David disappeared—and with him the Blue Fever.Operation Promethium had succeeded.The worst epidemic in history was eradicated, burned together with those who carried it within them. This center of infection vanished in the flames and dissolved into smoke. The fire purified, and fortunately the soldiers had not been infected. Nevertheless, they were held for a full two months in the exclusion zone, in quarantine—locked away in one of the countless side arms of the rail network.
The recolonization of the stations was carried out as planned. Convicts and prisoners of war cleared rubble and debris. Countless hours of labor were spent correcting the mistakes of the past. In twelve-hour shifts, the old was dismantled and the new forged. Even the ashes of the Commune were reused—as fertilizer for the countless tiered beds of the agricultural stations. Ash to ash, dust to dust. New residential quarters, cultivation areas, and manufactories were erected systematically. Forges, mushroom gardens, generators, and schools were built from sheet metal and wood. A triumph for the last bastion of humanity. A success for the Union. Newly secured living space, full of possibilities—designed on the drafting tables of the functionaries, built by toiling hands.
Two thousand colonists—including the six hundred plague refugees of the former Commune, now citizens of the Union—settled the place of death with their families, friends, and neighbors. All of them had been innocently tainted by the Blue Death. Burned out like a festering wound. Only a single deep scar bore witness to the historical legacy. It would never disappear, forever serving as warning, punishment, and accuser. For generations to come, people would seek and beg forgiveness for this sin.
The Union officially annexed the territory, and thanks to the colonists it soon became one of the most valuable core regions of the Union—a model object of techno-socialism. A productive industrial complex and food producer for thousands. Even the food shortage, triggered by crop failures, fungal rot, and attacks, was contained. Yes, rations were at a historic low; yes, more additives were mixed into them—but what is a bit of sawdust in food, what is fertilizing with the ashes of the Communards, if no one starves?
Yet the world knew no peace, no forgiveness—only hatred. The killing continued in the South, in the East, and even against the West. The Union was trapped between a controlled famine, raw material shortages, and idealism for a better world—striving for progress, equality, and reason, yet condemned to kill. Now only the familiar way out remained: war technocracy. A total war that would end only when there were no people left.
Sahra stood in the midst of a mountain range of paper and maps, which in their chaotic arrangement formed valleys, gorges, and plateaus. A metallically gleaming cup filled with greenish-yellow tea stood on a plateau of hemp paper, casting a dark shadow. How useful this plant was—one could not only produce tea, tobacco, or fabric from it, but also ropes and paper: its papyrus, its new parchment in the new world.
She lifted the warm cup, drank from it, and let the aroma take effect. Silence. Isolation. No forgiveness. Nervously, she brought her delicate hands to her mouth and bit her short nails. The images forced themselves into every moment of stillness; in every dream, in every thought, guilt drifted along—seeping into every crack, every crevice, every fiber of her heart. Her hands trembled, imperceptibly, yet obvious to her—like an earthquake running through her body.
The operation in the Commune had not left marks on her alone. One of the soldiers had shot himself during the purge. From chin to brain, the bullet traced its deadly path, piercing skull and mind. He died instantly. What was his name again? Gabriel? No—that was the wounded man who had asked for him. What was his name?
In her head, she went through every report, every death certificate, every communiqué with care. Yet the answer to the riddle would not come to her. Well—whatever. They had done the right thing; history would vindicate them. But would humanity? She had followed orders, lied to the inhabitants, promised them rescue—and murdered them from behind. How much humanity can die before a human is no longer human? How high may the price be for the future of one's own species?
A bothersome insect tore her from her thoughts. A black fly buzzed loudly and settled on the documents in front of her. It cleaned its head with its forelegs in quick movements. Even this vermin valued hygiene. Wasn't that exactly what they were doing—cleaning the body of humanity, cauterizing its wounds before the organism died? Or were they themselves the tumor, convinced by its own genetic coding that it was right? With a wave of her hand, she chased the uninvited guest away.
Before her lay a map with the usual disguises: front lines, camps, and field hospitals carefully marked. Immediately after quarantine, she was to be transferred to the Western Front. As she had previously done in the East, she would now have to plan offensives, organize supply caravans, and hold the line.
To her regret, the worst fears had come true. The United Stations had declared war on the Union. They claimed that expansion had been the true goal behind the purge—territorial gain instead of the noble aim of saving everyone. It was even openly doubted that the disease had ever existed at all. They claimed it was merely propaganda to carry out a politically motivated genocide—propaganda administered as opium for the masses to justify this crime by their leadership.
What idiots, she thought. Did they really believe they had enjoyed burning them all? Men, women, children—sick or healthy—killing them with raging flames just because there was a real danger of spread? Did they really think the Union had murdered its political cousins with pleasure?
But why was she even getting worked up about it? As the news reported, they were supplying weapons and volunteers to the Southern League and those eugenic pigs in the East. Border conflicts had also increased recently. They did not care what had happened in the Commune. They had only been looking for a pretext to justify their war. The ruling class—their bourgeoisie—feared the revolution, feared its ideals, feared losing their power. That was why they were sending their class brothers into a war of attrition.
"Madam Commissar?"A hesitant voice rose. "It's time. Everything is ready."
She closed her eyes. Then she spoke deliberately.
"Launch the offensive."
The war went on. In the South, East, and West, the last representatives of humanity slaughtered one another—in a Great War.The final war.The war to end all wars.