Space.
A silent, merciless abyss — eternal and cold.
It forgives nothing. Not a mistake. Not a moment of weakness. Not the slightest delay.
In the darkness, dusted with the shimmer of dead stars, a fleet of twenty ships moves in formation — like the ghostly trail of a leviathan sliding through an ocean of ink. At the front: Skif, the flagship, carrying both hope and dread. It leads the way — and will be the first to fall, if peace collapses.
Each ion trail behind it writes a line in a chronicle already vanishing — before anyone can read it.
And yet, in this silence, something else begins.
A moment.
A decision.
A turning point.
The Council Among Shadows
Inside a virtual hall — one that has no physical reality — a meeting unfolds. This space wasn't engineered. It was conjured by Hanaris. Here, where matter has no dominion, things take place that could alter Mercury's destiny.
Half-shadows flicker in the air. Symbols glow and fade, like half-forgotten alphabets.
It feels like a dream — but every word spoken here carries the weight of blood.
Vikary stands at the center.
He does not sit.
He stands like a monolith carved from shadow — ready to endure any storm.
His face is troubled.
His mind — a battlefield.
Within him: the bitterness of impossible choices, the crushing weight of command, and the searing solitude of power.
He knows: these aren't just corporate leaders around him.
They're the aged survivors of war.
They don't believe in dreams anymore — only in survival.
"We must negotiate a ceasefire," says Vikary.
His voice is ice sliding through veins.
And silence follows. Not awkward — but like a lightning strike suspended mid-air.
Everyone feels it:
This isn't a plea.
It's a verdict.
"If I'm wrong," Vikary thinks, "it's not just an idea that will fall. The fleet will fall. I will fall. We — everything we've fought to preserve — will be gone."
Return to Reality
The meeting dissolves.
The illusion evaporates like breath in vacuum.
They return to the command deck of Skif.
A space bathed in half-light, under a deep blue glow.
No lamps shine here — the ship's own pulse emits the light, responding to breath, to presence.
Outside the viewports: dust-stars, fragments of something ancient and long dead.
Vikary turns slowly.
His face — unreadable. No fear. No doubt.
But in his eyes — a focused threat.
He looks at Captain Manuel.
"Captain, can you establish contact with President Marcus?"
The words drop like slabs from the sky.
Manuel flinches — as if someone had called to him from the grave.
Disgust flashes across his face.
He spins toward Vikary, sharp and sudden, almost as if to strike him.
"Theoretically — yes," he mutters through clenched teeth. "But we need time. A secure channel. One wrong pulse, and they'll trace us. That'll be the end."
"I told myself I'd never hear that name again. Marcus. He was the emblem of everything we tried to destroy. He's... poison."
Vikary says nothing.
He only nods — and somehow, that silence outweighs a command.
He doesn't break eye contact.
And Manuel knows: there is no choice here.
"Understood. I'll do it."
We have time — but not much.
Code and Silence
Pietro stands alone at the center of the room.
His fingers glide over the panel in silence — as if reciting some ancient prayer in the language of numbers.
His face is still, like the surface of a frozen lake.
No tremor. No doubt.
He enters the codes, restores lost protocols, calls up encryption keys long buried — and possibly cursed.
"We're asking for help… from the one who shattered our world. But maybe — just maybe — Vikary knows how to piece it back together."
The screen flares to life.
Connection established.
And the future… begins to breathe.
Minutes crawl like a snail across glass.
Each second—held breath, a nerve on the verge of snapping.
"Done," says Pietro. His voice isn't loud, but it's precise.
He shuts off the screen—and for a moment, the world shifts.
As if a frozen system, paralyzed by fear, finally exhales.
A hologram bursts into light before Vikary.
Sharp. Lifeless. Cold as a vacuum incision.
On it—President Marcus.
He wears virtual armor—like he's not here to speak, but to march into battle.
His face is a mask of pride, lips curved into a rigid smirk.
Predatory gleam in his eyes, like steel under tension.
"Surprised and confused," Marcus says, venom in his voice. "The Vikary himself. Come to beg for mercy?"
Vikary doesn't move.
He stares straight through the projection—as if dissecting Marcus atom by atom.
His voice is calm, with a chilled echo of contempt:
"Surrender is for those who've already lost. You, Marcus, are just making noise."
A short laugh—sharp as breaking bone.
Marcus tilts his head slightly.
"So. What do you want?"
No pause. No games.
Vikary drops the word like a blade onto the negotiation table:
"Truce."
The word shatters the silence like a gunshot.
Marcus freezes. His face doesn't flinch, but something flickers in his eyes.
A ripple in the illusion of absolute control.
"And why would I agree to that?"
His voice lowers—almost thoughtfully, but it's a trap.
"We could wipe you out. One strike. Forever."
Vikary doesn't blink.
If I hesitate, we're dead. If I say too much, he'll smell fear. All we have left is the illusion of strength.
"Your fleet's trapped in Mercury's orbit," he begins, steady.
"Your corporate link is severed. Your stockpiles are drying up. Without Ergon, you've got months—maybe less. Your colonies are starving, drained. Dying, Marcus. And you know it. I've run the numbers. Even the dates of your next uprisings."
Silence.
Not a pause—an electric cut.
Finally, Marcus speaks. And in his voice… a concession:
"What are your terms?"
"You take the Ergon," Vikary says clearly. "In exchange—we get supplies. Tools. Materials. We need to hold on. You… need to keep breathing."
Marcus raises an eyebrow. His smirk is toxic, like acid rain.
"Only what we have. Only at our prices."
Vikary doesn't argue. He nods.
The terms are brutal—but this isn't about fairness. It's about survival.
Marcus's holographic hand reaches forward—slow, with theatrical superiority.
Vikary meets it—firm, unflinching.
The handshake is made.
No warmth. No words.
But the system registers it:
Contract sealed.
Aftermath
Silence collapses over the room.
The command center sinks back into the dim flicker of blue light.
Plasma screens hum, like they can sense the tension.
Captain Manuel spins around sharply. There's a storm in his eyes.
He burns—like an android whose pride was just crushed underfoot.
"Are you out of your mind?!" he explodes.
"We just signed our death warrant! This... this is begging! On our knees!"
Vikary doesn't flinch.
He turns slowly—like a glacier deciding to fall.
"We haven't lost, Captain," he says, calm, almost gentle.
"We've bought ourselves time."
And sometimes time is all you have.
All you need to trigger the chain reaction that rewrites history.
"While Marcus regroups, we'll reach the Central Belt.
We'll open a new front.
We'll reclaim territory—and our soul."
Manuel slowly sinks into his chair. He says nothing.
His face—frozen grief.
He looks out the viewport.
Into space.
Into that thickening black.
Where the stars fall silent.
"I want to believe…"
Barely a whisper, on the edge of reason.
And in those words—everything they are.
Fragile as glass.
And yet—still alive.