Captain's Bridge, Skif.
The hum of the ventilation seeps into the silence like water dripping into a dry well.
Dim ceiling lights flicker, casting shifting, living shadows along the walls — as if reality itself trembles from exhaustion.
They sit in deep chairs. Harnesses unfastened, yet no muscle relaxed — their bodies drawn tight, like bowstrings stretched to breaking at the whisper of a word.
The air is dense. Tangible. You can touch it. Breathe it in. Cut yourself on it.
The scent of a coming storm.
Not just weather — something inevitable.
Vikary leans forward, arms crossed over his chest.
His voice cuts through the space:
"Earth has been taken by Cairus."
Not a theory.
A verdict.
"And he won't stop," he continues.
"He'll take the mind. Break the will. Turn humanity into vessels for his code."
A pause — like the rumble before an explosion.
Vikary lowers his head, as if listening to a premonition rising from within.
"But if we wear both amulets..."
He meets each gaze in turn.
His eyes are scales, weighing their fear. Their resolve. Their price.
"We'll die."
Just as General Jamal died.
As whole civilizations died when these gods arrived.
Manuel leans back, stroking his chin. His face darkens — like a swollen sky before a storm.
His voice is slow, careful, dangerous:
"If Alex and Yulia are right..."
He pauses, each word a step over the edge.
"Then the Central Belt isn't an ally anymore.
It's a new enemy."
Silence.
The quiet becomes a presence — it listens, it waits.
Vikary nods. His eyes darken to the depth of an abyss:
"An enemy far worse than the Martians.
You can bargain with the living.
But with a god? There's only surrender. Or death."
The words hang in the air like rusted chains.
"And yet..."
For the first time, Vikary falters. There's a crack in his voice — a fracture in the armor.
"There's a chance.
The Martians have launched an offensive. If things fall into place — the two enemies will meet.
Let them tear each other apart.
And we — we wait."
Pietro lunges forward.
His fingers grip the armrests until his knuckles turn white.
His eyes shimmer on the verge of panic. His lips tremble.
"If Yulia and Alex are right..."
He speaks fast, as if chasing his own thoughts.
"The platform Earth is building — it's meant to transfer something.
Something from another world.
Something that could destroy everything."
He doesn't finish.
But the silence has already echoed the rest.
Everyone has heard it.
Maria springs to her feet.
Her face burns.
Her voice — the scream of a wounded animal:
"Why?!
Knowing all this — why does Hanaris stay silent?!
Why won't he give us anything — a weapon, knowledge, a chance?!"
Manuel looks at her for a long moment.
Like a father who's tired of explaining to his children what he no longer understands himself.
Bitterness in his eyes. Exhaustion. Defeat.
"No one knows, Maria. No one."
He falls quiet.
And in that pause — his faith cracks.
"But if you want an answer...
You'll have to find it yourself."
The silence lowers itself onto the bridge like a falling ceiling.
It presses shoulders. Crushes ribs.
Daniel finally moves.
His face is gaunt, lips cracked.
His eyes — lost, frightened, childlike.
"I don't understand...
If this war has already destroyed so many worlds...
Why hasn't anyone stopped it?..
Why isn't anyone even trying?.."
Vikary turns to him — slowly, heavily.
His voice like the rumble of deep stone:
"Because this isn't a war.
It's a closed loop.
No god will accept the faith of another.
And without that — the loop can't break."
He exhales.
And that breath feels like a weary century passing through his chest.
"That's what Alex and Yulia said. They've seen it.
They know why it can't end."
The words sink into their minds —
Each one a slab of lead on the chest.
The bridge becomes a sealed capsule.
Pressurized. Suffocating.
Outside the viewport — space.
Mute.
Indifferent.
In the distance, Earth glimmers like a frozen tear.
Once — a symbol of hope.
Now — a weapon.
A machine in the hands of code.
Silence.
No one speaks.
Thoughts swarm like venomous wasps.
And then — Manuel.
He slowly tightens his grip on the armrests.
His fingers tremble.
But in his eyes — a fire tearing through fear:
"We can't wait."
His voice is soft.
But in it — a command.
A command aimed at the future itself.
"We have to choose a side.
Or one will be chosen for us."
In that moment, something changes.
Unseen. But irreversible.
Everyone feels it.
Through the skin.
Through the spine.
Through the soul:
There's no turning back.
The choice is made.
And the price will be paid — in blood.