rho stood slowly. “I thought you could be an ally of the lower sectors. I still think think you could be more than this,” he said, sighing. “But I doubt he’ll ever let you.”

With that, Rho turned and walked towards the exist. The doors slid open silently, and the man passed Iris. He spared her a glance as the doors shut behind them, leaving Aleksander alone in the artificial quiet of his office.

---

Somewhere on the surface of Nymonax, hidden away from the vigilant eyes of the galaxy, a dim purple light flickered in the darkness.

Philimac Etienne watched from above, perched on an extravagant seat made of the finest materials this world had to offer. Next to him, the Synthetic Dr. Lazarus manipulated the fine controls of the testing environment below them. It’s been a few days since the encounter between him and Anastajia, and the testing data obtained from the skirmish had been immense.

“Tell me, Doctor,” Philimac said as the wine in his glass softly swirled, “when can I expect enough equipment for my divisions.”

A spectacle was now underway; Sukarno stood in front of a regiment of androids, psionic energy crackling from the tips of his fingers. He moved swiftly, darting between the androids, parrying one and countering another. A phenomenal display of prowess, even to the untrained eyes of the Shadow Councilor himself.

As one android fell, another rose from the ground, repairing itself in mere minutes, better and stronger.

They were learning.

“By the end of the week, you should be able to field an entire division of such androids, Shadow Councilor,” the Doctor answered. “It is a matter of cost.”

“Do not concern yourself with the cost, Doctor,” Philimac retorted, interlocking his fingers as he leaned into his seat. He watched his investment materialize with hawkish eyes; with an army like this, not even the Imperium could contend with him.

Not that it needed to, if all his cards were to fall into place.

Soon enough, the battle between Sukarno and the androids ended in a blinding psionic light.

“What of the Mirati spy?” asked Philimac.

“You mean the Ecclesian human? Escaped. It was expected,” the Doctor answered as he dispatched a cleanup crew to the level below, “Do you wish for me to dispatch forces to the Cordero residence and secure her?”

“No,” he waved his hand dismissively. “The Cordero’s are under my control, and they still have some use yet. Sending our forces to their residence to apprehend the spy would result in pointless deaths.”

“We could send the Androids…” the doctor pondered.

“It’s too soon to reveal our hand, Doctor Lazarus. Based on your reports and on lord Sukarno’s testimony, I do not doubt that your androids would ultimately win…” his words lingered on for a moment, “but it is premature.”

“What would you like me to do then, my dear patron?”

Lazarus gave me a slight bow, the joints of his mechanical body cracking and popping; what a crude vessel for a man of his caliber. Why would he choose to carry out his research in such a rudimentary vessel was beyond imagination.

As Philimac pondered the question, the doors behind them slid open, and Sukarno entered the room, his suit damaged at the sleeves, burnt away by an extreme heat. Philimac turned around in his seat to nod to the man.

A silent greeting exchanged, and Sukarno made for the exit of the facility.

“He is a difficult man, Shadow Councilor. Please, do not hold it against him.”

“I am aware, Doctor. I am not so petty as to dismiss his loyalty due to things like these,” Philimac sighed, turning around to refocus on Lazarus once move. “If Sukarno will not move against the spy, then I will dispatch some of my personal forces to handle the matter.”

Lazarus acknowledged this.

“A suggestion, if I may?”

Philimac nodded.

“Based on the information we have; I do not doubt she will be trying to take out the information broker who sold her out. Perhaps we can use this opportunity.”

“He’s still alive?” Philimac asked, placing the empty glass of wine on his seat’s armrest.

“I do not believe in waste, Shadow Councilor. Zennel is a tool, to be used and to be discarded, but not wasted.”

“Very well, Doctor. We can now move onto the next phase of the plan. Tomorrow, we begin the first phase of our plan.”

To the victor go the spoils.

---

When she first met the agents of the Imperium, Anita was a simple assistant in one of the largest corporations on Nymonax. Her gambling addiction had gotten her into some trouble, and soon enough, her debt spiraled out of control. As if by the grace of God, she had come across a broker willing to lend her the money necessary to pull herself out of her situation. How wrong she was.

At first, they were merely interested in the suppliers and business partners of her organization. As time went on, their demands changed, and Anita was forced to procure more sensitive documents, lest her handler exposed her betrayal to the Republic. It was one thing to become indentured to a corporation; it was another thing to be charged with treason. She’d never see the light of day, shipped off to an asteroid prison facility on the other side of the Republic where no one would ever hear from her again.

Things changed. When news of the death of the Councilor Benjamin Kastner broke out, her handler could no longer be contacted on the planetary surface. One by one, her means of contacting the Imperium had been either jammed or destroyed. It was a systematic dismantlement of the communication system between her and the Imperium’s Ministry of Truth.

Something, someone, was moving in the shadows. Reports of deaths and disappearances were increasing day by day; most of these on the lower levels on the planet, seldom some on the upper levels. She’d not given it much thought initially, but they kept coming in, one after another. All of them, dead ends. All of them, in some shape or form related to the bureaucracy of the Nymonax megacorporations and administrative departments.

On one night, she came home to find her place ransacked. Documents, datapads, destroyed or missing. Someone knew what they were looking for. In the darkness of the night, she left for the transporter parked in front of her residence. When she fuddled for her keys and got the door open, she could hear a pair of footsteps coming from the building across. She could not see them, the entire area appeared to be in complete blackout.

Anita wanted to speak out, but as she could see the two men approach her, her eyes fell upon the insignias on their shoulders. They were a part of the Republic’s foreign intelligence agency. What would happen to her now? They know. This is why she can no longer contact the Imperium. They are aware of the Imperium’s intelligence network, they are the ones who have been dismantling their communications.

Anita knew what would happen to her. She did not want this fate, and her body slowly moved away from the transporter. But before she could even think about running, she saw the two exchange a short glance and raise their arms. They were holding weapons.

As she turned to run, the agents raised their rifles and sprayed a burst of rounds, one hitting the waist, one the stomach and one the chest.

Shortly after, Anita’s body hit the ground, and she did not breathe another.

 

[crisrko]

A few days have passed and the news of public disappearances and increase in murder rate has had the entirety of Nymonax alarmed. All of those killings, though appearing random, served only one purpose. Dismantlement of the Imperium’s apparatus in the Human Republic.

Ilya Shafarova, another seat on the Shadow Council pondered the news with increasing concern. She had received intelligence on the Imperium’s movements from Philimac himself; what’s more, he had notified her and the rest of the Shadow Council that actions will be taken to ensure that the network is destroyed. There is no reason to worry, he said.

At her request, Dan Cho of the Republic’s foreign intelligence agency, was presenting a report on the arrests and killings carried out by his men. His report exposed severe factionalism and discrepancies between the modus operandi employed by the men loyal to him and the institution, and the man that are in Philimac’s pocket.

“I believe, Shadow Councilor, that the Republic stands on a precipice. We have seen attempts at upsetting the balance of power in the past, but nothing like this. Shadow Councilor Etienne is using the Imperium’s operational failure to further his own powerbase.”

“Philimac has always been like this, Commissar. What I want to know, is whether there are greater aspirations at stake here.”

Cho scowled, “It is Philimac, of course he is planning something. My forces are now split between those loyal to me, to the Republic, and those that are in his pocket. I have never seen such an overt show of power in the fifty years that I have served the Republic.”

“And so, what do you propose?” Shafarova asked.

“A motion. Propose an emergency session at the end of this week. Have the Shadow Council order Philimac to relinquish control over his forces, before this all spirals out of control.”

“And what will happen if Philimac refuses to stand down? It will be a war between the members of the Shadow Council.”

“Maybe. But at least if you stop him now there will still be a Shadow Council.”

---

In the middle of the market, Anastajia stood still, looking above the skies were darkened by the Republic’s flotilla. One by one, Battleships arrived around the spaceport until they numbered somewhere over a dozen. Within a few moments, the notifications were broadcasted on the surface.

“INTERPLANETARY TRAVEL NOW SUSPENDED. INTERPLANETARY TRAVEL NOW SUSPENDED. REMAIN IN YOUR SECTORS.”

Someone was making a move on Nymonax. Was this the Shadow Councilor that Aleksander and Iris were speaking about? She figured she should ask them later, but as she peered down at her personal device, the screen was frozen. A bug? Unlikely.

Thinking about it, she’s been unable to establish a connection to the Imperium’s informational network for over half a day now. Informational blackouts were not unheard of, but not one of such a long duration.

As she continued to ponder the information, a woman’s shriek brought her back to reality.

In the distance, a woman was grasping and slapping at a pair of soldiers standing between her and her husband.

“Give him back!” she shrieked, as the man was dragged towards an armored vehicle by another pair of soldiers.

Anastajia could see their uniforms from here. They were part of the foreign intelligence apparatus. They’ve been rounding up individuals over the lower sectors for the better part of three days now.

In a fit of rage, one of the soldiers shoved the woman back with his dark energy rifle, sending her tumbling onto her back, “Enough whining! Consider yourself lucky we’re not arresting you with him!”

“Please!” bellowed the man, tears flowing down his face, “Leave her alone! She’s not part of this! She doesn’t know what she’s doing!”

“Silence, you traitor,” sneered one of the soldiers. “You’re lucky we’re not shooting you right here.”

Across the street from where she stood, another small army unit moved into a habitation module, clearing its levels one by one.

It dawned on her. Informational blackout. Interplanetary travel suspended. Reports of summary executions and arbitrary arrests carried out on the lower levels under the guise of rooting out reason.

This was not a coup, nor was it an overzealous display of force by the police on Nymonax. Somehow, the Imperium’s network was being dismantled in front of her very eyes.

Staying in this place any longer will jeopardize her safety. She needs to make her way back to the Cordero residence and reevaluate her plans. What of Zennel, though?

Anastajia paused, thinking it through. If Zennel was not discarded by his employers, then he would certainly be used as bait. A normal ambush, carried out by normal combat androids and non-psionic humans, she could handle. But if those things from the Vault were to show up, she would not pull through.

With a sigh, Anastajia slipped into the dark alleyways as two shots rang out in the market.

---

Executor Udrin stood before Admiral Cirdiore Wilderarrow with an ashen face; his head was throbbing; his hands were trembling and beads of water formed at the base of his forehead. He was struggling for the words to come out, but none would escape his lips.

“Complete informational blackout,” the Admiral declared, his voice cutting the silence like a searing blade, “several planetary level handlers captured, killed, or missing. Assets through-out Nymonax murdered by the Shadow Council.”

Reports were still coming in; the Imperium agents who somehow managed to escape the Shadow Council’s purge were now attempting to get off planet. Over the span of an hour, over a hundred Mirati cells were purged on Nymonax, and system imagining indicates that a complete blockade of the Nymonax star port is now under way; no ships are getting in or out.

Udrin could do nothing but watch the reports blankly as the thoughts swirled in his mind.

“Someone, somehow, was able to obtain comprehensive lists of your operations. Hundreds of collaborators and their handlers dead! What’s worse, if this information goes public, we will have a diplomatic incident of unprecedented levels!” the Admiral roared through the transmission.

“My lord, I--” he stammered, unable to form a coherent sentence, “I do not--”

“By my authority as Admiral of the Naval Forces and Executor of the Order of Ecclesia, I hereby dismiss you from your post and place you under arrest until a full investigation can be carried out. Adepts, carry out my orders.”

With that, Adepts Tirnaea and Hiasha moved forward, subduing Executor Udrin with little resistance.

“Admiral, please! I could not—” he tried to call out to the Admiral, but the cold butt of a dark energy rifle struck his temple, and his vision went dark.

---

Nymonax’s Grand Amphitheater was overflowing. Thousands of citizens, councilors and officials filled the space, their eyes fixed on the towering holoscreens that projected a larger-than-life image of Councilor Philimac Etienne. Even those who could not secure a seat in the hall stood outside in the plazas and markets, where the speech was broadcast across the ecumenopolis.

The air was thick with anticipation, a restless energy rippling through the crowd like an oncoming storm.

And then, the lights dimmed. A single spotlight illuminated the stage, casting a long shadow behind the man who stood now before them.

Councilor Etienne.

He did not raise his hands or gesture for silence. When he stepped forward, the murmurs died, swallowed by his presence. He was dressed in deep, imposing gray, his suit lined with faint streaks of silver, echoing the towering structures of Nymonax itself. His expression was composed, stern but calm.

When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth, authoritative.

“Citizens of the Republic. Loyal sons and daughters. We are at war.”

Silence. Even the air itself felt still.

“Not a war fought with fleets and armies, but one waged in the shadows, against enemies who do not wear uniforms, who do not fly banners, who do not fight honorably.” His eyes swept through the room, sharp as a blade. “They have come to our worlds in secret, burrowing into our institutions, poisoning our society. They do not seek victory in battle, but the slow rot of our civilization.”

The crowd shifted uneasily. It was not fear, but it was something close to it.

Then, the holoscreens changed. Images flickered to life – intercepted communications filled with redacted text, security footage of shadowy figures exchanging encrypted data.

The cold-blooded murder of Councilor Benjamin Kastner.

The crest of a foreign power flashing – the Mirati Imperium.

After a few seconds, it was replaced with a line of damning words:

FOREIGN AGENTS COMPROMISED WITHIN OUR RANKS.

A murmur rippled through the assembly, whispers of unease turning into something more volatile. Suspicion. Anger.

Philimac continued, his voice steady, controlled.

“These spies, these saboteurs, did not act alone. No conspiracy thrives without collaborators – without traitors in our midst. There are those among us who would sell our future for their own gain, who would place their own ambitions above the security of our people.”

Another flicker of the holoscreens. Arrest records. Names and faces. Some of them were unfamiliar bureaucrats, others were simple workers in the many megacorporations of the Republic, but others – others were well-known figures in the political spheres. Advocates. Dissenters. Enemies of the Shadow Council.

Their reaction was immediate. Some in the crowd gasped, others clenched their fists, muttering under their breath.

“Hundreds of years after the Coalition War, the cataclysmic event that saw the human worlds torn and ripped asunder and our species expulsion through-out the galaxy, the Imperium has once again reared its ugly head, sowing dissent on our worlds and tainting the very bedrock of our society.”

Slowly, the emotion Philimac had so carefully cultivated was beginning to take shape.

“I have already notified the Federal Council of my intentions, and I advise the Councilors of the other worlds of the Republic to heed my words.”

He paused for a moment, watching the anticipation of the crowd.

“I will not allow such treachery to continue”, he declared, his voice rising – not in volume, but in weight. “By my authority as the Councilor of Nymonax, I hereby authorize the immediate detainment of all individuals suspected of collusion with the Mirati Imperium. One by one, we will root out these traitors, until Nymonax, and the Republic itself, are pure once more.”

The murmurs gave way to applause. Hesitant at first, then growing, swelling, flowing through the amphitheater like a wave.

Philimac let it build. He stood tall, allowing them to bask in the certainty he provided.

And then, just as the applause began to fade, he leaned forward slightly, his next words spoken with quiet finality.

“I will not ask for your trust. I command it.”

And so, the crowd roared.

 

[crisrko]

“This is outrageous!” the man banged his fist into the table, causing it to rattle, “This is nothing short of a coup!”

“Philimac is declaring war on us all! My men have been arrested, I have had shipments destroyed or seized under the pretense of planetary security!” another screamed, pointing his finger at Philimac’s empty seat.

Shafarova felt her head throb. Cho was right.

It started with business magnates finding their assets frozen, their shipments intercepted and their private security forces disarmed. Councilors hostile to Philimac were escorted from their homes under the cover of darkness, swallowed by unmarked transports, never to be seen again.

He orchestrated these events with surgical precision, quickly cutting away at the power base of the Shadow Council.

Now, the streets of the lower sectors pulsed with tension. Kingpins and warlords who had once walked with impunity now looked over their shoulders. Warehouses were raided, entire supply lines were seized in coordinated strikes. His enforcers moved through the underbelly of the ecumenopolis like a cleansing fire, dismantling the support structures of those who had once been his allies.

His message was clear.

No one was untouchable.

As Shafarova continued to ponder over the events, the screams of one of her colleagues snapped her back to reality. It was Shadow Councilor Ritt, the Councilor for the fifth sector’s upper levels.

“Ilya. What do you think?”

The eyes of the Shadow Council fell upon her as she began to speak.

---

Aleksander and Iris sat in the office, the glow of the holodisplay illuminating their tense expressions. They were reviewing the latest seizues – shipments impounded at the orbital docks, manufacturing districts placed under “emergency audits”, entire industrial hubs forced into compliance.

These were not small operations; these were the lifelines of the ecumenopolis’s big players, the same men and women who had once been Philimac’s business partners.

A soft chime signaled an incoming transmission. Aleksander exhaled sharply and tapped the interface. Another holographic display flickered to life, revealing a grim-faced Administrator Voss, one of Benjamin Kastner’s former enforcers.

Administrator Voss, after the death of his former patron, aligned himself with Shadow Councilor Philimac Etienne, much like the Cordero’s.

“Another raid,” Voss said, skipping the pleasantries. “Level 15. Veylan Consortium’s hub.”

Aleksander frowned. “Veylan? I thought Veylan was neutral.”

Voss snorted. “Not anymore. Philimac had us hit his warehouses. We’ve arrested his people, impounded his entire trade fleet.” He paused for a moment. “It’s getting bad down there.”

Aleksander rubbed his temples, cursing the situation. He was navigating this entire conflict blindly; the Imperium could no longer be contacted. For all he knows, the Ministry of Truth had disavowed him and Iris as assets and they were entirely on their own. What else was he supposed to do but play along with Philimac? He was a puppet on his strings.

“How bad is it?”

Voss leaned forward, lowering his voice as if they were sitting across from each other, “It’s real bad. We’re not hitting foreign assets anymore. We used to only hit Imperium connections, but now? We’re going after former allies. We’re hitting the rest of the Shadow Council.”

People who were once untouchable.

Aleksander looked over the reports on his screen, skimming through the names. Some of them were expected – businessmen with questionable loyalties who even Kastner wished to purge before, some minor officials who refused to align themselves with the power blocs on the planet.

But some of the names were surprising.

Councilor Lior Veylan, detained.

Administrator Thomas Ishikawa, under investigation.

Adebayo Olatunji, missing, suspected fugitive.

Aleksander felt his stomach tighten. Those people used to work for him; they used to shake his hand, share in the spoils of his victories. Now, they were being erased, one by one.

Aleksander looked back at Voss, “Has there been any pushback?”

Voss hesitated for a moment, then nodded, “Retaliations. A few skirmishes in the industrial districts. Some of the old guard aren’t going down without a fight. We’ve lost some men.”

Aleksander let out a slow breath. He knew this is how wars start.

A new alert flashed on his display – a restricted order from Philimac’s aide, Robert Carter. Upcoming seizure operations – Level 60 and above. Higher targets. Wealthier. People with real power of their own.

Aleksander’s pulse quickened as beads of sweat began forming on his forehead in response to the noise. With a dry throat, he spoke. “Who’s next?”

Voss’s expression darkened. “Ilya Shafarova.”

Aleksander went still. Shafarova. Councilor for the first sector’s upper levels, the richest sector in all of Nymonax. Before becoming a Councilor, she was a shipping magnate. She was, and still is, a kingpin in all but name. She has enough resources to challenge Philimac’s expansion.

Philimac is declaring war on the other Shadow Councilors.

Aleksander met Voss’s gaze, “Shafarova will fight back.”

Voss nodded grimly, “And then all of this stop being a purge.” His voice quieted down, “It becomes a war.”

Philimac is not consolidating power. He is not only ridding Nymonax of the Imperium’s assets. He’s eliminating anyone who could stand against him.

“What of the rest of the Federal Council? Are they making any moves?” Voss asked.

Aleksander shook his head. “They’re watching. Some of the other Planetary Councilors have declared for Philimac, that they support the operations against the Imperium. Others are calling it for what it is, a coup.”

Both Aleksander and Voss took a moment.

“I pray that his ambitions rest in Nymonax, Aleksander. As sick as this Republic is, I do not wish to see it torn apart by a single man’s ambitions.”

 

[crisrko]

At the top of the Shadow tower, in a chamber so vast, lined with towering columns and walls of reinforced glass, it looked over the city below. A circular table stood at the center, occupied by the most powerful figures on the planet – the megacorporations, the Nymonaxian military-industrial complex, the Shadow Councilors.

They were the unseen hands that had shaped the rise of Nymonax, the capital and the most prosperous planet of the Human Republic. Today, they had not come as the rulers they used to be, but as survivors, desperate to end the bloodletting before Philimac swallowed them all.

Shadow Councilor Philimac Etienne arrived last.

He stepped into the chamber with the confidence of a man who had already won. His suit was immaculate, his expression composed and his eyes sweeped over those gathered with quiet amusement. Some of them had already bent the knee, like the representatives of the military-industrial complex. Others, like Shadow Councilor Ritt, sat rigidly, their faces betraying their barely contained fury.

At the head table stood Shadow Councilor Ilya Shafarova, the only person who could boast of contending with him. Her voice was steady, but there was no mistaking the urgency in her words.

“This has gone far enough,” Shafarova declared. “Nymonax cannot endure this war. We have come together to restore order – to end this madness before it consumes us all.”

Philimac listened in silence, his hands resting lightly on the polished table. He allowed the others to speak – express concerns, demands, desperate attempts to reclaim power slipping through their fingers. Some pleaded for compromise. Otherwise, like Ritt, barely hid their threats.

Finally, Philimac spoke.

“You are right. Nymonax, no, the Human Republic, has suffered,” he said smoothly, “not because of me, but because of weakness. Because for too long, men have ruled from the shadows, carving up the ecumenopolis like a prize to be hoarded. You allowed yourselves to line your pockets with money from the Imperium, from the Dannian Confederacy. You betrayed your species.”

He let his gaze drift across the room, letting the weight of his words settle.

“That era is over.”

A silence fell over the table, and Shadow Councilor Ritt leaned forward, his jaw tight. “You hypocrite. You mean to rule alone, is that it? You mean to ignite a new conflict between our species and the rest of the galaxy?”

Murmurs of assent rippled through the room, though they did not bother him. Philimac smiled, “I mean to bring order.”

Shadow Councilor Shafarova intervened. “This planet, this Republic, it cannot function under infighting. We are all here to restore balance, Philimac. Not to give you unchecked rule. We will not bend the knee.”

Philimac sighed pitifully, sparing a smile as if he was indulging the foolish concerns of lesser men.

“You misunderstand, Ilya,” he said smoothly, “I too seek balance. Though balance requires…” he paused, his fingers tapping lightly against the table, “correction.”

A cold silence settled over the room.

Ritt narrowed his eyes, staring directly at Philimac, “Correction? You mean control.”

Philimac merely inclined his head and shrugged his shoulders, “There is no difference.”

The tension thickened, unspoken threats hanging in the air. Some at the table – those who had thrown in their lot with Philimac – remained silent, their faces impassive. Others shifted uncomfortably, realizing that this meeting was never about negotiation.

“It is… unfortunate,” Ilya said softly, as she glanced towards the door.

As her words lingered in the air, the air filled with static, and the lights flickered. In a moment, the reinforced shutters dropped over the windows, encasing the room in a metal cage.

The door swung open, giving way to the thunderous metallic clanking of military boots, as a Republican soldier battalion entered into the room, their weapons drawn and ready.

Some of those seated could only let out gurgling screams as the gunfire started, mowing down all those sat around Philimac. The first to die were the undecided military-industrial complex representatives. Then, it was the megacorporations and the independent Councilors who were too late to pick a side. Panic erupted as the men scrambled for cover, but there was none.

As the screams subsided and the smoke dissipated, Philimac stood alone in his seat, surrounded by dead bodies.

Ilya stared blankly, incredulous at what was before her eyes. They’ve missed? No, there is no way every single one of them missed.

Shadow Councilor Ritt jumped to his feet, screaming, “What is the meaning of this?!”

But Philimac looked at them with pity as the Republican soldier battalion gathered behind him, raising their weapons at his former associates.

“A bold plan, Ilya,” he said softly, “I would have done the same in your position. Unfortunately…” he paused, his words lingering in the deadly silence, “I have already won.”

Shadow Councilor Ritt reached for his waistline, drawing a concealed sidearm, but Philimac didn’t move. He didn’t need to. A single shot rang out, precise and measured. Ritt’s head snapped back, and he slumped over the table, blood pooling against the polished surface.

Ilya stumbled backwards, pressing herself against the wall, her face frozen in horror. She looked towards Philimac, her voice barely a whisper.

“From the start… you knew.”

Philimac finally rose from his seat, adjusting the cuffs of his suit and wiping away the blood on his cheek with a neatly folded handkerchief. “I knew,” he said, his voice still calm and collected.

As Philimac turned to face the exit, he spared one last glance towards the rest of the Shadow Council and from his lips parted the final order. One by one, the remaining members of the Shadow Council were executed where they stood. Those who had already pledged loyalty to him remained untouched, watching in silence, absorbing the lesson the man Philimac Etienne had just taught.

By the time the gunfire ceased, the meeting chamber was drenched in the scent of scorched skin and blood. Control of Nymonax had been established. Not with a battle. Not with a war.

With a single, ruthless purge.

Philimac exhaled, adjusting his jacket as his men secured the scene.

The planet was his.

---

Nymonax was in uproar. Holoscreens were playing the latest declarations on repeat – Planetary Councilors, corporate leaders, high-ranking officials of the Republic’s Naval Forces across the sector responded to Philimac’s purge. Some support his efforts, vowing to rid their own worlds of interference and corruption by the other galactic empires. Some denounced him as a tyrant, severing ties and fortifying their own borders.

The Second Human Republic was fracturing.

A civil war between the different planets was now inevitable.

Aleksander exhaled, his breath fogging against the cold glass. With the informational blackout and the purge of the Imperium’s network, him and Iris were now alone. Philimac knew, and based on the information that Anastajia has given them, he knows about her as well.

So then why has Philimac not purged them with the rest?

The chime of his door broke the silence. He didn’t turn. He knew who it was.

The doors slid open, and Philimac stepped inside, followed by his personal aide, Robert Carter. He moved with that same unshakable certainty.

Philimac took a brief glance around the room.

“I see your wife is not here today,” he said, “Do send her my kindest regards.”

Aleksander remained silent, turning around and giving the man a curt bow.

“You’ve seen the broadcasts,” Philimac said. It wasn’t a question.

Aleksander nodded.

Philimac stepped beside him, gazing out at the city below. Robert stood by the entrance to the office silently, watching over Aleksander’s every movement.

“Rhodos, Avalon, Praxis and other planets have declared to be in support of my actions and are mobilizing their fleets as we speak. On the other hand, the rest of the Federal Council are mobilizing for an attack on Nymonax.”

Aleksander’s hands clenched into fists, “You’ve backed us into a war.”

Philimac’s expression remained unreadable however, “No, Aleksander. I have broken the status quo.”

Aleksander swallowed hard.

Philimac turned around, watching him with a cold gaze.

“It will be difficult. It will be… painful, yet it is something needed. Our people are spread throughout the galaxy. You…” he pointed his index finger at him, slowly, “You should know what I mean. You, who were indentured to the Qwumx, by virtue of being born in a refugee family,” his voice turned sharp, angry even, “Parents who were forced to flee war and persecution.”

Aleksander felt his throat tighten. He wanted to argue, but he knew that Philimac was correct. Humans have suffered after the end of the Coalition War, carved and spread out as trophies to the different factions of the coalition. Right. Wrong. Righteousness was merely in the eye of the beholder.

Was he any different? He was sent on a suicide mission by the Qwumx, survived one of the most hellish planets in this entire galaxy, and when he thought he was saved… the Imperium latched a collar onto him, blackmailing both him and Iris into working for them.

Work for the Imperium, and live and die in the name of the Mirati Ministry of Truth or betray the Imperium and be killed for it. And if by some sort of miracle they are not killed by the Imperium, they will certainly be executed by the Republic for treason.

Deep down, Aleksander knew this. And so did Philimac.

"Soon, they will convene in the Galactic Council. They will discuss how this will all play out. We will rearm. The Imperium will seek intervention, others will denounce us, try to ensure we do not rise again, but their motions will fail."

Philimac has bloodied the Imperium’s nose.

There will be a civil war.

It doesn’t matter anymore.

There is no way out for him and Iris.

 

[crisrko]

“People of the Republic. We will stand against the usurper.”

This declaration came not from the polished towers, nor from the secluded chambers of the Nymonaxian elite. It came from a world scarred by industry, where the streets were lined with factories and the people had long been forgotten by the powerful.

Dominic Solas stood at a podium in the heart of the Republic’s last true stronghold – Vernia, the capital of those who refused to kneel. The chamber behind him was old, the marble pillars cracked from years of wear, but it still stood. It had stood for centuries, through the Coalition War, through the strife following the dissolution of the Human Empire, through the rise and fall of countless would-be tyrants.

Now, it would stand against Philimac Etienne and his order of terror.

Solas was not a politician. He was not born into power. He’d been a soldier, once – a man who fought on the front lines, who had bled for the Republic in its infancy, while men like Philimac danced among the elite. He had spent years watching the cracks form in the system, watching as ambition and corruption tore at the foundation of the Second Human Republic.

He had seen the warning signs before anyone else.

Now, it was here.

He stood before a crowd of representatives, officers and civilians alike, their faces hard, their spirits tested. They were tired – but they were not broken.

“Councilor Etienne seeks to finish what he started.” His voice was steady, unshaken. “He has purged those who stood in his way. He has turned the worlds of the Republic against each other, stirring fear and hated to consolidate his power. He seeks to destroy the Republic and repurpose it for his own designs.”

A murmur spread through the assembled officials. Some were afraid, others merely waiting for what came next.

“Do not be mistaken. This is not about order. It is not about security. It is about control. It is about a single man, Philimac Etienne.” Solas’s gaze swept the room. “He does not seek to protect our Republic – he seeks to replace it. If we do nothing, he will rule us. We will return to the dark times before the founding of this Republic. A pariah of the Galaxy. Perhaps… even a new Galactic War.”

The weight of his words settled over the chamber.

“I will not let that happen.”

His voice rang with conviction, carried by something greater than power – purpose.

“Our Republic has been founded on more than strength. In the pits of human darkness, as we were beaten and broken, cursed to oblivion by a single man, Emperor Emedev Assen, we built this Republic on the belief that no single man should dictate the fate of all others ever again.”

A silence hung in the air, thick with anticipation.

“I swore an oath – to protect this Republic, not just from enemies from beyond, but also from traitors within. Today, I stand by that oath.”

His gaze turned towards the holocameras, addressing not just the men and women in the room, but every world that sided against Philimac Etienne.

“He seeks war. So be it.”

The room tensed.

“I will not surrender. I will not bow. I will not bend. And neither should you.”

A single voice rose in the hall – an officer slamming a fist to his chest in salute. Another followed. And another. Then the room erupted; cheers, shouts, declarations of defiance. Across the many worlds of Republic, governors and military commanders saw the transmission and made their choice.

Some would resist. Some would fight.

And at that moment, the battle for the Republic would begin.

---

At the same time, on the Human Republic – Dannian Confederation border…

“Attention all personnel! Please evacuate to Dock 6A. Attention all personnel! Please evacuate to Dock 6A.”

Alarms rang out at the Grenze station, sending the personnel aboard into disarray. It was the first time the emergency intercom had been used since the end of the Coalition War.

“What’s going on, Administrator?” Michael asked.

The administrator, an old, frail man well over his hundred twenties shook his shoulders lightly, “We’ve been ordered to evacuate. Please, head to the Dock.”

“This never happened before! Have the Katgan reached out borders? If so, the Navy will make short work of them, will they not?”

“I do not know, my child. Whatever it is, it’s made the Military Command issue an evacuation order. Come on now, let’s go,” the administrator said as he held his hand out towards Michael.

At that moment, the ground shook violently. An explosion set off in the other side of the facility, with Michael and the administrator slumping to the ground due to the blast.

“What the hell was that?!” he yelled out, “Are you okay?!”

“Agh—” the administrator groaned in pain as he laid flat out on his back, “What was that?”

“Attention! Facility under attack! Attention! Facility under attack! Code black! Code black!”

Michael pushed himself up quickly, stumbling towards the windows on the other side of the room. Warships begun to pour into the system from the outer rim, one by one opening fire upon the facility. Amidst the blazing lasers, he could make out the colors and coats of arms.

The Dannian Confederacy.

Another explosion rocked the station, causing the shields to flicker.

“These are not the Katgan… It’s the Dannians… But why?” he could not make any sense of this situation, looking desperately towards the administrator. He could no longer move. He’d only slow him down.

And so, Michael bolted.

He bolted towards the exit room, leaving the old administrator on the ground, screaming his name as gun shots started to ring out in the background. As he made his way through the facility, he could see the Dannians gain entry to the facility. They were taking hostages, yelling in their alien language. They’d shut off their auto-translators.

Those who surrendered were immediately restrained, while those that were too slow or refused to comply were shot down without any sign of remorse, a blatant disregard of galactic rules of engagement.

As he approached Dock 6A he could hear heavy gunfire. Inside, a group of half a dozen Republican marines were holding off the Dannian invaders as the civilians climbed into the shuttles. He had no way of reaching the surrounded marines.

“Get that ship to take off now!” one of the Marines shouted, “We can’t hold off much longer! Move! Move!”

Slowly, the squad moved back towards the vessel as the Dannians continued firing no their positions. At that moment, one of the Dannian soldiers kneeled, unholstering an ATGM. He took aim, firing a rocket in the direction of the ship.

In mere moments, the ship was engulfed in fire and smoke. A few marines were hurled towards the invading troops who took no prisoners. They were executed one by one with a burst from their rifles.

“I need to get away… I need to—” he cried out as he turned around to flee from the dock. He stood against one of the invaders, and his body froze. His legs would not move. With a single loud bang, it was over.

---

“We will not allow the Republic to rearm. Not now, not ever. We will not allow the mistakes of the past to repeat themselves!” decreed the speaker, amidst the thunderous applauses of the Galactic Council.

One by one, representatives of the different galactic empires took turns in the Interstellar Assembly, supporting or condemning the Republic’s rearmament initiative. As civil war looms, the many powers of the galaxy are slowly taking sides in the new conflict. While the Lofanasi Conglomerate condemns the Etienne government, the Sylosi Authority, and many other corporatist empires are publicly throwing their support behind them as a means to upset the status quo.

In an unprecedented breach of galactic etiquette, the Dannian Confederacy has announced a military expedition in core Republic territories to ensure that a new militant government cannot take roots in the human worlds. Despite this move being denounced by most members of the Galactic Council, the Taufean Republic vetoed any attempts at sanction against the Confederacy.

As the representatives continued to bicker with one another, the Mirati ambassador took to the floor.

“We propose the deployment of the United Galactic Peacekeeping Forces on the loyalist worlds of the Republic.”

Her proposal rippled through the chamber. Some nodded in agreement. Others remained still.

And then, another voice cut through the air.

“Their fate is not our concern.”

The ambassador of the Taufean Republic, a gray-maned Taufean, spoke with careful detachment.

“After all, this galaxy has more pressing concerns, like the Katgan assaults and the reignited activities of the Cult of the Eater. Plus…” he paused for a moment, “an intervention in the Republic seems to suit the Imperium’s needs more than the rest of the galaxy.”

“That’s short sighted, my dear,” replied the Mirati ambassador, “this conflict is not a local matter. Philimac Etienne’s ambition threatens to destabilize all the human worlds. Should he succeed, he will set his sights on the creation of a new pan-human empire.”

A new voice entered the discussion. It was the Vissari ambassador, “We agree with the Mirati ambassador’s assessment. While this action is distasteful, it is more important to prevent the formation of a new human empire that could threaten the galaxy.”

As the back and forth continued, a single word cut through the chamber like a blade.

“Unacceptable.”

The speaker was the Qwumx ambassador. His elongated features twisted into a scowl as he gazed upon the rest of the council. “This council has no right to dictate the governance of sovereign human worlds. Deploying a so-called peacekeeping force is an act of imperialism by another name. If we allow this to happen, what about the future? Will you do the same when one of us has internal division?”

“We concur,” said the Taufean ambassador once again, “If we send troops now, we will not be peacekeepers, we will be invaders. Action is premature at this stage.”

The Mirati ambassador sighed. She’d seen this all before – conflicts that burned beyond their control because of indecision, because of politics. They squabble over their own personal vendettas as the galaxy tethers towards the flames once again.

The vote came soon after.

As the results appeared on the central display, the Mirati and Vissari ambassadors could do nothing but sigh.

VETOED.

 

[crisrko]

Rain streaked down the windows of the war room, long trails of water catching the light of hovering tacti-drones and status screens. Solas stood at the head of the long, curved table, his hands pressed against the polished surface, studying the digital map of the sector—worlds colored in blue for those who stood with him, red for those who had declared for Philimac. Too much red.

To make matters worse, several border systems were attacked and seized by the Dannian Confederation, and the Galactic Council did nothing but stand by and watch. Important resources were seized in the process and the logistical capacities of his forces have now been diminished by the redrawing of trade routes.

Behind him, aides and commanders shuffled between workstations, voices low but urgent. Civilian evacuations. Requisition bottlenecks. Fleet readiness reports.

Fleet.

Since the dismantling of the Human Empire, the Republic was not allowed to create a true Armada, being confined to a tonnage limit by the peace treaty. In effect, they could not build anything larger than a Cruiser, and even those were limited in number. Mercenary Enclaves were used to police the void of space, alongside token forces from the Galactic Council.

But the Mercenary Enclaves have now declared to side with the Nymonax government, the highest bidder.

Fleet Admiral Mara Thiessen entered the room, tossing a datapad onto the table. “Our recon confirms that Philimac’s forward units are deploying near the Koss Nebulae. He’s consolidating control over key hyperlanes, no doubt intent on splitting our forces apart.”

Solas’s jaw clenched, but he remained silent. Fleet Admiral Thiessen pressed on.

“His fleets are heavier, but they’re spread thin. He’s been requisitioning vessels from the major trade companies on Nymonax, but they’re not enough to cover all sectors. I suggest we hit fast, coordinated, and we can stall him before he builds any momentum.”

Solas nodded slowly, his eyes still on the map, “What of the border worlds?”

“Dannian forces are consolidating their new territories. It does not seem like they have any intentions of pushing in further,” she said grimly, “But, they have not taken any official stance on our internal conflict.”

“And our Vissari friends?” he asked.

Fleet Admiral Thiessen shook her head slowly, “We’ve received several supplies, but they cannot overtly send support due to the Council’s decision.”

Solas turned towards the comms station, letting out a tired sigh, “Schedule the broadcast. I’ll address the free worlds tonight.”

“Very well, sir.”

One by one, the officers returned to their stations. Solas stood there for a moment longer, looking out the rain-streaked windows.

‘Philimac is ready. I can feel it. But so am I.’

---

Philimac Etienne stood in silence, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the movement of ships with the stillness of a statue.

Behind him stood Aleksander Cordero, draped in the high-collared uniform of the new administration. It fit him well, but poorly – like something tailored for a man he is not. His eyes flicked to the tactical displays, then to Philimac, then back again. The war hadn’t started yet, not officially, atleast, but everything was in motion.

Dan Cho, newly anointed director of the Republic’s foreign intelligence agency, and former asset of the Shadow Councilor Shafarova, broke the silence, “I’ve been notified by the Admirals that the fleets are in place. Deployments are proceeding according to your directives.”

Philimac nodded in satisfaction, “Are your men ready, Director?”

Cho affirmed, “Talon Team is ready for deep-system incursions, while Black Team has been activated. We can begin within thirty-six hours.”

Aleksander frowned from the side; he’d not been made aware of these teams. These names were not familiar to him, but nothing good could come out of this either way.

Philimac gave a faint nod, then, without turning, spoke to Aleksander.

“Tell me, Administrator Cordero… What do you make of Solas?”

Aleksander stiffened, “He believes he is doing the right thing.”

A slight smile ghosted across Philimac’s lips, visible in his reflection, “So a noble fool, then? Dangerous, in his own way. Their kind always is.”

Philimac then turned to face the holographic map – as the data flickered, dozens of free worlds slowly began to glow in Solas’s defiant blue.

“Solas has an expectation that this war will be a prolonged affair. A defiant stand against the new order.”

Philimac slowly turned his gaze towards Aleksander, “Revolutions have never been decided by fleets alone.”

He stepped forward, tapping a sector on the holomap – Outer Vernian Space. Blue. Bright. Loyal to Solas and the ideals of the Republic, “Dozens of systems believe they are untouchable. That war will not reach them until the fleets arrive,” his finger slid along to a dozen other nodes, “But the war doesn’t begin with ships. It begins with sabotage… chaos… Fear.”

Aleksander’s throat tightened. He finally understood, “You’ve placed assets on the free worlds before any declaration?”

Philimac turned slowly towards him, his hands still clasped behind his back, “I’ve long anticipated that the Republic would splinter. I’ve merely prepared accordingly.”

A murmur of assent came from Director Cho, but Aleksander said nothing.

Philimac walked past the display, speaking with a quiet finality, “Once the first detonations go off – power grids fail, infrastructure collapses, local leaders vanish – Solas will have no choice but to shift from defense to damage control. And when he does…”

He gestured to the red fleets slowly encircling the blue territories.

“…we will close in.”

Aleksander stared at the display, numb. He was no longer shocked by Philimac’s ambition, but by the cold precision of it, the certainty. These weren’t military strategies; these were the tactics of someone who knew how to unmake a civilization from inside out.

“Some of these worlds have civilians who support the Republic, who support your ideals,” Aleksander said quietly, “People who have no part in this.”

“A cruel necessity,” he answered, his voice flat.

“It will not go unanswered by the Galactic Council.”

“It is the Council’s apathy that provided me with this opportunity.”

“The Dannians--”

“Have received concessions in the free world’s border systems and will maintain their neutrality.”

Aleksander shuddered, staring at the man before him. It all made sense slowly. He’d orchestrated the events leading to this confrontation. By the end of this war, the Republic will firmly be under this man’s control. Unless…

“There is one more thing, Administrator Cordero,” Philimac spoke, shattering Aleksander’s train of thoughts, “It has come to my attention that your residence is fostering a foreign agent.”

He felt his heart sink, watching Philimac as he slowly stepped towards him.

“Have no fear. I understand that you and your wife have been threatened by this agent,” he smiled coldly, staring directly into Aleksander’s soul, “and I have already dispatched forces to apprehend her. Do not worry. Your wife has already been extracted while on her way home.”

As Philimac placed his hand on Aleksander’s shoulder, the doors behind them slid open to the sound of heavy boots thudding against the durasteel floors. A pair of soldiers wearing black powerarmor slowly approached Aleksander, surrounding him on each side.

“I will need you to debrief the FIA.”

With the wave of his hand, Aleksander was escorted out of the room and into the dark halls of the Shadow Tower.

 

[crisrko]

It is the third day of blackouts. Anastajia navigated the corridors in the lower sectors carefully, avoiding any police drones and patrols. She’s been in hiding ever since Aleksander and Iris failed to return home three days in a row.

After the purges announced by Councilor Etienne, martial law was declared all over Nymonax. A week after the declaration, the first blackout happened, and with it, entire habitation blocks were wiped out. Collaborators, according to the public broadcasts.

Anastajia ducked under a broken length of conduit, her boots skimming through ankle-deep water. Somewhere far above her, a siren wailed – distant, shrill and meaningless. Entering into a crumbling corridor, she paused, her hand pressed to the wall as she checked the datapad she’d been faithfully carrying with her since the start of her mission. No connection still to the Mirati network. No news. No updates. Just silence.

A skittering sound snapped her attention to the side and her hand went instinctively to the grip of the dark energy pistol hidden beneath her jacket. A feral critter. Thin. Watching her from behind a mesh of garbage bins.

‘It seems that our stay on this planet has started to weigh on your mind, princess,’ mused the End from the deepest crevices of her mind, ‘You’ve been abandoned by the Imperium.’

Anastajia frowned, placing the datapad back in her satchel. She moved forward, avoiding the sharp edges of the crumbling infrastructure.

‘You’ve been running from that psionic and his Androids for the past few days. You are unlikely to escape him forever,’ it stated, flat. ‘You will have to make a decision, sooner than later.’

Anastajia peered towards the ground, her face reflected in the ankle-deep water. She was looking worse to wear. She did not sleep in two days, but the hounds pursuing her were relentless. Any direct confrontation with these monstrosities had her at a disadvantage, but she could not flee forever.

Her image slowly warped, twisted by the manifestation of the End peering back at her.

“What do you want?” she asked, clutching her head.

‘Your control over my powers is waning, princess,’ it sighed. ‘You have had me under boot for so long, caged, pent up…’

It was mocking her.

‘Do you not think you should let me blow off some steam once in a while?’

Anastajia stopped, focusing on the psionic technique taught to her by the Empress. Slowly, the jeer on the End’s face turned into a scowl, and then into a rage.

‘How dare you?’

With an explosion of psionic energy, Anastajia was blown away, crashing through the decrepit pipes and beams at the end of the corridor. When she regained her consciousness, the End stood before her, taking on her shape and clothing. It peered down at her, like a void ready to engulf her whole.

‘You seem to labor under the belief that the Empress’s techniques can control me, yet you could not be more mistaken.’

Her head began to hurt; a sense of oppression and dread slowly overcoming her as the manifestation of the End neared closer. She began hyperventilating, feeling the psionic energies whirling around her, taking shape like unholy specters.

‘There is something I am interested in, on this planet, and it requires for you to meet with that human psionic you’ve been so skillfully avoiding until now.’

Anastajia’s mind was assaulted by an unrelenting barrage of thoughts. Pain flooded her. She was falling without moving, the sight of the dimly lit corridor a circle shrinking above her as she endlessly plunged into the abyss. Every single one of her nerves broke under the sheer psionic strain of this melding of thoughts. She tried to rise to her feet, to call upon her psionic strength, but she could not.

‘Do not resist me, child. I will impart something of equal value to you.’

The End’s voice did not sound like something to deny. It sounded like the wishes and fears she had held ever since Plume had begun training her on Zith.

That single moment, stretched to an eternity under the power of a God, ended as Anastajia collapsed to her knees.

---

It was a brief address. Measured. Ruthless and deliberate.

Across a hundred systems, the face of Councilor Etienne appeared – projected in orbitals, on city banners, broadcast across personal devices and public squares. He spoke with the certainty and gravity of a man who planned for every consequence.

“It is with solemn conviction that I speak to you today. The so-called Free Worlds, under the rogue leadership of Dominic Solas, have refused all diplomatic avenues. They harbor saboteurs, foreign sympathizers and traitors to the Republic. Over the course of these past few weeks, they have undermined the peace and endangered the Republic we have built together, going as far as inviting the Dannian Confederation to send an expeditionary force into our territory.”

“Let history show that this conflict was not chosen by me. But it will be finished by me.”

“Effective immediately, the Authority of Nymonax will consider these self-proclaimed Free Systems to be in an open state of rebellion. All loyal fleets are hereby ordered to engage. All assets aiding the rebellion will be seized. All resistance will be answered swiftly and with impunity.”

“Victory will be swift. For the stability of our Republic, for the future we have yet to shape. We will strike down the traitors and cast off our chains.”

The message repeated. System after system.

And the galaxy froze.

---

In the spiraling tower-complex of the Interstellar Assembly, the atmosphere was suffocatingly silent. Councilors from every member nation sat in wordless observation as the recording played once more. Then the hologram dimmed, and there was only stillness.

It was the presiding Chancellor, Tal-Vek, who broke the silence.

“The declaration is official”, he said. “The Human Republic has been fractured, and war has begun.”

A murmur rippled through the chamber – some whispered, others looked away.

The Vissari ambassador, Eyes of Orange, stood immediately. “We must respond. Councilor Etienne has no legitimacy; he has in effect usurped the leadership of a member-state of this Council. It cannot be allowed to stand.”

“He is legitimate, in the eyes of our Autocracy,” muttered the Qwumx ambassador, staring down the Vissari hawkishly.

Others stayed silent, watching the debate unfold with practiced neutrality. Their silence would condemn the Republic to tear itself apart.

“We will not intervene in internal human disputes. We are already preoccupied with the Katgan incursions in our territories. We advise restraint.” It was the Taufean ambassador, Aju Zhu.

Eyes of Orange could not believe it. His voice rose. “Restraint? We are watching the Republic be usurped by an autocrat. Over a hundred years of democracy, of progress, washed away in blood. And you advise restraint? If we do nothing--”

A booming voice cut him off. It was the Dannian ambassador. “This council will not act. We are wasting our time here. Should you put forth another motion, we will veto it. You do not have the votes to force this through. Let them burn each other out.”

Tal-Vek stood slowly, signalling the end of the session. His voice carried the weight of a man forced into impotence.

“Let this record show: the Galactic Council recognizes the conflict but will remain neutral. No Council assets shall be deployed in intervention.”

The lights dimmed.

And the galaxy turned its gaze elsewhere.

 

[crisrko]

Aleksander sat beneath the flickering strip-lights of his cell; his hands were bound in magnetized restraints, tied to the durasteel table in front of him. The room was cold. Not from temperature – but by design. A silence that pried, that was meant to make men fill it with guilt, with confession.

He could not allow himself to crack yet, not until he knew that his wife was safe.

The door opened with a hydraulic hiss and Director Cho stepped in, his boots sharp against the durasteel floor.

Aleksander didn’t bother standing, merely staring deadpan at him. “Have you come to ask me about the Imperium? Or have you come to ask me if I believe in the Republic?”

Cho sat opposite him, not rising to the bait. “You’re not under trial, Councilor. At least not yet.”

He raised a brow, tilting forward just slightly. “Oh. Just conveniently imprisoned in a blacksite while my former employer, the leader of this planet, starts a war?”

Cho folded his arms, sighing. “You know you’re not here for your opinions. You’re here because the Archon suspects you are an agent of the Imperium. You have been since you have touched down on this planet, long ago.”

Aleksander laughed once, sharp and bitter. “Is that so? And yet he personally handpicked me to be the successor of Councilor Kastner?”

Cho nodded. “Of course. It is as they say. Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.”

The air between them thickened.

“I’ve been trapped under his boot since the day he gave me that office,” Aleksander said, leaning forward. “I have followed his orders faithfully. We both know that.”

Cho regarded him for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, his posture loosened. Not quite relaxed – it was different. Less of an interrogator, and somehow more… human?

“Do you know why the Archon has started this war?” he asked.

Aleksander blinked. “A power grab? To take control of the Republic for himself? To raze his enemies to the ground?”

“It seems that the Imperium has failed to properly educate you on the most powerful man in Nymonax,” he said with derision.

Aleksander swallowed but remained silent.

Cho leaned forward slightly. His voice dropped.

“Much like you, Philimac Etienne was born outside the human worlds. To be more precise, he was born on a world that is now annexed by the Dannian Confederation. An industrial world, Tarsa, if you’d heard of it.”

Aleksander’s eyes widened for a moment. “It was given to the Dannians at the end of the Coalition War. They… Most of the human population was expelled.”

Cho nodded once.

“You might be surprised to hear, but the Archon is over a hundred years old. When the Dannians landed on Tarsa, he was fifteen. He watched his city be flattened by orbital bombardment from the hillside where his family ran. His mother and brother didn’t make it. His father was fighting for the Human Empire, probably fertilizing the soil of some far-away planet.”

Aleksander was quiet now; the pieces shifted in his mind.

“He is a refugee, much like you. He wants power, yes,” Cho continued, “the power to ensure no one can ever take away from him again. Especially not the Galactic Council.”

Aleksander whispered, “He’s fighting a war that ended almost a century ago.”

“He doesn’t see it that way.” Cho’s voice turned colder again. “To him, the Republic is a weak carcass gnawed upon by the Galactic Council, bled dry while it cannot even fend for itself. Disarmed and helpless. Should it survive, it cannot continue this path.”

Aleksander looked down at the table, the cuffs, the walls. “And what of people like me?”

“I suppose, in a sense, you remind him of himself. I’d wager he wants to believe you are on his side, but… people like him never do.”

Cho stood.

“I’ll recommend you remain in containment, for future interrogation. He hasn’t ordered your execution. Yet.”

As he walked toward the door, Aleksander called out. “What of my wife?”

Cho paused, his hand on the panel.

“Safe, for now. The Archon is not yet sure what to do with her.”

The door slid shut, and Aleksander, bound and buried underneath the weight of Philimac’s ambition, sat alone in the cold.

---

The Shadow Tower loomed above the cityscape like a dark monolith. Anastajia’s boots echoed in the deserted plaza before the massive entrance, where two armored guards stood unmoving, their sleek black power armor almost blending into the shadows.

As she approached, they activated their visors, scanning her from head to toe. Their weapons hummed quietly, the energy rounds charged to maximum output, pointed directly at her.

One guard’s voice came through a voice modulator, cold and distorted:

“Identify yourself.”

Anastajia raised her hands slowly.

“I am here to see the Synthetic. I am not here to fight.”

The second guard stepped forward, eyes narrowing.

“No visitors authorized. You will be detained for questioning.”

Anastajia’s hand brushed the pistol hidden beneath her cloak, but she didn’t draw it. Instead, she focused, letting psionic energy ripple subtly around her – a signal meant for only those attuned.

For a moment, the guards stiffened, unsettled by the sudden, almost imperceptible wave of energy. They exchanged a glance, and, without further warning, the lead guard fired. A pulse of blue energy streaked through the air, aiming to incapacitate or kill.

Anastajia reacted instantly – her hand shot out, materializing a shield of psionic energy. The shot dispersed, and before either guard could act further, a cold, resonant voice echoed from the tower’s entrance:

“Stand down.”

It was none other than the masked psionic she encountered in the lower levels, at Zennel’s place.

Reluctantly, the two guards lowered their weapons, standing aside to salute him.

“You’ve come alone,” Sukarno said, his voice steady but filtered by the mask’s vocal modulator.

Anastajia met his gaze without flinching. “I am here because I need answers.”

He nodded slowly, stepping aside to reveal the entrance to the tower itself. “Doctor Lazarus is aware of your arrival.”

---

The corridor opened into the Shadow Tower’s inner sancum – a labyrinthine network of rooms and platforms, the very heart of Philimac Etienne’s new Nymonax.

Sukarno’s footsteps echoed, steady and purposeful amidst the faint purple glow casting cold light on everything. As they made their way deeper into the Tower, they stopped near a raised platform, Sukarno gesturing towards a figure standing motionless there.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he said, his voice still cold and rough. “Dr. Lazarus doesn’t waste time. He serves a master now, so watch yourself.”

Anastajia’s eyes narrowed. “And you? Where do you stand in all of this?”

Sukarno’s mask remained unreadable, but his tone was resolute. “I serve the memory of the Empire. Not this new order, nor its puppets. You’re a wildcard, princess. What you choose next could change everything.”

Before she could respond, a mechanical whirring filled the room, and Dr. Lazarus turned, his synthetic face devoid of expression.

“Anastajia,” his voice was calm, clinical. “You have come. You, who are unique, are the key to advancing my research. I require your cooperation, for the future of my technology.”

He gestured, and beside him, one of the psionic androids activated, the purple eyes scanning her.

“Last time we met, you tried to capture me.”

Dr. Lazarus stepped forward, the faint hum of his synthetic form filling the space between them. His eyes – unnervingly human – locked onto Anastajia’s. Instinctively, she took a single step back, her hand moving towards the weapon at her waist.

“You possess a psionic resonance unlike any I have encountered,” he said, voice measured. “Your powers are not inherited, nor accidental. They are something more. You, too, know this.”

Somewhere, somehow, she could feel the End’s amusement. Lazarus continued.

“Your powers are a fragment of what some may consider a deity, a psionic force on par with what humanity once worshipped. A God. A Shroud God.”

Anastajia frowned, but she said nothing.

Lazarus maintained his stare, the emotionless synthetic gaze unnerving Anastajia to her very core.

“I was present during the final days of the Empire,” he continued. “I observed the events that led to its collapse – the shattering of the Emperor’s psionic bond. You, Anastajia, are one of three pieces. You, much like the Mirati Empress possess a fragment of the End, are the inheritor of the Human Empire’s legacy.”

His gaze sharpened. “You do not know how you came to possess this fragment, do you? You believe that you are a child lost to history. An orphan from the Dark Space of this Galaxy. You are so much more.”

Anastajia swallowed hard, her suspicion warring with a flicker of hope.

“I seek to stabilize the psionic shards I have embedded within these synthetic vessels – to create a permanent, replicable power source, capable of far greater output than organic hosts can sustain. Your cooperation will accelerate this research.”

He paused, his voice lowering just slightly. “In exchange, I will share with you what I know – the true nature of the fragments of the End. I will share with you the secrets of your lineage, and the forces working to control or destroy you.”

The android beside him shifted, a reminder of the stakes.

“What do you say?”

 

[crisrko]

Anastajia crossed her arms, the dim light catching the faint shimmer of her cloak, still damp from the rain outside.

“I want to know what those things are – the ones chasing me. They aren’t just machines, are they?”

She motioned towards the android.

“They are, and at the same time, are not,” explained Lazarus. “Tell me, are you familiar with psionic theory?”

Anastajia shook her head slightly. “Only the basics.”

Lazarus nodded, awkwardly clasping his mechanical hands behind his back. “It is commonly believed that the common denominator of psionic beings is the existence of a soul.”

“Which a machine does not possess,” she added.

“Spiritualist claptrap,” Lazarus barked back. “Through-out the history of this galaxy, there has been evidence of Machines being able to access the Shroud. Not as easily as us organics, mind you, but they can absolutely do it.”

Anastajia furrowed her eyebrows but listened on.

“Long ago, the Human Empire retrieved a machine from a corrosive planet, designated S875. In our creativity, we have labeled this machine, the S875.1 Warform. Once we have powered this warform, we have learned a great deal about the many beings dwelling within the Shroud. Does the ‘Animator of Clay’ mean anything to you?”

She shook her head, and Lazarus continued.

“It appears to be a Shroud entity that focuses on machines. We’ve cross referenced this information with galactic archives, and learned that in the past, machine empires have been able to contact this entity. Machines, interacting with a Shroud being. It is incredible, do you not believe so?”

Anastajia kept her arms folded, her expression unmoved. “I suppose, though that is far from conclusive evidence.”

Lazarus nodded in agreement, his eyes locked onto Anastajia’s once more. “Indeed. But look at Zroni crystals. Do you know that machines can be used to access the information stored in them?”

She had read something of the sort in one of the libraries in the Ecclesian temple. Scripts talking of Mirati servitor machines aeons ago that were imbued with knowledge; it is plausible that the process used by the Mirati was something similar. Even then, she had witnessed the Order of Psion using machines to verify dangerous artifacts retrieved from ancient vaults.

“Now, there is the question of true intelligence. Does a machine require true intelligence to be able to have a connection to the Shroud and other psionics? Perhaps, to interface directly with the Shroud, but we are not there yet.”

Lazarus stepped forward, connecting one of his appendages to the external port of the android. With a mechanical clink, the android’s purple eyes burned brighter, releasing a suffocating psionic aura that caused Anastajia to grimace.

“As you can see,” he explained, “while they cannot interface with the Shroud directly, their programming allows them to wield the psionic energy stored in these shards, at least to a degree.”

“But they cannot do anything complex with it…” mulled Anastajia.

“Correct. Is this due to the source of the psionic energy, I wonder, or is it the process itself that is flawed?” he lamented, before turning towards her once again. “This is where you come in.”

“Explain,” she said, her hand still hovering over the hilt of her sword.

“You contain a fragment of psionic energy that possesses a consciousness. A phenomenally strong one, at that.”

Her shoulders tensed, jaw tightening. “You don’t know that.”

“I do not,” he admitted. “But I can feel it. You’ve seen it too, haven’t you? The manifestation. The voice… the presence.”

The End of the Cycle. It was quiet now, but it always listened. Always watched. Always a part of her.

“What do you want from me exactly?” she asked.

Lazarus moved closer, his voice almost gentle, even if distorted by the voice modulator embedded in his mechanical body. “Cooperation. Controlled conditions. A shared experiment. Your connection to this entity is unique – unstable. But if I can study you, even briefly, I can contain it. No hosts. No minds. Just pure power. Contained. Usable.”

He paced slowly, like a professor lecturing a dangerous prodigy. “In return, I offer you knowledge. Of the destruction of the Human Empire. Of what followed. Of who you really are. Of what they kept away from you. I will set you free.”

The silence between them stretched like a wire drawn taut.

“You’ll help me,” she said at last, “or you’ll try to use me. Don’t pretend its anything else.”

Lazarus stopped. “Perhaps. But I am your only path forward now.”

He lifted a hand towards the gently pulsing psionic shard embedded in the android, it’s light flickering like a distant star about to wink out. Slowly, the aura died out, and the machine powered down, slumping forward.

“You will help me, Anastajia – be this willingly, or unwillingly.”

She held his gaze. If this was manipulation, it was subtle, layered beneath reason and necessity. But there were no allies here. No orders. No time to waste waiting on a response from the Imperium’s shadows. She’s been on the run for too long.

“One test,” she said coldly. “That’s all. No deep scans. No implants, or any attempts at controlling me. I am not your prototype.”

Lazarus inclined his head – not quite a bow, but close enough. “As you wish. We begin at your convenience.”

In the shadows, Sukarno remained still. Watching. Not endorsing. Not refusing. A silent judge caught between loyalty and calculation.

---

Aleksander sat slumped on the edge of the metal bench, his wrists still raw from the restraints. He hadn’t slept. Couldn’t. Not with the same question gnawing at him with every breath:

‘Where is Iris?’

The door slid open again.

Director Cho stepped inside, a datapad in his hand, though he hadn’t glanced at it in a while. His gaze was fixed on Aleksander like a blade he hadn’t decided to sheathe or strike with.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said.

Aleksander looked up slowly, eyes hollow but steady. “Talking here doesn’t amount to much.”

Cho approached. He didn’t sit this time. He didn’t need to.

“She’s still alive,” he said.

Aleksander blinked. His body stiffened – but he didn’t speak.

“She’s being held in a secure residential wing. No charges,” Cho added. “Yet.”

He exhaled slowly, controlled. “Then you’re here to offer me a bargain.”

Cho gave a small nod. “Philimac sees use in you. You’re articulate. Military trained by the Imperium. And… liked by enough people in the lower sectors.”

“And should I not cooperate?”

Cho didn’t answer right away, but he didn’t need to. The silence answered in his place.

Aleksander rose from the bench, moving slowly, his bones aching like they had aged years since his last breath of fresh air. He approached the wall, leaning his hand against it for support.

“She’s just… a person. A good one. If this way is going to be what you all say it will be, then you know she doesn’t belong in it.”

“Then make yourself useful,” Cho said. “Return into the fold. Publicly. Quietly. Your reinstatement will be staged. You were reviewing corruption in the lower sectors, instigated by actors from the Imperium. Fabricate enough to give Philimac a new, clean, win. In exchange, she walks away, back into your embrace.”

Aleksander swallowed hard. He saw it clearly then – the line before him. It’s not survival, or compromise. It’s submission. But with a purpose. He can still protect Iris.

“I serve…” he said at last, his voice dry and low, “and she’s untouched. Do you swear it?”

“I swear it,” Cho said. “On all that which holds value to me.”

Aleksander nodded slowly, more to himself than to him.

“Then I’m yours,” Aleksander said.

Cho turned to leave.

As the door hissed open, he called out softly, “Tell Philimac… he doesn’t need to threaten me. Not anymore.”

---

The corridors beneath the Shadow Tower were rarely traveled – they were much older than the tower’s recent renovations, constructed before even the advent of the Coalition War. Duraconcrete fused with a variety of alloys, reinforced for different conflicts. Now, it hummed only faintly with the residual power grid created by Lazarus. He rarely came down here. He believed his mind was too advanced for hiding places.

Sukarno did not have such convictions.

The chamber he entered was circular and cold, stripped bare save for the single, ancient console in the center. Dust layered the surfaces. The air smelled of oxidized metal and something chemical – some sort of insulation burned long ago and never replaced.

Sukarno slid off his gloves and placed his palm on the console. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a low thrum. The machine recognized him. His mask, always worn, reflected faintly in the monitor’s red glow as the system booted. He spoke no words. Instead, he keyed in the protocol string – IMPERIAL ARCHIVE RELAY // DEAD CHANNEL: STARFALL – and the console’s encryption programs began to churn.

It was not a channel meant for living networks. It piggybacked on long forgotten military satellites, relayed through the fossilized systems of orbital wreckage across the galaxy, routing towards a listening post once believed dismantled during the end of the Coalition War. He programmed it himself during the final months of the war, when the Empire was pushed to Kni’thokon.

He typed slowly.

A HEIR BREATHES.

He paused, then added another line.

LAZARUS RETURNED. INTENT UNKNOWN. RECOMMEND RESPONSE.

The console blinked.

There was no confirmation signal. There never had been any anyway. These channels had been designed to give nothing away – not even failure. But Sukarno stared at the screen as if expecting it to whisper back.

He closed his eyes behind the mask. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to remember him – Emedev Assen, the last emperor of the Human Empire, and the greatest human psionic to ever grace the stars.

If Lazarus was right – and he feared he might be – then Anastajia was more than an Imperium spy. She was a variable the galaxy thought eliminated. A legal successor to the crown of the human worlds.

Something which may spark a second Coalition War.

 

[crisrko]

This laboratory was a cathedral of science – all hard-light alloys, glass and humming power conduits, bathed in a sterile light. It was built into the inner levels of the Shadow Tower, far above the crumbling cityscape of Nymonax. This was where Doctor Lazarus conducted his most guarded research: psionic containment chambers, robotic constructs hanging like sleeping titans from cranial ports and spinal feeds.

Anastajia stood at the center of it all, her arms crossed, posture taut. She had slept – barely – in the guest suite offered to her; one without surveillance, or so Lazarus claimed. The truth was uncertain. These walls whispered even when silent.

Lazarus, in his tall android form, moved like water over a tile – smooth, unsettling. He never blinked. The synthetic approximation of his voice was conversational, but hollow and distorted by the modulators in his chassis.

“These preliminary scans suggest a significant saturation of psionic residue,” he said, watching a display as coils of energy swirled around a 3D model of her nervous system. “Your entire lobe is adapted to channeling. Even at rest, you are interfacing with a frequency far beyond human tolerance thresholds.”

Anastajia’s response was curt. “I know. The Empress taught me how to suppress it.”

Lazarus paused, studying her, calculating. “That… is not suppression. That is coexistence. The fragment inside you… it breathes. Metaphorically. How fascinating.”

She looked away, jaw tense. He made her feel like an animal on a slab. She had endured debriefings before, medical tests, even invasive neural synchronization in Imperium training. But Lazarus was not looking to help. He was looking to understand. That was worse.

“What do you want from me exactly,” she asked.

“Stability,” Lazarus replied. “I want to understand how to stabilize psionic energy into a permanent, non-sentient form. Your possession of this fragment makes you the most viable blueprint.”

“You’ve yet to hold up your own end of the deal, Doctor.”

“Not quite,” he said simply. “I have provided you with the history of the Human Empire’s fall, the experiments I conducted, even clarified the nature of the techniques taught to you by the Mirati Empress.”

She stepped closer to him, eyes sharp. “You know that is not the knowledge I truly seek.”

“Right now, all I can provide you are suspicions,” Lazarus replied, unflinching. “Your biological markers align with what I observed in the Emperor during the final years of his reign.” He paused. “However, your markers do not align with those of the queen consort. A bastard, perhaps?”

Anastajia’s fists tightened, ready to strike.

“Further confirmation will require more than a blood sample. You must make some choices.”

“Choices?” she asked.

“To tap deeper into the powers granted to you by the fragment.”

Her following days blurred together – long hours of sensory analysis, psionic field manipulation, dangerous feedback loops from misaligned amplification attempts. Once, a construct exploded into a cloud of motel alloy as it tried to manipulate its surroundings with psionic energy. Another time, Lazarus instructed her to focus on a specific instability, and the lights in the entire sector dimmed for hours afterwards.

Sukarno remained silent through most of it, watching from an upper platform or leaning against shadowed walls like a sentry caught between duty and disillusionment.

Each evening, Lazarus reviewed the recordings obsessively, mumbling to himself. Anastajia, meanwhile, returned to her quarters with nerves frayed, visions flickering behind her eyes. The End of the Cycle never slept. It whispered even more frequently now, teasing her with terrible promises.

‘I have told you from the start. You cannot use her teachings cannot control me. All those who you believe dear to you, they lied to you, turned you against me.’

She would sit in the dark, gripping the datapad still useless in her satchel, waiting for the next test. The next question. The next truth.

‘They would all carve you open just to get to me. Do not reject me.’

Beneath her resistance, the End continued to stir, alongside a nagging certainty that for all his unnatural presence and obsessive methods, Lazarus was right about one thing.

She was slowly changing.

She was no longer sure that the Empress’s training would be enough to hold the creature within.

---

The hum of the machines had dimmed to a whisper. The lab was still. Most of the diagnostic staff had gone, and Lazarus, as he often did, retreated to his private vault to sift through the data only he could decipher.

Anastajia stood alone in the test chamber.

She’d been told to rest, but sleep did not come easily in the Tower – not with the End ever murmuring just at the edge of consciousness. Tonight, it had been louder than usual. It wasn’t speaking – it was pacing, as though waiting for something to unfold.

She approached the psionic array they had been using – a ring of dull metal etched with arcane sigils, inert without activation. She placed her hand on it. Just to feel the texture. Just to remind herself she was still grounded, still real.

Then the world peeled away.

One by one, the walls folded around her, like the inside of a collapsing sphere, space and time funneling inward just like on Thile. The lab around her blinked out, and in its place, a throne room of impossible scale.

Shadows stretched across monolithic columns. Stars hung in place like painted dots, unmoving. At the center of it all, a man. Tall, adorned in ceremonial black and gold, his face shrouded in darkness. His voice was like thunder.

Anastajia realized, with a clarity that struck like lightning: this was the Emperor. Emedev Assen, the last Emperor of the Human Empire.

The End stood opposite him – her, but not her. Just like before, the figure was identical in form, but its eyes held the ruin of a million civilisations.

‘You know the cost,’ the End said, its voice layered with a thousand echoes.

‘I do,’ the Emperor replied.

‘Then give it freely, and in return, you will bring the stars to heel.’

Slowly, the Emperor reached towards her – towards the End. His hand passed through its chest, and light surged from behind them both, blinding and warm, then blinding and cold.

In an instant, the world shattered.

---

She awoke with a gasp, slumped against the cold floor of the chamber. Every nerve felt scorched, but no alarms blared. No defense mechanism was triggered.

And yet – the room was different.

The walls were warped. The floor was cracked, smoldering with psionic residue. Instruments across the lab either shorted out or rebooted into diagnostic safe mode. The psionic shard constructed by Lazarus pulsed in synchrony with her heartbeat across the room.

The door then slammed open.

Lazarus entered in silence, having clearly run from whatever part of the tower he was hiding in. He scanned the room, stopping at her.

“You did something,” he said.

“No,” Anastajia answered slowly, “it did.”

She wouldn’t tell him what she saw. She didn’t mention the Emperor.

It was the End’s sick game.

---

Anastajia sat behind the reinforced partition now, meditating – calm, perhaps, or simply distant. Lazarus didn’t trust surface readings anymore, not after what had happened.

He turned back to the data feed. The event played again: the precise moment she touched the inert shard array. No energy. No triggering mechanism. Then a sudden fold – a local collapse of psionic containment, space bending not under force, but under will. It was not drawn from the shard itself, but somehow through it.

Lazarus brought up a hidden overlay; an ancient log flagged for restricted eyes only. The text was corrupted in places, but key fragments remained intact.

Incident Report: Kni’thokon Station

Terminus Event – Death of the Human Emperor

Confirmed Participants: Galactic Coalition Forces; Mirati Imperial Cohort – Princess Kryszorwyn Larian, Executor Idrithrel Grezeiros

Unconfirmed: Catastrophic psionic release during the death of the Emperor

Additional: One infant female retrieved from a proximity chamber. Unidentified. Genetic trace inconclusive. Evac unit lost in station collapse. Infant presumed dead.

Lazarus exhaled – an amalgamation of crackling and static sounds. A reflex carried over from the human he once was.

Years ago, there was speculation. A bastard child; the sole inheritor of the Emperor’s bloodline, born in the shadows, spirited away before anyone could confirm lineage. He remembered academic whispers, the off-the-record speculation in Imperial think thanks. Wild theories, of course – but none of them carried a signature this close to the original Emperor’s psionic footprint.

That is, until now.

All of the data from Anastajia’s reaction to the shard aligned with the archived recordings from the destruction of Kni’thokon. This profile wasn’t just a mere copy. It was too precise to be coincidence, and too imperfect to be duplication.

Lazarus muttered something under his breath, too low for his vocal modulator to produce anything more than static gibberish.

He tapped into his private log.

Speculation: Subject Anastajia may be linked to the Terminus Event. No confirmation possible. Genetic data incomplete; recommend continued observation and containment until conclusive tests can be performed.

He hesitated… then added a line.

If confirmed, subject is heir to the Emperor himself.

Outside, Anastajia turned towards the glass – as if she had felt his thoughts.

He shut the feed off, then, opening the channel to Sukarno, he issued a single command.

“Increase surveillance. Initiate soft lockdown. No one speaks to her unless cleared through me.”

There was a moment of silence before the masked voice replied.

“This goes against the agreement you have made with her.”

“Affirmative.”

“Do you think it’s her?”

“Inconclusive. She is certainly more than she knows.”

“And if you’re right?”

Lazarus turned toward the storm-wracked skyline of Nymonax.

“Then the key to accessing the secrets of the Shroud is in my hands.”

Days passed by.

---

She dreamed of black stars – streaks of psionic energy howling with impossible light. She dreamed of the station, of fire, and screaming. Of hands – unfamiliar hands – lifting her from rubble before it all went dark.

She awoke gasping, her pillow soaked. No one came. The cameras didn’t flinch.

She stared at the far wall, eyes unfocused, then looked to the ceiling – as though it might part and reveal a message, a sign, a reason. But there was nothing.

The Imperium had not sent a word.

‘Where is Idrithrel? Where is the Empress?’

She tried to remember the sound of their voices – her mentor’s gruff discipline, the Empress’s cold but guiding clarity. She tried to piece together her last orders. She was sent to investigate the Shadow Tower, yes. But now that the Republic was tearing itself apart, why had no one come?

Was she abandoned? Disavowed? Or worse – forgotten.

Anastajia pulled her knees to her chest, resting her forehead on them. Her mind, usually so sharp, felt unfocused. Blurred. Like the edges of her thoughts had been sanded away.

A whisper curled at the edge of her perception. Smooth. Familiar.

‘This silence speaks volumes, does it not?’

She did not answer.

‘Perhaps your new masters have no use for you anymore. Perhaps the bastard child of a fallen empire makes for an inconvenience. It would not be the first time the Imperium discarded its tools.’

Anastajia clenched her jaw, nails digging into her palms.

‘Do you believe the Empress could reach out to you psionically here? She was the one who chased away the Whisperer in the Void on Thile.’

Anastajia bit her lower lip so hard it drew blood.

‘When you lost control of your powers on Na-Swe-Shuk, when I obtained momentary control of your body, it was the Empress who wrestled you out of my control.’

As she started to tremble uncontrollably, psionic energy began to materialize around her. She lifted her chin, and it was there. Across from her, the End mirrored her appearance.

‘Much like you, she possesses a fragment of mine. She is linked to you. Have you never wondered why she was so knowledgeable of your own powers? Your strengths… Your weaknesses… yet you’ve never met before.’

It snickered, the endless void in its eyes swallowing her whole.

‘I have always done right by you, Anastajia. I have always fulfilled the end of my deals. I have granted you the knowledge you always sought, the powers you desired.’

She stood sharply, stumbling back from nothing in particular. Her heart was racing.

“Get out of my head,” she snapped.

‘Is this not why you are here, Anastajia? You volunteered for this mission, remember? You wanted to confirm the knowledge I have given you ever since you fought Lorkan.’

The End rose to its feet, spreading its arms wide, turning around in a full circle.

‘I have not lied to you.’ It stopped. ‘Your little human doctor confirmed everything I have told you. I am the only one who did not lie to you.’

Anastajia stepped backwards, clutching her head, shaking from side to side.

‘Your precious masters have both lied to you.’

The voice swelled, and the room seemed to dim.

‘The others used you. I will not. I only wish to realize your full potential. Allow me to guide you… not as an overlord… but as your own constant.’

The lights began to flicker – the psionic energy around her exploded, and in a flash, the image of the End was gone once again.

---

Sukarno was dreaming, but he did not know it. The air was too still, the silence too complete. He could feel his heartbeat, then nothing at all. The room around him had dissolved, and he was standing once again on the scorched plates of Kni’thokon, where the old Empire died screaming.

He could smell the burning air, the explosions in the distance. Feel the rhythm of gunfire in the soles of his feet. A single flicker, then the sky overhead shattered, and a sea of black stars poured in.

From the smoke walked a single figure – an infant, limp in its arms. It was the Emperor’s bastard. The child he’d only seen for an instant before the explosion took them all. He took a step forward to reach her, to complete the mission he had failed.

‘You let him die.’

The words came from the child. No. From the air. From the thing behind the voice.

The child looked up, and her eyes were not her own. It was an endless pit of darkness.

‘You were there,’ the voice rasped, deep and smooth. ‘You were so close. They called you the Emperor’s blade. His shadow. His most faithful hound.’

Sukarno staggered, finding a rifle in his hands. He was back in the spaceport now – exactly as it was, the moment it all came undone. He heard his own voice, barking commands. He watched the Imperium’s elite tear through his unit. Idrithrel Grezeiros, wreathed in an armor of psychic flame. The Mirati princess Kryszorwyn leading their charge through the human forces.

‘He screamed, Sukarno. Did you know that? Before I took him, he begged. In the end, he was just a man. Meat.’

He fell to one knee, unable to breathe.

‘You were supposed to protect him.’

The battlefield shifted once again, and now the Emperor stood before him – burned, hollowed, a corpse lit from within by psionic fire, sprawled over the remains of the queen consort. When Sukarno looked up, he was kneeling. His armor was broken. Blood soaked the insignia on his chest. The body of the Emperor flickered – then warped – and Lazarus took his place, grinning with mechanical stillness.

‘I will build something better,’ Lazarus said with his human voice. ‘Obedient. Efficient. Disposable. No matter the cost.’

Then it wasn’t Lazarus anymore. It was Anastajia, and her expression was contempt.

‘You’re a ghost, Sukarno, fighting a war that ended a hundred years ago. A loyal dog searching for a dead master.’

A black hand reached from the void, pressing against his chest, and the pressure was unbearable.

‘Time has forgotten you,’ the End whispered. ‘She will not remember your name. And when the fires rise again, what will you protect? What will you fail to save?’

And the scene split wide like a wound. He fell – infinitely – through the screaming stars and laughter that never ended.

And then he awoke.

His body jerked upright, drenched in sweat. He was cold. The taste of blood in his mouth. Every light in the room was off. Not broken – turned off. The rifle by his bedside was dismantled; the trigger resting on his chest. His fingers trembled as he reassembled it in silence.

---

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