The ground-speeder tucked into a long-abandoned service apartment on the 400th sub-level. Pocket of structural rot too costly for the Federation to fix. Rheon's first job as Ascendant-Alpha-1 hit hard. Secure the perimeter. He rigged exterior conduits with kinetic dampeners. Thermal static masked heat from orbital eyes.
Lyra hunched at the main terminal. Dissected the data-shard's guts. Her crimson eyes flew over code lines. Speed and grasp far beyond Lyra Kain the technician. The Aether Fragment fed on her first blood taste. Synced perfect and terrifying with Federation nanites.
"The protocol holds," Lyra said. Voice low. Tight. "Seraph Morn's hunger absolute. He built this body for his crown. Merge set three cycles out. You bought time. Not much."
"We accelerate," the Aether Fragment cut in. Ancient resonance filled the gaps. "Morn sends hunters now. They sniff ancient blood. We need protection. Power. The devotees."
Lyra turned to Rheon. Gaze sharp. "Your task, Ascendant-Alpha-1. Find the Sanguis Order. Ghost network. Ancient. Paranoid. Your deep-cover intel the only key."
"The Sanguis Order trades faith and blood. Not data. No standard channels," Rheon replied. Tone flat. Methodical. "I need a Broker. One who shifts info and bodies between legit zones and cult turf."
"Then hunt that Broker. Do not fail," Lyra ordered. "Turn their worship to military steel. I monitor the shard. Prep exit. Go."
Rheon snatched his personal communicator. Deep-cover ops gear. Layers of encrypted scramblers dodged Federation sweeps. He studied Lyra. Pale skin. Terrible eyes. Aura of raw necessity.
Contact a blood cult to serve a vampire Queen. His moral compass spun wild. Discipline locked the objective. Survival demands the alliance.
He slipped out. Descended into the Underworld's gut.
Air thickened. Wet. Past industrial levels into the unauthorized sprawl. The Sink. Civilization's trash heap. Discarded tech. Exiled souls. Forbidden hungers. Ground-speeder parked anonymous in a junk bay.
Destination. Subterranean synth-club 'The Vein'. Hive of illegal aug dealers. Data smugglers. Souls chasing ritual comfort in a cold-science world.
Club pulsed under diseased blue neon. Music a gut-deep bass thrum. Vibrated concrete. Burned synth-ethanol and desperation choked the air.
Rheon wore a heavy utility jacket. Cloaked. Face half-hidden by holographic distortion. Old gear. Effective down here. He spotted the target in a back booth. "The Weaver." Paranoid Broker. Dealt sensitive assets. Cult relics.
The Weaver. Mass of blinking cyber parts. Nervous tics. Natural eyes swapped for scanning lenses.
Rheon slid opposite. "Ascendant-Alpha-1," he stated. Voice low. Digitally warped monotone.
The Weaver's aug eyes flared wide. Brief fear. "That ID. Military-grade. Thought dormant. What do you want, Alpha-1. I don't shift personnel for the Federation."
"No longer Federation," Rheon countered. Dropped a small secure data-stick on the table. Fragmented sensor log. Deep flaw in the new-gen thermal grid. Black-market gold worth hundreds of millions. "Introduction. Immediate line to Sanguis Order high command."
The Weaver left the stick untouched. Optical array zoomed on Rheon's face. Hunted lies. "Sanguis Order. Not trade. Theology. They shun secular. Wait for the Crimson Mother."
"The Crimson Mother wakes," Rheon said. Truth cold in his gut. "I am her envoy. Need structure. Loyalty. Pay with secrets that gut the Federation."
Greed trumped fear. The Weaver snatched the stick. Plugged into wrist receiver. Eyes glowed with download. Security flaw's scale drew a gasp.
"Authentic. Destabilizes Lower Sector defenses," the Broker whispered. Voice shaking. Excitement. Terror. "Burning bridges, soldier."
"Building new ones," Rheon corrected.
The Broker wiped sweat. "Sanguis Order hides in forgotten religious quarters. Sub-Sector 33. Under old Temple District. Leader. The Cardinal. Waiting for Dracula Bloodline return. Desperate. They'll talk. But demand a sign."
He typed fast into his terminal. Passed a small metallic card to Rheon.
"Coordinates. Time-sensitive access key. Meeting tonight. Two hours. Go alone. Trap means evisceration. Truth means worship." The Weaver paused. Stared past Rheon into smoky dark. "Den of madness, Ascendant. Not bargain. Ritual."
"I hold purpose," Rheon said. Took the card.
Standing to leave. the Broker grabbed his arm. Grip iron. "One more. Rumors say Bloodline singular. Ancient will. Terrible beauty. Sanguis won't see woman. They'll see God. Treat her as weapon. They kill you for disrespect."
Rheon yanked free. "I am her shield. Not jailer."
He left The Vein. Bass thrum fading. Card coordinates burned into memory.
Moving swift through crowded wet alleys. Lyra's consciousness intruded. Subtle. Cold reassurance.
"Success, Ascendant. Data streams shift. Morn senses. Do not fail the meeting. I track bio-signs remote. Bring devotion, Rheon. Bring my empire's seed."
Shiver down his spine. Fear. Exultation. Into fanatical blood cultists. Led by the monster he swore to guard. No longer military. Pact with the devil.
He checked the suppression pistol clip. Adjusted cloak. Sub-Sector 33. Faithful's den.
The Ascendant's true work began.