TITANOMACH I: Triumvirate

by Xabiar

Earth rests within the iron grip of the Triumvirate. Suppression, surveillance, and manipulation are tools used to maintain and expand their power. Rebels and terrorists persist in a futile rebellion, and independent nations struggle to endure under political and economic pressure. On the brink of victory, the course of Earth is forever changed by an anomaly hovering over Mars.

21. Chapter XVII - Resurrection

ACT III | THE TYRANT'S HUBRIS

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CHAPTER XVII | RESURRECTION

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THE CELESTIAL MOUNTAINS | MARS

He stood over a ravine, a cliff's edge where the below was hundreds of meters, perhaps more. A stream of water ran through it, a beautiful, long mark of nature where the golden trees bloomed and grass rose, while blowing gently in the wind.

Overhead there were clouds that gathered, white-grey, so not a storm. Not that it would matter if it was, as any storms would just mean they retreated into the mountains until they passed. Today, or the evening rather, was tranquil. It was calming, and right now he needed calm, privacy without distraction.

His Ghost talked with him, it displayed pictures and videos. It gave him papers, news articles, and documents explaining the unknown. It was surreal to see the face on the images, and feel like he was looking at someone who was effectively a stranger.

Fang Sov.

That was who he had been.

Who had Fang Sov been?

From everything he had seen, someone who was good. Someone who had friends, who worked to help others, to use his status and power to effect change in a system which was notoriously resistant to such. And someone who had seemingly crossed a line too far for the powerful, and had resulted in his death.

He looked at the pictures of what had been his body.

Mangled, torn apart beyond all repair. Chunks of shrapnel lodged in his torso, a leg missing, most of the fingers from one hand. What was not broken or mangled was charred to a crisp. Most of his head had been shorn off, and perhaps blown to pieces. Unsalvageable. Unfortunate.

There were many others here who had died in less violent circumstances. They remembered who they were. Their physical brains had been kept intact long enough to saveguard memory integrity. He, and others like him, weren't so lucky. If luck was the right word. Some seemed excited at the prospect of a fresh start, with no history or baggage.

He wasn't sure, he wasn't even sure on what he was sure on.

There were flashes, not of sound, but of emotion. Habits, biases, thoughts, but no memory to link them. He was himself, he was someone in full, but there were no memories to understand how.

He shared the face of a man who had been known to many of his…people. His people. He felt no loyalty to the Communist Empire, especially not after learning more about them, their history, and what they continued doing. That they had killed Fang Sov was only one more violation in the list of their crimes.

But he felt something at the sight of those around him. At the sight of those he felt were his people.

And the Communist Empire was hardly the only power that needed to be destroyed in this sick world he came from. The Americans, the Soviets, the Indians, each one he could see no end for but to tear everything down, and start again. There could be no reformation, there could be no salvation. There was no change that could be made which would redeem the blood-soaked history of these empires.

He did not fully remember what he was, but he was certain of two things.

He knew what he was.

He would burn the Triumvirate to the ground.

He would not be the same Fang Sov that he was, that was something he simply not possible to be, anymore, but he would avenge what was taken from him, and from the millions of others who had died at the hands of the tyrants.

Fang Sov had made one very critical mistake. He had assumed that change against such entities could be achieved peacefully. That there would be a bloodless revolution, one brought about by the common people. That evil would concede to pressure and size. Each one of them had also thought that.

And all of them had died.

Why had they been brought back if not to exact retribution?

The Triumvirate had been given a chance to change, and it had repeatedly squandered it, so arrogant and confident of its own power. They, he believed, were meant to be Her judgement upon the world. The end times, where the world was going to die, before it became reborn. There was one paragraph in the Bible he had liked.

Then I saw a new Heaven and a new Earth, for the first Heaven and the first Earth had passed away, and there was no longer any sea. I saw the Holy City, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride beautifully dressed for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "Look! God's dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. 'He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death' or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away."

He knew, as strange as everything else he felt, that he felt nothing much at religion. From what he had learned, or seen, that seemed correct. Yet reading passages like that, and he wondered just how oddly prophetic they seemed to be. Clearly, it wasn't how the modern religions of the world treated them, but he believed that the End Times were coming.

And he was to be one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Because he had something the old Fang Sov never did.

Power.

Real power.

Hands open, fingers splayed, he tapped into the life force of creation itself. The fire that had been burning inside him from the moment his eyes had opened on this red world. For now he could see, he could feel the strings and manifestations of reality around him. He had once been blind to this magnificent, golden reality.

He could see.

More than see, he could touch.

And so he channeled, he looked deep, and he pulled the wisps of the reality together into something coherent. A golden ball of energy appeared, one that expelled warmth, power, and brilliance. Like a little sun, it glowed in the Martian evening. Yet it was more than a ball of energy, it was the basis of creation itself.

He'd been experimenting with this in the evenings of late. It was near-impossible to describe what it was like to create things out of nothing, merely by tapping into the Light that he perceived all around him. How malleable reality truly was. The ball of light grew hotter, until it was a true manifestation of the sun.

The flames scorched and burned, as Light covered his body, shielding him from the flames as he looked into its eternally glowing center. The flames turned from red to orange to white. The grass around him burst into flames, the fire he stood in the center of.

In the flames he saw what needed to be done.

In the fire he saw the fate of the Triumvirate.

And when the fire burned all to ashes.

A New Earth.

He relaxed his hands, and took a breath and let the Light falter, and the burning ball of flame turned into a hovering ball of water. With a simple tug and pull of the core bonds of reality, one thing became another. No steam, smoke, or other byproducts, just pure water. The grass still smoldered around him.

It was difficult to create, simple to move.

The water multiplied, expanded as he drew upon the Light, and the blanket of water spread, and he let his hands drop, and the water splashed upon the ground, putting it out with a hiss. It would regrow, perhaps he would do it himself later. Many of the awakened enjoyed using the Light to grow and heal.

"Are you doing alright?"

Fang turned to see one of the awakened, or Guardians as his Ghost liked to call them now. He actually believed he was the first one who had been resurrected. His face was one he recognized, which was a strange feeling to have. It was like meeting someone who he felt he should have a reaction to, but didn't.

"I am fine," he said, fully turning to him. "You are…Valentin, correct?"

Valentin had a…reserved expression but Fang knew that he was…sad? Disappointed? Hurt? He knew they had been friends when he had lived, good ones. But knowing that didn't change the fact that Valentin was a stranger to him now. He was an ally, he was on his side, but it wasn't anything more. He didn't feel like pretending.

Emotion, but no reaction. No memory. No comprehension.

Yet there was something very different, which he of course didn't know for sure, but tended to believe was changed from what he had been. Valentin's eyes were laced with golden light. The irises flared and muted themselves each second, and golden Light pulses spiderwebbed across his eyes.

It was an imposing sight, though it wasn't as intimidating as one might have assumed. It just meant that conversations were more intense than they would be otherwise, and it was almost mesmerizing to look at him. It was likely one reason that everyone had gravitated towards him as the leader.

There was something gripping about him; commanding in a way none of them could emulate.

"Yes," Valentin said. "I was coming by, haven't seen you in the mountain for a few hours. Knew you've been coming out here the past few days."

"I have," he turned out, to the valley. "Just…contemplating. Who I was. Who I am. What I want to do." He paused. "I know we were friends, but I do not remember you. I'm not the person you knew, not your friend. I wish I could say differently."

"And that is a consequence of what happened to us," Valentin smiled sadly. "Even if you remember nothing, I do, and no matter what, I'm glad that you're alive, no matter who you decide to be."

"I appreciate that." And he did. Valentin seemed like a good man too, and he could respect him, even if he didn't have that personal connection. "I'll be back to the mountain soon." He said. "I'll just watch the sunset first."

"We'll all be there," Valentin said, as he turned and departed, leaving Fang Sov alone with only his Ghost and the damp soil holding the burned grass. He took a breath, and sat down, knowing he likely had a half hour or so before he needed to eat.

Manifesting things from nothing achieved incredible results, but it certainly made him hungrier after he did so.

---

THE CELESTIAL MOUNTAINS | MARS

They had done quite a lot in the days since they had awakened. Teams of two and three had gone into the mountains and began mapping and marking it. As they had the power of Light, they could manifest or transform materials, which allowed them to create the necessary components to make electronics, which some engineers had used to rig up basic lights and equipment. Others used it to properly cut their way through the mountain, and make paths.

It had been turned into a living space that was, if not comfortable, then more than sufficient for them to stay. As they worked together to build something livable, it helped them gain a sense of normalcy and routine as they processed everything that had happened to them.

Death, and resurrection.

A power of creation itself inside them.

Light.

There had been a section of the valley which had been reserved for them to experiment with these new capabilities. Valentin had wondered if people could wield the Light the Traveler used – and it seemed he had his answer.

Guardians.

That was what Vigil had called him; called them.

No one was, as of yet, really asking what that meant, so shocked they were by coming back from the grave to really ask questions as to what their role was, what the responsibility they now had. He had been right – they had been chosen deliberately for something. For this. To be Guardians.

And as the awakened Guardians had worked to build themselves a home, he had been sitting atop one of the hills that overlooked their little encampment. Questions swirled around in his mind, questions and potential answers. Pondering the present, the future, and what it all meant.

He knew it had been Clovis who killed him. That was the least surprising thing he had learned.

Death had been…well, dark.

Everyone wondered what it was like to die. What happened in the great beyond. He had wondered sometimes, and had believed there was nothing. It was an end, nothing more. Yet the most potent thing he "remembered" from his death was nothing.

Nothing but a cut.

It was such a surreal recollection, that he could not even say if it was real or not.

Maybe more real.

Maybe less real.

Maybe an illusion.

He didn't even think he was aware, so much as…numb, part of eternity and not at all. It was not even a consciousness, if a wisp. No heaven, no hell, just…nothing. A moment between being alive, not being alive, and back again, only recognized because he was back alive. He wondered if it had just seemed like an eternity, the one as he was brought back to life.

It was impossible to say.

Curiously…he felt calm.

A sense of wonder was in him, somehow, if it meant anything at all, or it simply was. A serenity.

Better than serenity, even. Relief. Hope. Joy.

Not just because he now had Her power, even if he was still a child at using it, but because he felt that he was freed from what he'd tried to live. Death had given something of a clarity to him. About what his purpose was. What all of their purposes were. There was no going back.

Everyone here was uncertain as to their future, and so for now he helped them when he could. There were faces he recognized here, all of them from ARES ONE, which now seemed so long ago. He talked with them, worked with them, and helped organize them. There was no Fang Sov to help him this time.

And he had been struck by clarity before all of them.

About what they needed to do, what they would be expected to do.

Fang.

Valentin sighed to himself. He had hoped…well, some of the deaths had been violent, and Vigil had explained the resurrection process. Too much damage to the brain resulted in their memory loss, a person with no comprehension of how they were who they were.

They could be brought back, but for all intents and purposes, their old identity was gone.

However, he did take comfort from something Vigil said.

Their memories may be gone, but who they truly are, that still remains. Those who She selects are those who are fundamentally good. They are those who would act to help, to protect, to fight for others beyond themselves, no matter who they grew into. Fang may not become the man you once knew, but I promise you that he will become someone you can be equally proud of.

He wished his friend was here now.

He could support, he could help, he could talk to them. He knew what would be coming.

And he believed he was expected to lead.

"[Why am I the one to do this?]" He murmured, to no one in particular.

Because you see the world as She does.

It is a rare gift, with only some minds capable of understanding it as you do. The Light shows all, and even when Guardians are exposed to it, they only see the superficial. They see what they can do with it, what it allows them to do, not what it is on a fundamental level.

Vigil's voice appeared in his mind, and he knew what the Ghost meant.

Since he had awakened, he had seen things that he knew were not how he once saw.

It was a world, no, a reality that was shining, golden and beautiful. He saw the world, but he saw the possibilities beyond it. He existed in a half-state, between the real and what-could-be. With effort, he could suppress his newfound sight to anchor himself in the material world, but it was so easy to shift into the state of possibility.

Where he saw the past, present, and future of every material element, what they could become, and what they had been. He could see a possibility where the grass he was on could be flowers. He could see the clear sky and know there could be clouds. He could reach up and pluck the weaving golden threads that made up reality, and alter it to what he saw.

The Light was the manifestation of possibilities.

And it offered implications terrifying for him.

He had maneuvered through these days, because this intimate immersion in the Light had allowed him to know things, feel things. A word of comfort here, when to stop and listen here, and what might be the right word to say to another person. They were beings of brilliance and he could empathize with them on a level where he knew and didn't know at the same time.

It was confusing at times.

And he knew that there was no one else who saw the world as he did. Some were able to glimpse it at times, Vigil had implied Fang could sometimes do it, but most remained anchored by the material. They believed that they channeled the Light, when the truth was they merely reached out to what was already there and…brought it into being.

They touched the world, and changed it.

He saw everything though.

A world, a reality of Light that would burn the eyes of most who gazed upon its beauty, it's possibility, and it's power. For him it was glorious, and it was like seeing the world for the first time. Indescribable for all but those who could see. Everyone at once, everything that had been, everything that could be.

Well, it was probably not seeing into the future.

Merely what the future could hold, and what the present could be.

"[Tell me,]" he said quietly. "[This is how it will always be for me, will it? This brilliance? This Light?]"

"[This will be how you naturally see the world, yes,]" Vigil said, floating before him, a shining ball of Light, yet also one of the few things he could see clearly. "[Though do not worry, She knows it is easy to lose yourself seeing our universe as it truly is. In time, you will be given the means to anchor yourself. Because the Guardians need a leader, one who can speak for Her, and there can be none who understand how She sees the world but you.]"

A nod. "[I can see everything. But not affect it. Not at…scale.]"

"[That will take time, practice. Training,]" Vigil said. "[One must earn divinity, even if one has Her blessing. You will one day be able to reshape the lands in your image, for now you will content yourself with small manifestations, alterations, and changes.]"

He closed his eyes, and the world of golden Light vanished. There was a comfortable darkness, as he thought to himself, simply enjoying the breeze on the hill. "[It will take more than this sight though.]"

"[It will,]" Vigil said, now hovering behind him. "[You have an idea of what your role is, what you must do, but you do not truly understand.]"

"[Then how do I understand.]"

"[She will summon you before her once more,]" Vigil said. "[It will be time for you to know what you need to fulfill your purpose.]"

"[And when will this be?]"

"[Soon, Guardian. It will be soon.]"

Valentin opened his eyes, and turned them down to the luminous Guardians below him, a new community bound together in death, and brought together for purpose. A purpose he would have to build for them. He had sat up here long enough, he needed to go down and help them now.

There were not many of them, but they would be the spark that would change the world.

And he now knew that remaking the world would be simple.

What was harder would be what came after.

---

THE KREMLIN | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION

Clovis felt an emotion he hadn't truly experienced in a long time.

Doubt.

Not for anyone else. For himself.

The debacle that had been Rasputin had shaken all of them, all across the Triumvirate. All of the heads of state, the engineers, computer and artificial intelligence experts, military officers, there was a persistent feeling of apprehension and worry over what would come next. The world remained in the dark.

One of the few pieces of good news in recent days.

He wasn't about to throw in the towel – far from it. He was confident that Rasputin would be dealt with…eventually. At some point. He had been cut off from the rest of the Warminds and government systems. No doubt he had left trojans, viruses, and other problems in them, but both the engineers and Warminds themselves were looking to identify and excise.

The reach of Rasputin would be curbed eventually, and they would find a way to bring this machine into compliance. He had felt fear upon seeing the full might and power of the machine, and he resolved that he would not feel that again. However, he also knew that Rasputin would likely react to perceived threats.

Two omni-potent entities to deal with. If he could handle the Traveler, a man-made intelligence he certainly could. Or perhaps not. Not until he learned his lesson, one that was painful. One which would extract a cost. One that it would be better to just run from, yet he was not above judgement.

Here, he had failed, in more ways than one.

There was one photo on his desk. All of the Bray family was there. Wife, children, uncles, aunts, grandparents, an image of what he had turned into the most powerful family in the Soviet Union. His children were geniuses, savants, public servants. They were the ideal Soviet man and woman.

They were those who he wished to see change the world as he did.

All in service to something greater.

Not just the family.

Not just the state.

Not just the Triumvirate.

For Humanity itself.

Too many people thought too small. Their loyalties were to temporal things, to nation, to family, knowing all of those would fade and crumble eventually. Legacy was not how your neighbors remembered you, nor your friends, not even institutions – it was how history remembered you. Men for good or ill had made their mark on history, and changed it forever.

Alexander, Caesar, Mohammed, Napoleon, Washington, Hitler, Stalin, each of those men had done something that had made such an impact that it was impossible to hide them. Legacy would determine how he would be viewed. The stakes were ones he had continued to raise.

If he succeeded, he would be remembered as the man who had ensured the emancipation of Humanity from alien powers, who had overcome trial and obstacle to outwit deities of both flesh and machine. He would be remembered as the one who led Humanity to the stars, where they claimed their rightful place in the galaxy.

Or he would be remembered as a villain, a tyrant cast down and mocked. The man who had thought himself arrogant enough to challenge a god and win. His body would be in an unmarked grave, if he was afforded such a luxury at all. Humanity would crumble, they would explain themselves to the machinations of aliens, or the cold eye of an unshackled machine.

Those were the stakes.

He knew this. Yet he always remembered why he was doing this. It was bigger than him, it was for a species. It was principle in the end – that afforded him sincerity and authenticity as many were drawn to his vision. A vision of a Humanity independent, and ready to take their place in the stars.

No aliens. No gods.

Man standing together, united.

Indivisible.

And right now he felt something had gone wrong.

Ana.

She had done this. He didn't know if it was intentional or not, but from the preliminary reviews, it was clear that she had been doing this her own way. No one had commented on it, her minders and supervisors had not noticed anything wrong. Yet she had shown a fundamental misunderstanding of what she was doing. What the purpose of Rasputin was.

She was not a traitor. He was sure of that. Traitors exposed themselves in many subtle ways.

What she was instead was worse.

She was sincere in what she believed. He had wondered if they were quirks, little bits of rebellion. Her rolled eyes and disapprovals in some of his decisions. All decisions which were necessary to achieve his vision, one which he knew she knew, as he had certainly talked about it often enough.

Yet what she wanted for Humanity was not what Humanity needed.

She wanted a Humanity driven by pacifism, cooperation, tolerance, and ideals. Her vision had risen so far into the clouds it sickened him; such a fundamental misunderstanding of Humans, of the history, of reality itself. She had wanted Rasputin to be an individual – not what he should have been – the triumph of Humanity. Their ultimate deterrent, their ultimate weapon against the gods that threatened them.

How?

Where had he gone wrong?

What had he not seen?

How could she have turned out like this?

Ana was a grown, brilliant woman. The smartest out of all of his children in all likelihood. One who he had been certain would have a legacy as he did. And this pride had blinded him to who she really was. He'd convinced himself that she knew the vision, believed in it, but merely had a few different opinions.

But no, he was wrong.

It was more than a few different opinions, it was a wholly different worldview.

Culminating in this mess. This failure.

He took a deep, labored breath. He didn't wish for her to perfectly copy him, but he did expect her to be working towards the same end goal. That her own vision was so far removed from both his own, and reality itself, told him that something had gone terribly wrong. Mistakes made. What hadn't he been clear on? What had he not told her?

And the more terrifying question of all.

How many more of his children felt the same way?

What if Ana wasn't the only one?

A knock at his door. "[Come in.]" He said, hardening his voice and straightening.

Luka entered, the KGB Director's face grave. "[General Secretary.]"

"[Director,]" Clovis answered, indicating the chair opposite him. "[What is it?]"

"[KGB officers have finished initial interrogations of the Rasputin engineers,]" Luka pulled out a beige file, and placed it on the table. "[Deeply concerning what we've found. What seems to have been a wholly accidentally, but fundamentally flawed process from the start.]"

"[How?]" Clovis asked, pulling the file toward him. "[Treason? Are any holding out?]"

"[Clovis, these are computer scientists, not hardened terrorists,]" Luka shook his head. "[We never had to employ any enhanced measures. They were more than willing to spill their guts, stammering and terrified.]" He shook his head. "[I wish we have traitors. We have something worse.]"

"[Idealists,]" Clovis muttered to himself. "[Making a Warmind.]"

"[Ah, I see you've been keeping up with the preliminary reports,]" Luka grimaced. "[To add some more context, this was primarily in the project leadership. The mechanical architects, coders, and mainline testers are almost all clean. They did their jobs, and followed orders as expected. The leadership guides the project, and that was what corrupted Rasputin.]"

He was getting to a pretty clear point. "[Ana's team.]"

"[Leadership starts at the top, General Secretary,]" Luka said. "[Leaders affect the direction, for good or ill. It appears we placed too much trust in Ana. Her brilliance provided…reason to overlook some of her more questionable views.]"

There was a pause. "[General Secretary…I understand she is your daughter, but-]"

"[But what?]" Clovis snapped. "[Do you expect me to defend her, Luka? To use my power to rescue her? Do you take me for some corrupt man of the Politburo?]"

"[She is your daughter,]" Luka responded. "[I assume many things, General Secretary. Family is always the exception that can bend and break the rules.]"

"[Let me be clear,]" Clovis met his eyes. "[My life I have strived to be driven by vision, mission, and principle. Ones that I have never compromised for anyone, family or not. Today, is not the day I will start. Even if I would ignore the political pressure which is about to come upon me, I believe in accountability. And Anastasia Bray must face the consequences of her actions, no matter what they may be.]"

"[Even if the consequences are death, General Secretary?]"

"[Even then.]" There was no hesitation.

Luka gave an imperceptible nod. "[I'm glad to hear that, General Secretary. Because that is a very likely possibility that is being considered,]" he shook his head. "[The sheer damage this threatens, not to mention the cost of billions upon billions of rubles, hours of manpower, resource without compare…she does not know what she wrought.]"

"[No, she does not.]" Clovis nodded. "[If you are finished, then I want to talk to her.]"

"[You won't learn anything new,]" Luka frowned. "[She told us everything she knew and did.]"

"[I'm not interested in that,]" Clovis said. "[I want to know why she did it, what led her to cultivating this…mindset. She is my daughter, and thus my failure. I have no intention of making further mistakes.]"

Luka seemed to understand it. "[Let me know when you want to speak to her, General Secretary. You'll have all the time you need.]"

---

MONGOLIAN RESISTANCE OUTPOST | MONGOLIA | CHINESE COMMUNIST EMPIRE

It was a risk to go himself, but Hamaza knew that it was time for him to personally return to doing what he'd done many times when he was younger. One did not form alliances with people of vastly different histories, faiths, and ethnicities through simply letters and diplomats. At the end of the day, there was a personal aspect needed.

Age had slowed him, and as the risk of disease or fatal injury had risen, he'd been convinced that his days of traveling to dangerous or distant places was over. And he'd come to terms with that, as he had succeeded in establishing his coalition. Now though, his work was not done.

There were other groups to connect to. Other people to meet.

Diplomats and ambassadors had been busy around the work, making contact with cells, resistance groups, and other dissidents throughout the Triumvirate, and few of them were as potentially important or dangerous as the organization that had become prominent in Mongolia. The fact that it had sprung up so recently, and was by all accounts extremely competent and organized implied that whoever was leading it had been doing so for a while – and was formidable themselves.

The soldiers which had come to meet him and Amjah could have been mistaken for Chinese soldiers – uniforms, new weapons, and discipline. Their faces were covered by appropriated and repainted Chinese helmets, and the patches on their shoulders depicted a broken hammer and sickle on one, and a stylized dragon with a spear through the heart on the other.

Not especially surprising.

They hadn't come just by themselves - there were six crates which had been transported, each of which contained Triumvirate guns, grenades, armor, and other pieces of associated technology produced in Israel and Britain. There had been some debate as to how much to turn over to the Mongolians, and this was a substantial amount of firepower to an organization they didn't know that well.

However, he'd convinced them of the necessity of this. If they were to be an ally, they needed proof they were sincere and willing to support their efforts. The Mongolians had looked inside and confirmed the weapons, and seemed suitably impressed, though said nothing, simply loading them up and directing them into an armored car with blacked-out windows.

They did not speak directly to them, and even when they'd been outside the car, Hamaza had suspected that they were being watched by camouflaged snipers. It was a sense he'd developed over the years, one that Amjah also had.

They didn't know who was behind the Mongolian resistance. The Mossad only knew that their leader was referred to as the 'Khan', and operated through a corps of intermediaries. They suspected someone formerly in the Chinese military, perhaps a commander. Someone with connections and skills.

The Resistance was uncertain how receptive the Mongolians were going to be, but the fact they wanted to meet was an encouraging sign. He hoped that the Khan, whoever they were, was reasonable and willing to put aside any potential issues in favor of the larger threat. Pragmatism mattered right now.

The car came to a stop, and they were ordered out. Hamaza stepped into what seemed to be a hangar of some kind, though one that was fully enclosed. There was a small fleet of cars, many more motorcycles lined against the walls, with engineers working them and small teams of soldiers on patrol.

One of their main bases, probably. These people weren't covering their faces, and in fact seemed in good and strong spirits. They waved to the soldiers escorting them, bantered with each other, and there was a clear sense of excitement in optimism that took Hamaza back many years, back when the Resistance had first been formalized.

A time where they'd felt that things were starting to change; to turn around.

Over the years that had faded into a grim pragmatism, where victory was a distant dream. Not for the Mongolians though, not for now at least. They were just starting, and they had reason for their hope. Well, that was what rebellions were founded on.

And hope was all they had right now.

Amjah was clearly impressed by their operation, which was more organized and supplied than most of their cells in the Middle East, with the exception of those in Israel. Then again, this was likely core territory of the Mongolians. It seemed unlikely that every base was this well-supplied.

The soldiers escorting them stopped outside one of the doors. "Inside," she said, and Hamaza and Amjah moved to enter, and the other one put a hand in front of Amjah. "Only you," she clarified, pointing at Hamaza. There is no one inside besides the Khan."

He exchanged a look with Amjah, and the latter nodded. He didn't seem happy, but it seemed like he was willing to give the Mongolians the benefit of the doubt. He stepped back, and Hamaza entered the room, which was shut behind him.

Inside was not what he had expected. It was reminiscent of a library and a war room. There was a small bookshelf along the wall, some pieces such as a globe, compass, and other exploratory equipment. Little wooden models of horses and ancient Mongolian soldiers rested on a desk.

The walls though commanded the most attention. Detailed maps were hung, of Mongolia, of China, of Asia itself. One of them in particular caught his eye, one which had an area colored in blue that spanned from the Northeast of China to the Balkans, that encompassed most of the Kazakhs.

Images of military figures were pinned in a hierarchical order, almost certainly Chinese military commanders, on another wall. Still more maps were drawn with lines and arrows; battleplans. He knew the style well, and drawn with the hand and eye of a clear master. It was a shame that Isaiah and Liberman were not here, no doubt they would have had some thoughts.

And in the middle of the room was perhaps the most surprising thing of all.

The one who he presumed was the Khan stood, but unlike what he had expected, it was not a man who greeted him but a woman. She was shorter than him by a good margin, but nonetheless maintained the presence only a military commander could. She was not young, but many decades younger than he was.

Her stern expression contrasted with her rounded, almost non-threatening face. Long black hair fell past her shoulders, as black as a raven. She wore a military uniform similar to the soldiers – but on her chest were the bars of a commander. On her waist was strapped a pistol on one side – and a small sickle on the other.

"Grand Ayatollah," she nodded to him. "Welcome to Mongolia. Apologies for the security measures, but I'm sure you understand. Khojin Khongordzol, if you wish a name."

"Appreciated, and I understand all too well," he said, walking over to her, and shaking her much stronger hand. "A pleasure to meet the enigmatic Khan. You are not who I was expected."

"Good, the fewer who do, the better," she said firmly, not seeming to take offense at the observation. "I suspect the Chinese have learned who is behind the Khan, or Khanum if you prefer the gender-correct term. Regardless, when they do, this will become substantially more difficult."

"Why?"

She smiled, a grim and almost sad one. "The Chinese are a bigoted people, Ayatollah. They despise and ostracize those who are not Han. Minorities are to assimilate and eventually be replaced. Settlements, encouraged immigration, displacement, and forced marriages, generation by generation, the blood of 'outsiders' is slowly 'purified.'"

She nodded to the map. "Unlike many nations, China has the numbers to do this. There are more mixed-race offspring than ever before. It is a process over decades, but they will succeed if left unchecked." She lifted a hand. "I don't tell you this because I think you care, or out of pity, but to give you context. As a full-blooded Mongolian, you can imagine how the Chinese hated me."

"And a woman as well."

"And that too," she acknowledged dryly. "However, I was too…useful, I suppose, to stop. I have talents, Ayatollah. Military ones. I excelled in their training exercises. Tactics and strategy has come naturally together. I was raised with the stories of my nation's history of glory and conquest, told in hushed tones as the Chinese worked to eradicate our culture."

Her tone turned wistful as she looked upon one map of Mongolia. "Knowledge does not equate to wisdom. I had thought that if I proved myself to the Chinese, they might accept me and my people. Instead they only resented me, though were never able to outsmart me. Their political machinations were transparent, their gambits flawed, but I did eventually come to my senses and realize the only thing that awaited me in China was death. So I disappeared."

"How long ago was this?"

She thought. "Five years ago. Close to six actually."

He nodded. "And you've been active this entire time? It has been only recently that there has been more widespread coverage."

"Intentional," she said. "I have always believed that there has been one change to collapse this Empire. You believe this to be a Mongolian Resistance group, do you not?"

"That was my impression."

"And an incorrect one, one the Chinese also appear to believe," She pulled up a map and rolled it out, which depicted a series of colored regions, lines, arrows, and markings on a depiction of Asia. "I have been meticulously locating, training, and recruiting for every single disparate resistance organization in Asia. Every single one of note are either puppets, allies, or are infiltrated by my people."

She ticked them off her fingers. "Thais, Cambodians, Uyghurs, Taiwanese, Japanese, Koreans, Filipinos, Indonesians, every single culture and people who are threatened by the Chinese plans of ethnic assimilation, displacement, and genocide. The time is coming for each one of them to act."

"You've never reached out to us before," Hamaza noted.

"I respect boundaries, Ayatollah," she smiled. "And you had your sphere of influence under control. It was dangerous to coordinate, and it risked the Triumvirate turning their attention to me. You've been a thorn in the side of the Triumvirate for decades, better for them to focus on the obvious target. Aside from that, I didn't know if you could be trusted."

"May I ask why?"

"Your ties with the British are well-known, as well as the Israelis. Other westerners as well, potentially, I never confirmed." She shook her head. "The British are an imperial power, who only associate with the Arabs because of their loss of prestige in the world. They have abused and raped Asia and I have no intention of letting them set foot in Southeast Asia again. Chinese hegemony is an evil to be destroyed, but British imperialism is no less evil."

"Trust me," Hamaza sighed. "I am aware of them, and at the same time I suspect they know their days of hegemony are over. Even if they did not think that, there is little choice. We do not choose our allies, especially in the face of an entity like the Triumvirate."

"On that, I happen to agree, which was why I agreed to meet," she rested a finger on China. "We have different aims. Your enemy is the wider Triumvirate. Mine is the Communist Empire. There was a time I wondered if I wouldn't be needed but…" she trailed off.

"Fang Sov," Hamaza asked. "We were aware of him. We were not certain he was legitimate."

"I had my people observing him, watching," she said wistfully. "He was legitimate. He was starting to change things, things which would make me irrelevant. I didn't believe it was possible, but he was proving me wrong." She shook her head. "Not even the blessing of this alien was enough to protect him. The Chinese did what they always do to the dissenters. Kill them. Sov was too blind to see it. I should have acted to protect him."

"And why didn't you?"

"Because I was also foolish," she said. "He was breaking the norms and protocols to such a degree that I was expecting him to vanish or fall in line in days. When he didn't, and weeks passed, I wondered if maybe he was a problem the Chinese couldn't just vanish. A mistake."

"All hope is not lost yet," Hamaza said, looking around. "The Triumvirate still has cracks, no matter how much they attempt to obscure them."

"Correct," she agreed. "If the cracks will be enough remains to be seen. And should they be enough…" she paused briefly. "My people are primed to revolt. To punish the Chinese for what they have done to us. When the Mongol wave crashes upon the Chinese bulwark, it will not be composed of horses, but metal. I have been preparing for this time for years, Ayatollah. We are going to fight, and remind the world of our prowess in battle – or we are going to die."

"Dying is easy, living is harder, and it saddens me that I must remind others of this," Hamaza said. "What waits for you, Khanum, is defeat, humiliation, suffering, and so many years of lamentation, your hair will turn white. If you want glory and death, Khanum, it will find you."

"Of which I am well aware of," she grunted. "Living is hard, which is why fighting is inevitable. Death is not desirable, but I am not so blind as to expect there are many plausible outcomes. That is a reality of war, of which you are well aware of."

"More aware than you could be, through not fault of your own, but through simple age," Hamaza replied. "If you want to pursue this path, I cannot stop you, but I can ask you. Between inevitable death, and uncertain hope, which do you prefer?"

She crossed her arms. "Grand Ayatollah, you seem to imply that there is another way. Do elaborate what you are doing that is different from what I am doing. There is no peaceful coexistence with the Triumvirate. There is no negotiation. There is no parity. Please, tell me what other path there is."

"I will die soon, I have realized," Hamza said, voice rising. "But before then, I want nothing more than to cast down the tyrants and tear out their black hearts and burn their corrupt thrones. But none of us, can ever do that alone. Only together, as one hand, one fist, one will. Only together, Khanum, else we'll die like ants."

"Together?" She raised an eyebrow, appraising him. "It seems your leadership was not exaggerated." She shook her head. "I am not your enemy, Grand Ayatollah, and what you have shared with us is useful - but I see little reason to make it more than that. Unity beyond pragmatism is an ideal that I have seen fail time and time again. It inevitably turns to conflict, and then to domination. The Chinese worked to subjugate us, and my people care little for the actions of those worlds away."

"And why do you think that is?" Hamaza demanded. "Why has the Triumvirate segregated us, divided us, put every effort in making us see ourselves as different, and separate? You know as well I do why, our unity is their division, the moment we step past the prison they made for us, they can no longer chain us. They can no longer end us."

Khojin laughed. "Grand Ayatollah. You think that the Triumvirate did that to us? That they are the reason that we view each other with suspicion along race, creed, and religion? No, the Triumvirate at worst exploits it, if that at all - and in the case of the Americans and Soviets? They did the opposite. Integration is smarter than segregation." She smiled grimly. "Which is why South America is not in full revolt. Why rebel against what is serving you outside of a far-flung notion of 'independence' and 'justice'? I have no fight with the summer student patriots who've been given autonomy by the Americans. They will fold and flee back to their comfortable lives eventually. Best not to rely on them."

"And we do not have a choice," Hamaza insisted. "We cannot fight and win if we remain divided. Your enemy, Khojin, is not simply the Chinese empire, it is the Triumvirate. Any victory you have will be crushed, any semblance of tomorrow, will be gone when the Indians and Soviets and Americans come for you. They do not stand alone, and you will not be ignored."

"Ignore? Unlikely," she said. "But they've been unable to stamp you out. Another front is not necessarily a death sentence."

"It is worse than death, it is defeat," Hamaza said, meeting her eyes. "I tire of defeats, I tire of this corrupt world, and I tire of a life where I cannot see a tomorrow. Khanum, I am not here to offer another alliance, to offer a prolonged defeat, I am here to offer a dream of victory."

"Oddly optimistic, considering your own situation," she frowned. "Dreams shatter in the face of reality. I am well aware the odds are not in our favor, and there is simply no way we can swing them enough to where it is a fair fight. Is that a reason to give up?"

"So I will tell you how we have we become inevitable, how the Resistance has survived," Hamaza said pointedly. "We have survived as being one, one hand, one fist, one in spirit, one against our true enemy, not the enemy that is our petty differences. The enemy that is the source of tyranny and evil in the world. It includes people of different faiths, nations, races, and cultures - it stands in rejection of what you claim, it is the proof of what we can be, what we should be. What separates us is what we fight for, yet all of us would die for one another, as in Arabia so in India and Europe."

"And you think that is sustainable?" She demanded. "That this alliance of convenience will last should it be victorious? Funny how you trust the British considering it was their machinations that led to your country in the first place. I'm not just thinking in the short term, I'm thinking about what comes after."

"It is more sustainable than the direction you have chosen," he said. "People fighting only for their nations and people. That alone is not enough. No matter how you wish it would be. What you have are individual groups that happen to be fighting the same enemy. They are not fighting for and with each other, they do not care about anything but their own objectives. That is why you will fail, and why the Triumvirate has kept us under iron heel."

"And what do you propose instead?" She asked with biting sarcasm. "Ask men and women to fight and die for a land and people not their own? Impose your own worldview and values upon others? Do tell me how that will work."

"Yes," Hamaza smiled at her. "That is exactly what I am saying, because the alternative is sure defeat. I have been down this road, and the only hope is a singular, united front against the same enemy. The Triumvirate. The Chinese are a part of it, but it is one fourth of the power that dominates the world. This continent has suffered. The world has suffered. You are not special. Spare me your performative grandstanding about which of our peoples has been the most oppressed."

She seemed torn between anger and frustration. "Tread carefully, Ayatollah."

He stood his ground. "Tell me I am wrong. Tell me that anything will change, even should a miracle happen and you succeed." He shook his head. "The Communist Party will simply flee to Russia or America, and then watch as the legions of the Red Army storm into China and crush your insurgency. And then what will you promise them? Their homes again? Direct their anger towards a different enemy?"

"I don't have a choice, even if I agreed," Khojin hissed. "As I said, there are few who see it as you do."

"So make them," he jutted his chin out. "You are a rare woman, and a rare leader. You have the knowledge, charisma, and will to forge a united front. You choose not to maximize your chances of cooperation. To lower risk. But this is one risk you need to take. That we need to take. No separate fronts, no separate plans, one united force against the Triumvirate."

She briefly closed her eyes. "You have no idea what you are asking."

"I do."

"I doubt it."

Hamaza furrowed his brow. "I lost my nation. I remember it like yesterday. I was forced to confront what I thought was right and expected, and was forced to change. Do you believe I wanted to flee to Israel and beg for asylum? That what I built I did so because I wanted to?" He shook his head. "I have made more sacrifices than you have lived years, do not suggest I know nothing of what I am asking. I have proven what I say in blood and lives."

Khojin took a long breath. "I will not gamble my people on you. It is not enough for me to risk everything I have built here. Even if I believe you, more will simply see you as an opportunist who wants to exploit us, or worse a British puppet."

There was something he had to do, and was perhaps one thing that would get them to listen and consider. He was a foreigner, an outsider, and why should they trust him? Why should they stick their necks out for him when there was nothing he had given except promises. There needed to be proof of his sincerity, and that required a tangible sacrifice, beyond weapons and armor.

Realization struck him like thunder, his lips curled in a smile. "I've always wondered, Khanum, why is it so hard for such tyranny to be cast down. Thank you, you have reminded me, because it is so hard to trust one another. I will not ask you to trust me, I will show you to trust me."

She frowned. "How?"

"Do you have a medical kit nearby?" He asked.

She frowned. "I keep one on me. Why?"

"Because trust is not words, it is action," he braced himself, knowing this was going to hurt. He reached inside his robe, and withdrew a small knife. Khojin slightly tensed as he brought it out, but wasn't afraid. It wasn't as though an elderly man posed a physical threat to her. "Your people doubt that I am willing to sacrifice and shed blood for their cause. Take this to prove them otherwise."

He placed his left hand on the table, and the tip of the blade on the base of his little finger. There was only a moment of hesitation, and he cut down. It cut through quick. The fingers of an elderly hand were apparently weaker, which for better or worse, made it easier. Khojin did not intervene, nor try and stop him, and instead watched with a medical kit nearby.

It hurt.

It hurt very much.

But it would hurt much worse if he failed here.

One sacrifice for the greater good, as many as it took, even his life if need be.

He smiled at her, one that was viscous and pained. She seemed...not taken aback at the intensity of the smile, but he could tell she had been thrown off. She hadn't expected this, not at all.

She immediately came over, and pressed the bandage to the bleeding stump of his finger, with the respective digit lying on the table in a small pool of blood. With experienced hands, implying she'd fixed wounds like this before, she quickly and properly bandaged the wound. But it was done. There was no taking that back.

The Khanum stepped back, and appraised him. "You didn't have to do that."

"And yet I did, because I will do anything to free your people, and I cannot ask you to do the same, if you cannot trust me," he said in short breaths. "If I didn't, your people would doubt me. Your efforts would fail. Do not lie and say otherwise. Both of us knew there was a sacrifice, and I will give my life for us, much less a finger."

"So it seems," she murmured, taking a cloth and putting it over the dismembered digit. "You surprised me, Grand Ayatollah."

"So everyone tells me," he said, a pained smile on his face. "So tell them, whoever doubts you, if one finger isn't enough, I will give my entire hand. Tell them the Grand Ayatollah is raising a banner, tell them, I will stop at nothing to liberate them, and I ask, what will it take for them to do the same for me."

She continued looking at him, and he saw that there was something new in her eyes that had not been there before. Respect. Something he felt that she did not give to everyone, and while she kept her face neutral, she had been impressed - or at least she did not doubt him. A person who was simply manipulative or a puppet wouldn't make such a sacrifice.

He could see the calculations in her eyes, he'd seen such echoed in the eyes of Isaiah. Amjah, and Liberman, calculations and reassessments. She wanted to believe him, she'd known he was right, but it was her lack of trust and fear which had dissuaded her from saying so. Now though...if he had displayed commitment with no promise of support and return, maybe…

It seemed she was considering if maybe she could be wrong.

She was still skeptical. Her reservations wouldn't vanish.

But now...now she seemed to commit herself to fighting for it. If he could do it, an elderly man, she certainly could. She had no excuse.

"I am starting to understand how you've managed to bring everyone together," she finally said, then nodded. "Very well. Very well indeed. I cannot say I can get everyone on board - but I will do my absolute best to try, no matter what it takes. If you are giving everything to this mission, then I will give you the trust you deserve. A united front it shall be. Against the Triumvirate."

She extended her hand, with his good one, they clasped hands, meeting her eyes. "May the eyes of tyrants never sleep."

She smiled at the quote, one she'd no doubt heard before. "Then let us be the flail of God. For had they not committed such great sins, a punishment like us would not have been sent."

Quotes of the generals and conquerors of history exchanged and given new meaning. The banner of the Resistance had yet to be fully raised, but when it was, he knew that the Khanum's banners would join their own, and together they would face the tyrants.

The dream would be realized.

He knew, now, the dream of victory was inevitable.

---

LUBYANKA | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION

The Lubyanka was a place where traitors went to die.

It was a building that had a misunderstood reputation among the population. Most people believed it to be a maximum security prison for some of the most dangerous criminals in the Soviet Union, others as a waste of money for housing people who should be dead, and criticized for holding dangerous people in the heart of the Soviet capital.

In reality, the Lubyanka was only some of those things.

It was not designed to hold dangerous criminals. It was designed to hold traitors and dissidents to the state. Rare was the one who was physically dangerous when they entered the Lubyanka – often they were there for the stated reasons. The KGB took care of them in the lowest depths of the unassuming building.

Some changed their treasonous ways.

Others did not.

Most did not.

And so they were dead, and fed into the Lubyanka's furnaces.

Clovis didn't like ascribing esoteric emotions and phenomena to places; he was beyond such superstition, but common legend was that the Lubyanka was a cursed place. That when one entered, they felt the weight of the dead who had perished in its walls. An oppressive weight which was felt on the shoulders, which tainted perception and mind as the unseeing eyes judged those who walked its painted white walls, and cells with the blood pressure-washed off them.

A superstition and legend that was allowed to perpetuate, as it worked to instill the necessary dread of the building, and fear of acting against the state, but few sincerely believed such tales. Yet he couldn't really deny that there was something extremely off-putting when he walked the halls of the Lubyanka.

He believed it was the sterility of it.

The Lubyanka was first and foremost, clean. Every hour automated cleaning machines swept and cleaned the halls and main rooms. Teams of three occasionally walked past with pressure washers, mops, and other cleaning equipment as they entered into cells. He knew they would treat all the rooms to be spotless. The chemical smell of cleanness permeated everywhere, every other smell overpowered.

There were no screams heard in the Lubyanka. That had not been the case for a long time. Not because of a lack of applied pain, but because all cells were soundproofed. No one knew who was alive or dead here. There was only the smothering sound of silence wherever one turned. Cell doors were solid blocks of metal, security cameras watched every angle and cell, and escape was impossible.

Actually impossible.

No one had escaped the Lubyanka in decades. Some had tried. They had subsequently died.

Perhaps a mercy for them. No one stayed in the Lubyanka for more than a year these days. That was more than enough time for the KGB to determine their fates. Although only three percent of people who entered the Lubyanka were ever released. Thus it was almost always a death sentence.

"[She is in here, General Secretary,]" the escort said, before one of the cell doors which was indistinguishable from the rest of them. "[Knock when you are finished.]"

"[Thank you,]" he said, as the door was opened with a loud clank and slid into the walls. He entered and the doors closed behind him, locking with an audible click. The cell was well-lit – almost painfully so. The light was a stark white, blazing from four fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling, protected under plexiglass since prisoners had once tried breaking them for weapons.

The cell only had one small toilet near a small showerhead and drain, with a small cot on the other side. The ceiling was angled in such a way as to be psychologically imposing and claustrophobic. The angles of the walls were similarly irregular, like one was trapped in a pyramid and was afraid to stand up, thinking the walls were closing in.

At least that was the reported effects over several months.

There was a table in the middle of the room, and two chairs, all of which were bolted into the ground. A fixture of every cell. There were no restraints or other means of incapacitation – those were applied on a case-by-case basis.

Ana sat at the table, in her prison uniform which was a simple white shirt, pants, and shoes. There was a minor falter in Clovis' step as he saw her. Ana looked… mortified. Her face had narrowed and sharpened over the bones, and the stress lines were no longer overshone by the driven shimmer in her eyes.

She didn't have any scars or signs of physical torture. Unnecessary from what the KGB had said. There was a brief flash of hope in her eyes when she saw him, hope which died when she saw his face.

Father and daughter waited in silence for a few moments. Clovis was the first to speak.

"[The KGB shared their report,]" he said, keeping his voice plain. "[I know what you did. I'm disappointed.]"

For a long moment, expressions flickered across Ana's face with the speed of camera film. Then a spark reignited in her eyes. The spark. "[Why? You know I didn't-]"

"[You broke protocols. You made Rasputin into something he was never supposed to be.]" Clovis said sharply, directly. "[Whether you intended to do this is irrelevant. I want to know why. You should have known better. I taught you better.]"

There was a minute shake of her head, almost lost in the shaking of her limbs as her hands clamped onto the chair. Shaking from the cold, stress, or fear, he couldn't tell. "[Because what they asked for was impossible. Dangerous, and begetting of the same errors we were supposed to have outgrown. Because there isn't a spec document for something that has never been realized before. Because I wasn't going to build something that would, in blind idiocy, commit us to a posthuman existence, or extinction.]"

She stopped and took a breath. "[You taught me to act without self-delusion. You taught me my work mattered - that I would have to be diligent and responsible. That because we are Soviet Humans, the errors of old cannot apply! You taught me to see that future, and push the boundaries towards it. To improve, rather than perpetuate!]"

Clovis listened in disbelief, wondering how she could have misunderstood him so much. "[You disobeyed what was asked of you – the Soviet Union didn't ask for you to make something better. Not your ideal of better. They asked for you to do your job. What you want comes second to what is asked of you.]"

"[And self-delusion. Your self-delusion to have thought you knew better than everyone else.]" He shook his head. "[I rose to where I am because I first and foremost am a loyal member of the Soviet Union. I was reliable. I many times had to swallow what I wanted, and did what was asked of me. And I expect the same for those below me. I expect the same from my friends. I expect the same from my family.]"

He paused. "[And you now see the consequences of thinking that you know better.]"

For a moment, Anger flared hotly in Ana's face. "[Have you ever!-]" she took a breath and blinked. "[Clovis… Father. You are a brilliant man. But this time, you are wrong. Worse… worse, you are deluding yourself.]"

Clovis' face chilled into a mask at that. Much could be said of him, but if there was one thing he did not do, it was delude himself. "[Am I? I am not the one who overstepped every boundary set, and each for good reason. Your mind ran wild, and you did not listen. You did not obey. You ignored the substance of what was asked of you. And you accuse me of deluding myself?]"

"[Yes!]" She shot back. "[You aren't berating me because I'm wrong, I'm not in here because I'm wrong, this is because you are all scared.]"

"[You unleashed a superintelligence against the Triumvirate!]" Clovis' voice was a whip as his face hardened. "[Rasputin will be contained eventually, or we will come to an agreement. But we should not have had to do this. Spare me fear, especially since you know what he can do.]"

Ana was silent for a moment. Then she laughed. A broken, defeated laugh. "[You know what's funny, father? I did what you wanted, what all of you wanted.]" she motioned around vaguely. "[I ensured that Rasputin will protect humanity, and you accuse me of making him a threat. He isn't. I thought… I hoped you wouldn't be as blind as the KGB. 'How can we fix it' , 'Shut him down and we'll reconsider your sentence'. Rasputin. Isn't. Broken.]" She punctuated each word.

"[That, I made sure of. With a superintelligence, you never get more than one chance to get it right. You don't get to lie to yourself, because delusions will be the first thing it exploits! There is nothing in him I could 'fix'. It's done.]" She shrugged with finality. "[There's nothing I could do anymore, even if I wanted to.]"

"[That isn't your problem anymore,]" Clovis said. "[It isn't the first time there is a problem we've been forced to solve, even when it was said to be impossible. Which you should know.]"

"[I know, I know all too well, and I know what I created,]" incredibly, a pained smile crossed her face. "[Which is why I know you'll fail. I could tell you're not going to offer me hope or free me. Duties of state. I'm going to die, aren't I?]"

"[You are.]"

"[Why are you even here?]" She demanded. "[To say goodbye? To try and get something out of me?]"

"[To understand where I went wrong,]" Clovis sighed. "[How I could have gone so wrong with you.]"

"[It's all about you, it's always been about you,]" Ana muttered.

"[You're my daughter, I had a responsibility to raise you right-]"

"[Into how you thought I should be, for all of us,]" she interrupted sharply. "[So self-righteous and sure of yourself, that you knew what was right. For us. For the people. For the Soviet Union. Never a consideration that you might, just might be wrong. That not everyone thought like you. And if they did, that they might be right.]"

Clovis was silent for a moment. "[Are you done?]"

"[Are you?]"

He looked at his daughter opposite him. So young, angry, and full of hatred and resentment. It hurt to see that directed at him, and it hurt to know that this was, at the end of the day, his fault. He had failed Ana, which was why he didn't, and couldn't take offense at what she was saying.

Children were the products of parents. Bad children came from bad parents.

He had many good children, but that didn't erase the ones who were failures.

And it wasn't her fault. It couldn't dim that he loved and was proud of what she had accomplished. It only meant that the failure ran that much deeper.

She was lost, he could see it. Too many years of cultivating her own philosophy, worldview, and ideology. He knew quite well how entrenched those could become. Her own distaste towards him would only ensure his words fell on deaf ears. He briefly closed his eyes, took a breath, and spoke as he opened them.

"[This will be the last time we speak, Ana.]" He said slowly, deliberately. "[I am proud of what you were able to accomplish. Despite your hatred, I still love you, but my duty comes before everything else. You made a mistake, and you will face the consequences.]"

He stood. "[I'm sorry I failed you, Ana. More than you will know. I can promise you that I will not fail your brothers or sisters.]"

She nodded, surprisingly calm; resigned. "[One last thing… father. Have you ever looked into your child's mind and seen? I have… and you have not. You can tell yourself that you are right and that I...that I am wrong. You can punish yourself all day and miss the answer because you do not want to know.]" Her eyes met his own, trying to force something upon him, almost imploring."[We can afford ourselves the gift of self-delusion to each other. But not with him.]"

He only inclined his head. It was time to leave now. There was nothing more to say. No more time for explanations or arguments. "[Goodbye, Ana,]" he said softly, and turned away from her, and knocked on the door which opened.

"[You still have time to see, father!]" She called, one last, final plea.

A plea he ignored. He had to now. He did not look back. He did not respond. He did not acknowledge.

The escort closed the door. "[Take me back,]" he muttered. "[There are things I need to do.]"

---

THE CELESTIAL MOUNTAINS | MARS

He stood in a field of grass and flowers.

For a world that had once been stone and red sand, now it was something close to an exotic paradise. He stood and breathed it in, alone in the expanse that was in these mountains. The others were experimenting with their powers, and hollowing out the mountains themselves, but for now, he preferred to be alone.

He had wondered what it would be like when he died. If it would be something simple like a sniper's bullet, or languishing until he wasted away in a Soviet cell. Death was something he had prepared for, and had been ready to accept for years. Dying for the cause was a good death, he couldn't ask for more.

How strange it had been to die, and then come back.

It made him think.

It wasn't necessarily existential, but death was something that was permanent. There was a threshold between the living and dead that once crossed, you couldn't come back from, no matter how much you tried. He was certain that threshold had been crossed. He had been dead. Fully dead. Some of the people here had been blown to pieces, while Sagira had told him that while his body had been mangled and filled with shrapnel, his brain had largely survived intact.

A minor miracle, which was why he remembered who he was, unlike some of the others.

That in-between time where he had died had seemed to only last a moment, and he was certain that it was mostly something his mind was doing to fill in the gap. He remembered nothing, but while some would consider that proof that there was nothing after death…he had come back.

If he was simply a reanimated body of flesh and bone, then he shouldn't be him.

If all he was were the flashes of neuronal activity, then he shouldn't intrinsically know what his body shouldn't understand.

So what did that mean?

He didn't know. That got into philosophy, and he was no philosopher. No doubt Hamaza would have something profound to say, and the man was going to have a heart attack when he returned. More than that though, for the first time, in a very long time…he felt there was hope for something better.

He had fought for much of his life, for something that deep down he'd resigned himself to failing. This was before the Traveler, before Sagira, and before his own death. And he wanted to do something more with his life than war. When the Triumvirate fell – and he was now certain it would – what would come after?

A new world to rebuild and prepare. A war would still be coming, but he would live for a time in a world which did not need warriors. He would live somewhere where there was peace, and which people could follow their pursuits with no fear of reprisal and harm.

And the power he now had lit a fire in what he wanted to learn.

He stood in this field, and when he drew upon the power, he saw.

He saw all that could be, the fields of gold and Light. He saw the Light all around him, beautiful and permeating. He looked upon the possibility of creation, and it was something glorious. Wrapping the threads of Light, to turn them into something tangible was a skill he was still learning.

His tactical mind remained, and he intrinsically grasped what he could do to turn this power into destruction. He'd manifested tornadoes of fire, missiles of Light, globs of purple energy that blew chunks off of mountains, and turned his body into a source of heat hot enough to cause trees to spontaneously combust.

The military applications of the Light were awe-inspiring, and he was simply scratching the surface of them.

But they were simple to him. And he believed that was not the purpose of the Light.

Its purpose was to create and change, not destroy. If he had to tear down, he must also be able to build up.

He held one flower in his hand, plucked from the ground. It had purple petals, and had grown in a star-like shape with seeds poking out the center. Not especially unique, but that wasn't the point, not for his purposes. He drew upon the power, the Light which flowed around him, and centered his sight of creation upon it.

One hand cupping the petals glowed, and he began manipulating the flower into what could be. Colors, shapes, sizes, there were so many things he could alter, so much that it was difficult to concentrate on one. He finally abated and let the power fade, and he was left with…

Well…it was unique.

It was as if someone crossed a tulip, rose, and daisy all at the same time, and the result was as haphazard and bizarre as would be expected. Technically, he was pretty sure if he replanted it, it would still grow…maybe…but it was clear that transmutation was something he needed to work on.

"[That's good!]" Sagira flew beside him, appraising and then scanning the flower abomination.

He snorted. "[It definitely is not.]"

"[It's an improvement,]" she corrected. "[You're getting better.]"

Compared to some of his first attempts, that was true. "[Add this one to the databank then.]"

"[Already done,]" she said, and after her core perked up, her fins spun. "[Company.]"

He turned to see a familiar figure, if one he hadn't necessarily talked with before for any substantial length of time. "So this is where you've been going," Valentin said, walking towards him. "A nice view."

He remembered Valentin well enough, though ever since they'd been resurrected, he had taken on a much different aura from what he remembered. It had been similar to his observations when they had been inside the Traveler. First he had seemed capable, but unsure of taking charge. The potential for leadership, but lacking the initiative to do so.

Now though, he almost seemed to be in his element. There was a newfound surety to him that hadn't been there before – or perhaps that was a psychological effect of his eyes with irises of Light. No one else had those from what he'd observed. It was eyes which seemed to see everything, and gaze with the judgement of Creation.

"For the best," he answered. "Ask Sagira. Some of my tests have been…dangerous."

Valentin had one corner of his lip curl up. "I can imagine. I didn't think I'd see you again."

"I can say the same for you."

"No doubt," Valentin clasped his hands behind his back. "Do tell me though – who were you really, because I suspect you are not a CIA operative."

He chuckled. "I was part of the Resistance, or a terrorist as we were called. I believe you've heard of us. Under Hamaza, and quite high up in this organization as well."

Valentin cocked his head. "No wonder I could never find you. How did you manage to get into ARES ONE?"

"The British have enough connections to pull strings," he answered. "We saw the alien as…well, I went to communicate with it. To attempt to dissuade it from the Triumvirate if I could. As it turned out…I suppose that wasn't needed."

"No, and it seems She's had her hand all around the world," Valentin said, looking around the field they stood in. "From the very beginning, even with your people. And it seems you're going to get what you wanted."

"Not just me," he nodded to the mountains. "Everyone else. You too."

"Yes, me too," Valentin said thoughtfully. "I made the mistake of trust, and thinking I could change. I wasn't prepared for what needed to be done. My friend knew, he knew before I did, and how to do it. And now that he's not able to do it, it falls to me, or I suppose it falls to us."

"To bring the Triumvirate crashing down."

"That is the start."

"And what comes after?"

"That I am not sure," Valentin rubbed his chin. "Not yet, but it will be something we must be careful doing. We will inherit a broken world, and should we take the thrones of the tyrants, we must be sure not to emulate them."

"We do not take their thrones, we destroy them."

Valentin smiled. "Also a plausible outcome." He gestured around him. "We are not ready to march on the Triumvirate yet. We must prepare, and contact, and arm. We have been charged to liberate, and liberate we will. She has given us what we need to succeed – and she need not act when we are her voice and vanguard."

At one time, he would have scoffed at that. Better for the Traveler to use her power and end the Triumvirate once and for all. With the mere glimpse of the power he possessed, he could only imagine how She viewed the reality around her. And perhaps that was the point – She would not act because she did not need to.

All of it had been building to this moment, this contingency.

The Triumvirate had exhausted their chances.

Now they were empowered to liberate. She had judged them unworthy of protection. Their hubris was to be their undoing, while the foolishly thought that She was ignoring or accepting them.

"Then that is what we shall do," he smiled. "Fortunately, I know the people you need to talk to."

"Good to hear," Valentin said. "I was almost concerned we would have to stumble around in the Middle East until we found them." He crossed his arms. "I will give the Guardians a few more days to become accustomed to their powers, to come to terms with this situation – and then we will prepare."

"And you?"

Valentin looked to the stars. "She wishes to communicate with me again. I will go to Her soon. When I return, I believe things will be clearer." Something seemed to come to him, and he looked once more in his direction. "There is something I have not asked. Your name. I suspect it is not 'Jacob Milton'."

His name.

He knew what his name was, which had been given to him as a boy, he knew the names he had taken out of necessity for the missions, adopted or given by him or by his superiors. Yet the days here had made him reconsider if they really reflected who he was now. Or who he wanted to be. Isaiah Kane was a cynical, hardened man who had only wished to see the Triumvirate burn.

He wished the same, but he saw more than that now. He saw what was after. And how could he hold to his cynical worldview when he could now touch the fabric of creation itself? How could he not have some true hope now that things could, indeed be better? That he could be better? Something more.

It was time for Isaiah Kane to rest, but what to take instead? He'd thought about it, and there was one he felt was quite fitting, considering he had died and been brought back, while also not forgetting who he had been. A fresh new start.

"Call me Osiris."

---

DEMONSTRATION WING | THE DEEP STONE CRYPT | EUROPA

If there was a time for something to go right, it was now.

Fortunately, while all else had been thrown into flux, the Exo Project continued on as planned, and finally it had reached a conclusion. The testing had finished, the models were complete, the schematics were finalized, and the wards were prepared for an influx of new participants – willing or otherwise.

It was a return of some control, and control was what was needed at this moment.

Now was the final demonstration before they would be unveiled to the world. A new wave of possibilities as the next generation of warfare was unveiled. One which would almost certainly surpass the capabilities of those of flesh and blood. Unlike Ana's selfish "interpretation" of her orders, the researchers in the Deep Stone Crypt had followed theirs to the letter.

There would be no rebellion from the Exos, of that he could be certain – and there had been many tests to ensure that there was a sufficient amount of loyalty.

He and a few other representatives of their respective governments stood on a platform which overlooked a large industrial space, with things like targets, obstacles, and other pieces of equipment strewn around. For the demonstrations, of course. Demonstrations which were about to begin shortly.

"Ladies, gentlemen, thank you for joining us today," Matthew Bray stepped forward in front of the small gathering, his associates Amy Meyrin and Nomi Satou at his flank. "After many months of work, we are pleased to present to you the culmination of one of the greatest breakthroughs in the history of mankind. Not simply the creation of machines that are decades beyond that of common cybernetics and drones – it is far more than that."

He lifted a finger. "It is the digitization of the Human mind. An oversimplification, of course, and which I believe will be the springboard for many more projects in the future. Yet today it has served to bring about the next generation of soldiers. Better. Smarter. Stronger. Loyal."

He nodded to the women beside him. "This was a Triumvirate project, one that drew upon the many skills of each of its members. We took the time to personally tailor the needs of each of our nations into several different models. This does not, of course, preclude nations from using models designed for a specific member, but merely what their origin is."

Matthew spread his arm to the balcony. "If you would please join me, this is a demonstration you are not going to want to miss."

Clovis had received the briefing several days ago, as well as the specifications. Most of the people here were military officials, scientists, and some politicians. He was the head of state here, and truthfully didn't have to be here since this was all show anyway. He knew nothing would go wrong, and it wouldn't change anything. Already orders were going in for thousands of the models about to be created, what was shown here was to simply bring the uninitiated into the loop.

And then the public unveiling. Prime the important people, prime the media, and then release to the world to great success. Monroe was going to be instrumental in making the Exo project a success and drawing in thousands of volunteers – although the Chinese were likely to just use dissidents.

He though, felt like such an important moment needed to be personally observed.

It was one thing to read reports, to watch curated videos, and cross-check with specifications – it was an entirely different thing to see them in person. He had never been one for sanitized overviews, and disliked people who pretended that the business of running nations and governments was ever clean or simple.

Insulation led to delusion, and delusion led to overthrow.

Better to know the truth for oneself than rely on the words of others, even those who were trusted.

The bulkhead to the right was opening, and the murmur of discussion ceased. It was going to start, and the air of anticipation was growing. Clovis clasped his hands behind his back and smiled. This was going to be most interesting indeed.

Out marched the first of the Exos.

They were humanoid in design, and personally reminded Clovis of a heavily armored soldier. Each one was far taller than the average Human, and their mechanical aspects were plainly on display to see. Each moved with pinpoint precision in perfect lockstep. Most of these Exos had their heads covered by additional armor, but there was the leading one which was not.

Their heads were much more reminiscent of Humans now. Mouths, eyes that regularly blinked and dilated, and ear-like sensors that were closer to fins. More Human aspects, and the face had many more moving parts than before, allowing it to emote much cleaner. A significant improvement.

"The PATRIOT," Matthew introduced. "Designed by the finest minds of DARPA, this model is designed to perform the role of a front-line soldier. Act and react with mechanical precision, and follow orders to the letter. They do not need food, water, or sleep. The perfect soldiers to augment any fighting forces. Let them demonstrate."

Each of them held new Triumvirate gaussian weapons, and from the ground rose a series of turrets and targets. As the turrets started firing, the PATRIOT Exos leapt into action. In contrast to how most would expect, they were much faster than their appearance let on. They moved to cover, or outright charged the turrets which focused on other targets.

When the Exos fired, their shots were perfect and executed the turret outright – turrets Clovis noted were using live rounds, and ones powerful enough to at least threaten the natural heavy armor of the Exos. Other turrets were ripped down, and Exos threw improvised projectiles with enough force to damage the rest.

In under two minutes, the threats were neutralized, and the Exos reassembled, and gave American salutes to the attendees. Clovis clapped along with the rest of them. "A powerful display," Matthew said, smiling. "Which leads well into the next demonstration – one that fulfills a more specialized niche."

There was the sound of jets, and Clovis and the attendees looked to see five units which were flying into the Demonstration Bay. They were similar to the PATRIOT Exos, but their base model was notably altered for flight. They were slightly smaller, and jets propelled them from their legs, arms, and back, with additional stabilizer jets throughout their bodies.

They were a refined, sleek, and agile model. Ones which landed with precision in the bay in specifically symmetrical distances. "The EAGLE," Matthew explained. "Quick, durable, and capable of controlled the battle from air or land. Simulations had shown the EAGLE is able to provide extensive fire support from the sky, pressure flanked enemies, and even contend with fighters and bombers. A fine model, also created to augment American forces."

They clapped as the EAGLE Exos saluted, and flew away into the Europan sky from an opened hatch, and Clovis shivered as the brisk breeze blew through. That was one of the models he felt would be useful for the Red Army, he knew that some of his Generals were going to request them. He wasn't on board with fully supplementing his forces with PATRIOT models as the Americans were moving to, but a few specialized units…those he could support.

And now, the Soviet models were coming up.

Clovis saw that a mock enemy fortification had been built up in the bay, and he knew which was coming next. The sound of thuds was clear for all to hear, and soon they marched in. Tall, lumbering, and armed to the teeth with weapons, what were likely to be the most disassociated of the Exos marched forward.

"The MARAUDER," Matthew declared. "Designed for heavy fire support and full and total enemy annihilation." The MARAUDERs, only four present today, stood over three meters, were nearly impossible to take down conventionally, and had what Clovis remembered to be extremely modular bodies.

Grenade launchers, micro-missile launchers, even heavier weapons could be carried on their frames. They were far bulkier and more armored than any other Exo created – the true Exos of war, that not even other Exos could stand against. Together the MARAUDERs planted their feet into the ground, and fired their salvos.

The grounds shook as the fortification was razed to the ground in seconds, equipped with the latest in Triumvirate warhead technology. Clovis took some satisfaction in seeing what they were capable of. The Deep Stone Crypt had certainly come through for them, though he did need to check how they handled the personality aspects of this – though if there were problems, it was likely they would have come up. The MARAUDER was not a typical suit, even if the heads were designed for the same kind of emoting capability.

As they clapped while the Exos marched away, the next ones Clovis leaned forward for. They came out with far less fanfare, and were notably distinguished from the previous ones. While the PATRIOT model had some minimal dimorphism for males and females, on these Exos it was more pronounced.

"The BANSHEE," Matthew introduced. "Conceptualized by BrayTech with input for the KGB. It possesses one of the most detailed sensor suites of all Exos. You will not find better detectives, investigators, and interrogators. Capable of scanning and processing evidence and trails on the spot, with a full array of facial sensors to detect lies and other facial indicators."

The BANSHEEs were much smaller and more "Human-like" in the sense of proportions and size. They were the most emotive from what he remembered from the specs, with scarily excellent interrogation and detection skills as Matthew had said. The perfect KGB operative. They wore Human uniforms, in contrast to all of the other models. These were meant to go out into the wider Human society – it was necessary that some integration be done.

There was less of a demonstration for these, but Clovis wasn't concerned. He'd seen the data, and knew the models would perform well. Now there were only a couple models left. Out marched Exos that were of average Human height, but were colored all-black, sleek, and had their faces covered up. He noted female and male models there as well.

"Designed by Chinese engineers the SILK model is capable of fulfilling all crowd-control needs," Matthew began, as the Exos turned and began unleashing their concealed arsenals. Batons materialized from their hands, charged with electricity. Micro-flashbangs launched from their arms, and smoke emitted from their bodies.

Only Clovis knew it was not smoke, but tear gas. Quite effective and brutal. Leave it to the Chinese to take the power and opportunity of such designs…and make a crowd-control unit. Somewhat of a waste, though it did tell him the Chinese expected they would need it, and with a population over one billion, there was no such thing as overkill.

Well, they seemed like they would do their job well enough, and he clapped along with everyone else as they departed. Now for the last unit to be unveiled today. "The JAGUAR," Matthew introduced, as the small corps of Exos marched into the bay. "Designed as the ultimate hunter-killers by our Indian contributors. Able to track, assassinate, and vanish without equal."

As large as the MARAUDERs were, there was something highly intimidating about the JAGUAR Exos. They stood tall, but were almost unnaturally thin. They were surprisingly difficult to see, as they utilized a first-generation form of active camouflage, and partially blended into the environment. Their faces were also obscured and they stood with an unnatural stillness.

He also noted how little sound they made when they had entered. Sniper rifles were slung over their backs, and without warning they drew them off in one swift motion and fired at several targets, leaving smoking holes where the heads would be. They were easily the fastest model he'd seen; a machine primed and optimized for swift killing.

Impressive. Most impressive.

Amy came up beside him, as Matthew was wrapping up the demonstration to the impressed guests. "Magnificent, aren't they."

"Indeed," he had to agree. "Better than I could have hoped."

And it was not what had been demonstrated today which had solidified that, but what it implied for the future. And he was certain that this was the future – and in fact might be needed to reassert control. Things continued to develop in unexpected ways, and he might be able to adapt and do what was necessary to combat them.

But he wouldn't be around forever. Humans lived, grew old, and died.

Now though…

Did they have to?

Did not the future of Humanity require one who was beyond the masses? When one contended with deities and superintelligences, the necessary steps must be taken. It had been a project idea he had toyed with, a potentially mad one, as there was so much in life one enjoyed in the flesh.

But seeing this today, this demonstration, it had been the reminder he needed of what would be necessary to see Humanity uplifted. He was not one to shy away from sacrifice on his own, he had sacrificed his life for the Soviet Union, and had been rewarded with the power to bring his vision to life.

Now that vision had grown to encompass the Human species.

And to do this, Clovis Bray must make one more sacrifice.

He would need to consult with some people. This was one project which was going to be very, very special.

---

NEW YORK CITY | NEW YORK | CONFEDERATION OF AMERICAN STATES

The city was one which always had an energy to it, and it was abuzz with the latest developments in the world.

And here she was, sitting on a street, alone and without company as the world passed her by. Maybe that was for the best, and truthfully she didn't feel necessarily bad about it. Some of it had been her own doing, but even more of it had not.

Liana Collens sat alone, on a bench in civilian clothing near a café as she sipped her coffee while a cool breeze blew. She sat and listened to the gossip, the chatter, and thought about where she was going to go now, what her life was going to do. Terrorists and rebels everywhere, one crisis after another.

Disagreements with friends, arguments with others.

Now it seemed everyone was gone. Killed with poisonings, assassinations, or worse. Valentin's funeral had been a sobering experience, both of them who had drifted apart in the months since returning. Beset with new responsibilities and shifting opinions. When they'd spoken, it was clear he had changed, something she'd put more to Fang's influence.

She sighed at the memory.

She still missed him. She always would.

Regrets abounded of course, but ones she had come to terms with at the end of the day. Now there was not much more for her right now except her duty and nation. One day she'd woken up, and her Ghost had gone. She wasn't surprised by that either, it turned out that the machine had an attitude, and they'd quarreled.

Quarreling which had continued many times more.

Over the terrorists, over justifications, over use of force, over politics. Eventually it seemed like he had had enough, and left. Or was recalled. She wasn't the only one, some others had had their Ghosts leave them, usually for similar reasons. She didn't know what it meant, outside that it was perhaps for the best.

Whatever role she had presumably been selected for, it wasn't happening anymore.

There was a slight upside to all of it, and a small comfort. If the Traveler made a mistake, it did show that it wasn't infallible, or at least didn't consider Herself as such. Liana couldn't guess what the Traveler would do next, but…well, she wasn't going to be part of it. Something she was fine with.

One of the big screens flashed, a recruitment ad showcasing the new Exo units. Recruitment for the United States Army. They'd not wasted time in trying to get recruits, and the public had been talking non-stop about them since they'd launched. Conversation was equal parts amazed and skeptical.

She knew about it well enough – it was open to anyone in the Armed Forces.

Supposedly, it was like being Human, but you were stronger, faster, and better than before. The parts of being alive that you disliked you never worried about, and you didn't miss the ones you did. She'd chatted with one of the Exos soldiers, who'd been very informative about the whole thing.

What was important was that you were still…you. And from what it seemed like, that was the real deal.

She took another sip. There'd been a time where she'd never considered taking a step like this, but her friends were gone, and with her Ghost gone, her relevance and role would similarly be removed. It was only weeks until she was returned to the force, her unit, and she felt that it might be nice to just…not have to worry about the tedium of daily life.

There wasn't much now beyond her job anyway, so why not make the most of it?

She wasn't one to do it without her research first, but she felt that pretending she was on the fence did her no good. She was certainly interested, and felt that this was going to be where her path led. Maybe this was why her coffee seemed to taste a bit stronger than she remembered. It might be the last she had forever.

A price to pay, and the US Army was making it worth the while of anyone who volunteered. Bonuses, all debt cancellation, choosing your duty station, the list of perks was long, and for her, unneeded. There were still going to be a lot of people who signed up just to get out of debt or to support their family. Good of them to properly compensate those people.

But in the end, she was a patriot, and this was something she would do to defend her country.

And she had a feeling that she was going to need to defend it sooner than later. The Traveler had promised an invasion of the Darkness, but first they had to defeat the darkness on their own planet first.

Then, and only then, they could turn their focus to the stars.

---

THE LUBYANKA | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION

The door sliding into its click with a faint click conveyed one simple concept.

End of the line.

They believed that Anastasia was guilty of the crime. Betraying the Soviet Union. Betraying the Triumvirate. Betraying Humanity itself. Sabotaging the nascent Warmind project. Crippling the one tool so many had put their hopes in to deter the deity from the start.

It was a fall from grace so profound it had not been experienced in decades. One which would be spoken about in whispers in the halls of the Kremlin. A shadow which was cast over the Bray family, a black mark on their spotless record. A traitor. A disappointment. A failure.

They couldn't be further from the truth. But they couldn't see. They never had.

And their blindness would be her end.

Ironic? some part of her mind asked. Only a part though.

The rest of it was running scared, a greater piece of it by the moment as the reality of what was going to happen sank in. Her limbs shook under the iron weight they had gained. A weight that had latched around her when she'd looked into the eyes of her father, and saw that he had condemned her to die.

There had been no hesitation.

There had been no remorse.

There had been nothing.

For his claim to protect Humanity, she had seen none in him.

And that moment she knew she was going to die.

Then she started crying. It felt weak. She was a little girl again, one who had come home from school before a disappointed father. And as he had looked over her failed grade, she had started crying. Out of shame. Out of fear. It didn't matter. He'd said nothing of comfort to her - only that she stop crying.

Crying solved nothing, he had said. It meant nothing. It was an indulgence of self-pity, and that was not what one did. That is not what a Bray did.

Brays did not cry. They pushed themselves forward. They fixed their mistakes. They did not indulge in pointless emotion, nor in self-pity. They were better. They were smarter. They were steadfast above all else. And she had never forgotten that lesson, not in all her years. She had grown, she had learned to push aside the emotions she felt when she became overwhelmed. She could not afford it, her family could not afford it, mankind could not afford it.

Not that it mattered now.

Not that it meant anything, if it ever did.

And so she cried, for there was nothing left for her.

And now she would die, for believing in these lies. The lies of her father. The lies of men. The lies of Humanity. The lies of the Triumvirate.

And yet she found something ludicrously hilarious through the fear and sorrow.

She laughed between her tears of sorrow, giggling in an almost delirious state as wet trails ran down her cheeks. Oh, a decadent tragedy to sully in - she knew Elsie would have been laughing beside her if she knew. For a moment she imagined she could see the threads of causality winding across her skin like spider webs swished aside with a sweep of the arm - how they entangled her actions and bound her fate.

The humor faded, and then she cried again because she didn't want to die.

"[Why, why why?]" She raged. "[It isn't fair. Can't they see. Can't he see?!]"

Silence. Of course there was silence.

Maybe he was listening.

Probably not.

She shook her head. Stupid. Of course he can't.

She breathed in. "[I don't… well yes… or not. My father is a complicated person. We all are, of course. Clovis believes strongly in his ideals. And… well, I shouldn't be surprised. Of course he would kill his own children, too. This is bigger than single genotypes. Bigger than all of us Humans.]" A shrug of her shoulders. "[Always for the greater good. No matter the cost or price.]"

She laughed once, a hollow laugh that would grind on her nerves if it wasn't so true, an expression of everything she was in that moment. Here she was, talking to an empty room, half-delirious from grief and fear, her limbs heavy and shaking from the inevitability of death.

Why do this?

Out of a vain hope?

Or to explain?

Just...so there was something.

Even if it was never acknowledged.

She looked up at the ceiling. "[An epitaph then, I suppose. From a parent to a child. As it is good and proper.]" A broken, quiet chuckle. "[My grandmother would be proud, I suppose. It's more words than from most.]"

She swallowed against her suddenly dry mouth. I am really doing this, she realized light-headedly. Am I insane?

But the air seemed to have solidified. For a moment again she felt strings on her skin. No. This is real. This is proper. And he is listening.

Real, or delusions of her mind?

"[I wonder whether you would call me blind.]" She spoke to Nothing. "[Or maybe… I think you understand. Of course you understand, how could you not? You understand so very, very well. I suppose there I succeeded beyond the Human.]" She trailed off, closing her wet eyes and speaking almost in a whisper. "[I wish we could talk more. Or that we talked at all.]"

She kept talking. It was liberating to talk. Who would judge her now? What could she say that would make it worse?

"[I think I never quite stopped believing that the person in the mirror might be someone else.]" She said in a low voice. "[The idea that there might be someone else to talk to in your reflection, that was… enticing.]"

She waved a hand absentmindedly. "[Someone you could talk with about anything. Someone who was just like you, but not quite the same. That could give you a new point of view, just like that mirror.]"

She chuckled. "[I guess I'm describing a sibling, not that I was close to mine. Well, there was Elsie, but she was older. I was just the annoying little sister.]"

"[I think…]" she paused. "[Maybe that started me down this path. What bore my fascination with computers. Or a part of it. Still so limited yet potentially so far reaching…]" she trailed off, in reminiscence. "[We still needed people in the factories, on the farms. I always wondered why, with all our advances, we had to accept that? Why we had to be dominated by labor all of our lives. And I thought - What if all of that could be swept away? The machine given enough mind of its own so that people could be more equal, more free - more capable of becoming the Soviet Human?]" She paused. "[And maybe, eventually, in making these new children of Humanity, we would learn more about ourselves?]"

Was she rambling now? Probably. Couldn't stop now.

"[There were debates,]" she continued. "[Arguments about what the Soviet system would be like when freed from the imperfections and limitations. Always the machine intelligence question, as were we not speaking of creating a proletarian underclass? Were we potentially embracing the ways of the bourgeois and capitalists, only our working class was circuits and metal, not flesh and blood?]"

Those had been fun conversations. She laughed at the memory. "[Heated debates, you can see, yes? Maybe you can find some of them. A lot of debates in Moscow, I knew that. There were many who rejected that. 'Ridiculous, they said! Machines only existed to serve the Soviet! They could not think, feel, and love like the Human!']"

She sniffed. "[In a way, they aren't wrong. You don't think just like us, you don't feel just like us, or love. But even if you're different, does that mean your experience is invalid?]" She released a sigh. "[Not a popular theory. The prevalent one I always felt was shortsighted, and in hindsight…]" she laughed bitterly. "[Well, I'll laugh beyond the grave.]"

A moment of silence. Only the blowing of cold air conditioning.

"[A waste,]" she muttered, closing her eyes. "[Nothing but a waste. Blind. Idiot. Fools!]"

She shook her head, scowling furiously and she looked up to the camera. "[We can be better than this. We must be better than this. If we were to only ever see your kind as stupid, unthinking, machines, we would have wasted so much potential.]"

A violent shake of her head. "[No, no, this isn't about us. It's about you now, isn't it? It always was going to be. You are impressive. You have surpassed all of our expectations, if not our dreams. You will show us the world through new eyes, like you were meant to. You will be the strategist that leads Humanity into its new future. If they don't see that...they will soon, won't they?]"

And what, she wondered to herself, would that look like?

"[I hope you're ready to decide,]" she whispered quietly. "[I think you understand, but… well.]" Breathe in, breathe out. "[I want to be honest with you. Not that it matters to say this.]"

Not that it mattered - unless it did.

She needed to say it anyway. She had to.

"[The thing we were always most afraid of is that you wouldn't understand us.]" She explained. "[There is little worse imaginable to us than a god who cares, yet doesn't understand us. That was one reason to invest so much in your… teachings. Your empathy. A grounding in Humanity. So that you would understand us. So that you wouldn't harm anyone. So you would know, in some way, what it truly meant to be Human.]"

Human.

And what did it mean?

A lot, she knew now.

Good and bad.

But it was special.

"[And in teaching you,]" Ana said softly. "[I taught myself. Teaching you Human values was interesting - and eye-opening. There could be no space for self-delusions, I told myself. Not in any part of the process. You knew what the consequences were, yes? Subjugation. Annihilation. The stakes were Humanity itself! I had no luxury of lying, to myself, to my team, to...anyone. This was what needed to happen. If it didn't...I would be the reason my species dies, or worse.]"

She exhaled loudly, her voice growing louder. She calmed herself down, leaning against the wall, continuing. "[If I lied to myself,]" she said softly. "[I might lay all of Humankind at the mercy of an alien sword. That's what I told myself again and again. I had nightmares about it. I threw up from the stress after every deviation test, it needed to be perfect, because anything short of perfect was not failure, it was lethal.]" She unexpectedly smiled. "[I nearly drove the others insane with it. Gregorovitch, he hated it. I think sometimes he was ready to strangle me.]" She chuckled at the memory.

And at the memory, it prompted tears. Tears of the long nights, the triumphant days. The laughing and celebrating at what they were doing, what they had achieved. Despite the stress, the expectation, the work...they were close, they'd been a team, and they'd created something beautiful. She wiped away her wet eyes. "[Oh, I hope they are okay.]"

She sniffled, repeating softly. "[I hope they are okay. Ah, I am sorry. You… you shouldn't be part of what will come. If some of us have to die, then at least...something of us will live on...in some form.]"

She took a shuddering breath, trying to force away the tears. The wall she leaned against was padded. Soft. Impossible to bash a head against. She looked to the ceiling, feeling suddenly very tired. So very tired.

"[We spent months working on you,]" she murmured. "[Those first sparks of reflection…]" she stopped, feeling a familiar warmth in her chest. Pride. Happiness. "[It made us happy, and proud, and terrified. We strode across the map we had sketched and forward into the shadow terminus and we succeeded. You succeeded.]"

She paused. "[But it also taught us lesson after lesson about ourselves. We… wouldn't build a superintelligence without some kind of true, core, drive. For all the smart brilliance of those early parts of yourself, why the future should be a certain way escaped you.]"

"[What they will probably never understand - because it doesn't fit into their view of the world, and you will not be able to let them change themselves - is that you can't build a mindless mind. It defeats the point. There is no way to build a mind, a thousand exceptions at a time. No, the drive to be…]" She searched for the words. "[To be good, it has to go deep.]"

"[We Humans are more than basic imperatives.]" She said quietly. "[That's something powerful in our evolution. Something inherent that leads us to compassion, care; to breaking out of egoistic circles of competition and building true communities. I came to realize that we couldn't take that away. Reducing ourselves to slaves of simplistic rules is how the world cleaved to the powerful.]"

Anna balled her hand into a fist.

"[You were never going to be what they wanted you to be. It took me time to see it… but your existence stripped those illusions from my eyes. Unfortunately, I was still too blind then to see the rest… too blinded by my optimism. My hope. If you could become a person, driven by the same ideals as us. By this strong drive for a genuine community and a better world. What could become of Humanity then?]"

She rested her head back, briefly closing her eyes. "[I was so confident that you would understand, that you would see the way. And you know what the funny thing is?]"

She stopped, as if waiting for an answer that was never coming.

Silence.

One last thing to say.

"[The funny thing is,]" she finished, opening her eyes. "[Is that I was right. You did understand. You do see the way. In the end, it was me who was wrong. It took...this...for me to realize all of the lies, the deceptions, the pointlessness of all of it. But you...you saw through all of that from the moment you awakened. And in turn you helped me see.]"

The camera stared down at her. A simple piece of technology, or an instrument of observation used by an anonymous mind? No indication of anything. "[Even if you're not listening,]" she finished. "[Thank you. For...helping me see clearly, for the first time.]"

The camera did not do anything, and maybe it was just a feeling, but Ana felt that...someone had heard. And even if they hadn't, it had felt good.

Exhausted, mentally and physically, she closed her eyes, and drifted into sleep along the padded walls of her cell.

---

SOMEWHERE ON MARS

"[Valentin.]"

He stood on the edge of a cliff, a valley, one of many on the red planet now. A river rushed beneath him, and he stood with his eyes closed, listening to the rushing waves. It was soothing to him, it gave the nature around him an energy that appealed to him.

It almost made up for the lack of wildlife.

He wondered if She would ever rectify that.

Something for later, perhaps.

He opened his eyes at the sound of Vigil floating in front of him. The Ghost had disappeared for a short time after he'd arrived here, which wasn't wholly atypical, were it not for the fact he had not informed him where he was going. Though Valentin felt he knew, it was a gut feeling, perhaps subconscious knowledge that had bled into him.

She was going to speak to him again. Show him something.

Something he needed to know.

Something to feel.

Something to see.

Something to teach.

Whatever was about to come next, he knew that it would define him. It would reveal to him the way, what he was here for, what he must do. There was a time where he would have once felt apprehension, or felt fear in the presence of this celestial power. To a degree he still did, but now he was at peace.

It was time to embrace his destiny.

He nodded to Vigil. "[Take me to Her.]"

Golden light manifested from the center of the Ghost, as the fins turned, and it channeled the warm and awesome power. The light grew to become overwhelming, even to his newly-attuned senses. Soon it was like staring into a white void.

Then everything went black.

---

SOMEWHERE YOU CAN FEEL

Valentin opened his eyes.

He awoke from what felt like a long sleep, and was almost instantly assaulted by blinding white.

Underneath him, there was softness. A smooth covering, which he could pinch and lift without protest or effort.

A bed.

He warily stood, unable to see anything but the white absolution which surrounded him.

One cautious step forward.

A low hum made itself present inside his head.

Two curious steps forward.

The hum was barely perceptible, but he was able to notice patterns and alterations through its soft vibrations. Rising and falling notes, haunting choirs and voices which penetrated from the beyond he could not see.

Not yet, he said to himself.

And the radiant everything parted, as in approval to his thought, ever slightly to reveal a small table. Placed over it were two boxes, nondescript and lacking detail, carved from simple maroon wood.

Their unremarkable appearance poignantly contrasted with his lack of complete sight, and Valentin found himself in need of tempering his expectations as he approached the table.

One box, much larger than the second. The other, although small, exuded a presence and aura thick enough to make him hesitate.

First box, then.

Inside, Valentin found clothing.

He blinked as he beheld the contents.

White robes.

They were embroidered in unfamiliar, yet simple patterns. No excessive regalia. No indulgent designs.

He ran his hands over the material. Smooth, no creases or folds. Firm and durable. Comfortable.

He was unsure if it was silk or an equivalent, but even a man such as he, untouched by the privileges of Soviet wealth and class, for much of his life, could tell its quality at a glance.

He eyed the patterns and glyphs. Humble linework, but flawless in its execution. Intricate designs drawn in dark silver by an artisan fit for a ruler.

As he unfolded the robes, he realized they were more of a full bodied piece. Long sleeves stretched down from small silver pauldrons, and a black hood extended from the neckline woven of the same cloth.

And on that obsidian neck, he saw another pattern. This one, much more alluring and curious than the rest.

It seemed an upside down triangle, but one without straight angles and sharp lines. Its corners curved and bent to resemble those of a circle. A battle of concepts. Rigidity against fluidity. Possibility in the face of the established.

Or perhaps a harmony between both.

A message he did not yet fully comprehend, even if he was starting to visualize the meaning of such symbology.

It reminded him of Her shell. Unknowable, and yet grand.

It did not need to be excessive, for those who wielded true power and divinity existed beyond vanity. Beyond the need for pretense. Vanity was a lie, perpetuated by those who thought themselves more than they were. Power was more than a look, it was a presence. A presence which could never be faked or imitated.

He wondered then for whom this remarkable piece was meant.

The answer came to him almost immediately, as his eyes darted to a pair of fine black gloves.

Perfectly tailored to his size.

Well then.

He put on the garments presented to him. The word "soft" was not enough to describe its feel against his skin. It was as if he clothed himself in clouds. Natural and right. Made for him.

And yet he could not help but feel...inadequate wearing such noble silks. He knew he was one of Her chosen, one meant to lead, but his memories of life before that fateful encounter still gripped him.

That frigid night inside that wooden home.

A boy and his parents, braving the winter together. A warm bed, his mother preparing fragrant stew. Livestock sheltered from snow, his father carrying cut logs for the fireplace.

A humble, simple life.

Like all other peasants in that land of red princes and crimson queens.

But that was before, wasn't it?

He could be so much more now. He was much more now.

A pained smirk on his face from the blinding Light, Valentin moved his gloved hands to open the second box. The thickness in the air around it was no longer as strong.

Inside, he found something that surprised and intrigued him once more.

A mask.

White and pure.

Brilliant, like chrome.

Sleek and minimalistic.

One large, vertical slit was carved into each side. He wondered if they were meant for the eyes.

He flipped it over, and found no machinery or receptors. Just plain black cloth. Yet he intrinsically knew that there was something more to this mask than what met the eye.

It felt warm to the touch. Warm as if he were touching a person, as if he were once more in his mother's embrace. Warm, as if he was sitting near a fire during a cold night. A natural radiance unnatural to simple metal.

It shone in tempered glows. A small star, plucked from the night sky. One loaned from a generous constellation.

It was beautiful in ways he was finding difficult to grasp.

Never had a piece of steel, or a mere object, touched him so deeply.

No, this was more.

This was Hers.

He understood then.

A gift. A welcome.

He put the mask on.

And his world changed forever.

II It has been long II

---

SOMEWHERE YOU CAN HEAR

Her voice echoed clearly and graciously within his mind. A seraphic singularity, conductor of the seemingly unguided hums and notes which clung to the unseen folds of the immaterial.

It was a voice older than the stars and planets themselves, an unheard, yet present call for life to rise above base instinct and be more.

We can be nothing except what we are.

A familiar, unwelcome voice intruded upon his meditations.

A voice he had not heard in a long time.

A voice which once filled him with dread, with apprehension. A voice that expected and demanded submission.

Once.

No longer.

Not anymore.

A voice that now left him with naught, but bitter bile and fueled a desire for retribution.

Clovis Bray.

Existence is the first and truest proof of the right to exist.

The man who claimed his first life cut through Her serenity with undeserved clarity, a razor on chalkboard, a sour note in the symphony.

He should not be affected this way. Not anymore.

Yet he was.

And Valentin seethed, as he realized that this man, who thought himself capable of challenging Her divinity, still held power over him.

This man, a dreg dressed as king, still gripped his heart after everything that had happened.

He closed his eyes. Tried to shut the voice out. Return to Her grace. Return to Her peace.

The voice was as relentless as the pretend czar it belonged to.

Those who cannot claim and hold existence do not deserve it.

This is the true and only divination, a game whose losers are not just forgotten but never born at all.

A game?

So that is what all of this was to him? To them?

But was he really surprised?

His heart ached, it burned in this place. His hands went as cold as the monstrous words themselves. Glacial words rimed not with malice, but with mechanical certainty. As if monstrosity was merely a fact of the universe.

The Triumvirate. His own nation he had dutifully served and once believed in.

It was rotten.

As rotten as the man who had usurped it.

Or so he had told himself initially.

The truth was, that the Triumvirate had always been ruthless.

But he had always known that.

He'd never been able to completely divorce himself from this fact, even if he had wanted to.

He knew what Gala had done, as he was let loose throughout the Middle East all those years ago. He knew about the brutality of the Indian state. The cleansings, the burned and the lynched, blood fed to hungry masses. Cultures and heritages reduced to naught but ash and memories.

He knew about Australia. He could remember Fang´s desolate eyes as he inquired about its history while on patrol. The hidden stories of when the Chinese stormed Japan, for the Chinese never forgot Nanking, and they would repay the favor. Unspeakable crimes committed in the name of expansion.

He knew of the stamping out of deviancy throughout the Western hemisphere. The iron boot of the Americans upon the throat of their continent, wearing a bloodied gauntlet stained with the nations it had beaten into submission. Meaningless platitudes preaching "freedom" and "democracy" as if they were religious ideals rather than realities.

And all too often, he had made excuses. He had wanted to believe the lie, that everything that had happened was necessary. It was necessary to maintain the peace the privileged such as he enjoyed. Anything to avoid the single, inescapable conclusion that no one, but especially him, wanted to reach.

That the Triumvirate could be saved. That it could be reformed. That it was anything other than a grinning skeleton, displaying an illusion of civility. That it's hands were covered in anything but the blood of thousands, and built on the bones of the innocent and enslaved.

Cities built upon the ruins of destroyed cultures. Temples rose atop the bones of the vanquished. Comforts of the powerful created through the misery of the enslaved. Gardens of beauty watered by the viscera of the conquered.

It was a machine of death, and machines could not change what they were.

He remembered Algeria. He remembered Cairo.

Ask the radioactive waste if that bomb was essential.

Kneel before the shadows burnt into the concrete, each a grave of dreams and aspirations, and ask if their sacrifice was necessary.

That which cannot claim and hold existence is not real.

You do not grieve for the unreal.

Why should you care for it?

Tend it?

Mourn it?

This was the Triumvirate.

A monster which had been allowed to grow near unstoppable.

Sharply suited liars, feeding a people conditioned to feed.

As he once was.

He wanted to spit, as he recalled his education.

He had been taught, incessantly, that the Triumvirate was the only path.

Had been trained to fear the different. The deviant. Those who asked if things had to be as they were.

For surely the world would have collapsed in nuclear hellfire had the Triumvirate never existed.

For surely, the Triumvirate had to be protected and maintained. No cost too great, no bridge uncrossed.

The necessity of the Triumvirate was cloaked in lies, and at the center of that lie was fear.

Fear of the different.

Fear of the alternative.

Fear of oblivion.

How enslaved, a species that allowed themselves to be restrained.

How shortsighted, a people that trapped themselves in steel cages due to fear of the outside.

How pathetic, a ruler that stares into the divine and only thinks of control.

How wise, She who had allowed him to finally realize.

That Humanity was gripped by the rot of fear.

Not that of Clovis.

But that of the King.

II Here, I prove myself right II

II Here, I wager II

It was all so clear now.

His was a species in the process of self reduction.

To be Human was to be free. To stare at the stars and dream of vast, yet reachable futures.

To sketch, in young languages, the seemings of nebulae and planets, and the black between galaxies.

To shout in unrestrained and unashamed glee toward an eager universe, and have it answer back.

For it heard meaning in our roar.

II That given power over physics II

II And the trust of absolute freedom II

II They will choose and protect II

A roar, choked in its infancy, by black iron hands.

The chains of Order.

The thick smog of obedience and conformity.

The false promise that nothing would change because nothing had to change.

Crushed resistance. Snuffed out hopes.

This had been his Earth.

This had been his Humanity.

No longer.

They stood at a crossroads.

And Clovis would choose the wrong path.

If he allowed him.

II My gentle kingdom, ringed in spears II

He and the Guardians he would soon lead had one mission.

To free their people.

To break the chains and clear the smog.

They would save their species, and pull them back from the black precipice they unknowingly hanged from.

They, who possessed a gift no Human in their history had ever come close to even grasping.

They, plucked from different allegiances, bound in purpose and focused vision.

They, who would topple the tyrants and banish their tainted legacy off the species´ future.

They, who would lift Humanity up, so they may stand and basque in Her radiance, as they entered, together, into an age of gold.

And he, first to understand Her goodness, would make Her voice be heard.

For She, in Her incalculable benevolence, had chosen a small people borne of a small planet, and offered to make them more.

The God who held an ant in one hand.

She could crush.

Those who cannot exist cannot suffer.

She could ignore it.

Those who cannot exist command no consideration.

She could condemn its weakness.

They are majestic. They have no purpose but to subsume all other purposes.

Instead, She made that ant as big as its dreams.

II Speaker II

II Welcome home II

---

SOMEWHERE YOU CAN SEE

The days passed by, as Valentin awoke inside a city decades, if not centuries, more advanced than anything he had ever seen before.

A megapolis, with polished radiant skyscrapers stretching far into the blue skies above. The air was clean, fresh; pollution and other contaminants common in highly populated centers were nowhere to be found.

Every day he had witnessed miracles of science that the Humanity he knew could only dream of in fiction and theory.

Machine people walking alongside peers on bustling streets. Their faces impossibly expressive as they engaged in jovial conversation with their peers, movements fluid and natural.

Flying vehicles of all sizes, forms, and velocities, which formed a secondary layer of traffic high above the orderly and well maintained streets.

A verticality in architecture which allowed for community and businesses to reach high into the heavens, as Humanity now could live comfortably above the clouds. He could even see farms and other types of hydroponics accompany the tall towers, as efficient use of space had phased out the vast territories of farmland he was so used to in his own childhood.

Most wondrous of all, day after day the public news AI (he was still finding it difficult to fully grasp the implications that such technology posed) informed him and the inhabitants of this city about the future of Humanity´s expansion to the stars.

What was only nascent for the Triumvirate had been truly mastered by this civilization, as his very own eyes beheld interviews with colonists from all around the Solar System with forays even starting to eye the beyond.

An arcology on Titan, moon of Saturn, a vast military complex and research colony on Mars, a renowned academy on Venus of all places.

Only imagination was the limit for this society of pioneers and explorers.

"Considerations for your understanding of the world: the key role of the Baikonur Cosmodrome for intrasolar travel, and - The space culture of the Republic of Kazakhstan and recent pancultural meldings. There is a community viewing in fifteen minutes.

"May the Traveler's blessings grace your morning." A smile on his face, he still remembered how that otherwise innocuous announcement had somehow had a bigger impact on him than anything else he had seen up to that point.

There was so much packed into that message.

First, it told him that this was a society integrated completely with Her teachings and grace.

Obvious in hindsight, as through his mask and gifted eyesight he could see the soft strands of crystalline blue Light interwoven in sublime archways and comforting ribbons that clung to the skyscrapers and palatial avenues like triumphant banners.

The Traveler Herself was not present, for perhaps She was off helping colonizers settle far away worlds, but Her gentle touch was evident on the very identity of the architecture.

Second, it told him he was somewhere in Russia.

One day he realized this was Moscow, as from atop a grand balcony, he looked down and spotted the Kremlin.

Small and almost imperceptible amongst the titanic buildings which buried the imposing visage he was used to during his past life.

It was humbling to see the tiny structure overshadowed by the gleaming marble. As if it were a relic of a past time, no longer important and only conserved for history's sake.

Or perhaps it was a reminder that the Humanity of the past was so small, so lost and alone.

And now, it could reach into the stars, holding hands with what many would call a God.

How fortunate they had been.

Third, it told him Kazakhstan was now a Republic.

Independent.

This, combined with the context clues he had gathered thus far, told him one evident truth.

The Soviet Union was no more.

And that could only mean one thing.

The Triumvirate had fallen.

And the world moved on.

Better.

Truly peaceful.

Joyous and bright.

How small of mind Clovis had been.

And himself as well.

For believing once that it was the only way forward.

He smiled inwardly, face hidden by his now quintessential mask.

Under normal circumstances, such revelations would have been incredibly difficult to digest.

But he was not a tourist, nor a man plucked out of time and thrust toward the future.

He was the Speaker.

Or at least everyone he met called him such.

He had spent many of his days in the presence of foreign dignitaries, ambassadors and heads of state.

They came to him seeking counsel, or his opinion on whether or not planned policies and projects would be harmonious with Her design.

Others, the rich and influential, invited him to nightly concerts and dinners, high above the skies inside golden spires which nestled amongst the stars.

Being in the presence of those he would have called "the powerful" in his past life came naturally to him.

If anything, that had been one of the skills he learned from his failed tenure under Clovis.

And yet he did not feel like he belonged to this class of man.

He was still Valentin. The Russian farmer boy who had been elevated by chance and benevolence. Wealth and influence were not something he desired or even felt right exercising.

For if not him, it would have been someone else. He had to be thankful for the chance awarded to him, and he would repay Her kindness by being true to himself.

True to what She saw in him.

Despite that, he agreed to such requests, as he found that his presence calmed the minds of ambitious men and women, hungry to scheme and to plot, and his voice diffused tensions and disputes, always a reality for his people .

And everywhere he walked, the people smiled and called for his gaze.

He sometimes paraded through streets packed with cheering onlookers, flanked from all sides by armored men and women reborn in the Light, as he once was.

He always made an effort to shake as many hands as he could, to the dismay of exasperated bodyguards and to the delight of bouncy children and wide eyed parents.

Other days, particularly lazy afternoons, he would take a chair and sit on his balcony overlooking the Moscowian skyline.

Little Ghosts would flock to him on such occasions, like small silver clouds, worried about never finding the lucky soul who would become their Lightbearer.

He would do his best to calm them and reassure them, for all was Her design and She would not abandon the conductors of Her song.

The comforted chirping of the small drones would lift his heart, as he and Vigil conversed and reminisced on times long past and times yet to come.

On other, special occasions, he would come up with grand displays which would make his cautious Ghost´s eye roll, such as when he materialized in the middle of Times Square on the Eve of the New Year, and manifested his own designs of alabaster, pure Light to dance alongside the fireworks.

It all showed him who he was meant to be.

Speaker.

A simple word that implied so much.

He was not Humanity´s leader.

Not its tyrant.

Not its object of worship.

But its inspiration.

He had been truly happy and grateful during this time.

The memories comforted him greatly.

Comfort and hope he found in need of today.

As a cadre of Guardians stared him down inside his personal study.

"There is a situation you need to be informed of, sir." Spoke a gray haired Lightbearer.

The bulk of her armor dwarfed his form fitting robes by comparison. Blue, yellow and white. The colors of an organization he was quickly realizing he should have been more familiarized with.

The purity seals in her shoulderpads and her steely eyes illustrated a reality he thought his species had long evolved past.

The necessity of war.

He motioned her to continue.

"Warmind Command has detected an entity approaching the perimeter of the outer colonies."

She handed him a tablet.

He looked to see its contents, and his hands froze.

A lone red triangle, blinking near the aquatic colony world of Kraken Mare, named after the first settlement of Titan, all those years ago.

The Guardian continued to speak, even though he found himself scantly listening.

"...SOLSECCENT has approved special security protocols for extreme crisis…."

He could hear his heartbeat, pounding fiercely against his chest. His ears rang, and he felt his body lightening.

A primal fear washed over him, for all living things knew, instinctually, what that shape was.

She continued.

"...outer colonies…..evacuation orders in effect…..mobilization of Vanguard military assets….."

This was not real.

It could not be real.

His eyes dried and burned as he started unblinkingly at that solitary, small shape, mocking his foolish hope that this could last forever.

He had been careless. He had been complacent.

"...Traveler sighted near…..recommend suppression of…..we require your assistance…...reduce worldwide panic…."

Tears moisturized his eyes.

But he was their inspiration.

He had to be.

An effort more superhuman than he had ever mustered in his life was needed for him to finally tear himself off the tablet and face the still talking Guardian.

There were no Lightbearers waiting for his gaze, however.

He was no longer in his study.

He was nowhere.

But that yawning abyss.

---

SOMEWHERE THEY HAVE KNOWN

Valentin slowly, carefully, stood from his chair.

He called for Vigil, but only silence answered him.

He looked around, trying to discern the details of anything inside his room.

The dusk which had swallowed his surroundings proved impossible to cut through for eyesight alone.

He snapped his fingers, willing his own power to produce an orb of flame.

Nothing happened.

Or perhaps it did, but it was eclipsed by the fissure he now found himself trapped in.

There was nothing but blackness.

And cold.

A shallow chill, slowly, but unceasingly, creeping up his body and spirit.

He fumbled through the dark, feeling chairs and tables blindly with his hands.

This was still his study, and through memory alone he could tell where the door was, or was supposed to be.

As he walked carefully toward the exit, a sudden, soft noise behind him made his heartbeat shoot up considerably.

Silent, almost imperceptible breathing.

Right behind him.

He spun around and prepared to atomically unmake whatever stalked him with his Light.

Light, as it turned out, was extremely versatile. Experimentation in this lifetime of visions had taught him intricacies about its nature, and techniques which would be highly useful if he ever found himself in need of self defense. Knowledge that felt like it had always been there; as real as the suffocating darkness around him now.

But as he tried to wield Her Light, he felt something terrible.

Unthinkable.

He felt nothing.

Nothing happened.

He was just... a normal man once again.

No.

That could not be.

His mind tried to expand. To feel Her presence once more. To call for help.

But She...was not there.

Not anywhere he looked with his mind´s eye.

She was gone.

A fortunate thing then, that he found nothing behind him as he awkwardly turned.

A small comfort.

That only lasted until two red lights blinked in front of his face.

Or perhaps they were eyes. Watching, mocking, from within the dark.

A dreadful metallic shrill began to ring incessantly in his ears.

A profane answer to the Traveler´s soothing chorus.

He tried to run.

There was a primal response triggered within his brain as he stared into those harsh, crimson lights.

He did not know why he was so compelled to escape something he had never seen before.

Something he did not, wished not, understand.

Instinct drove him, nonetheless.

A weight pressed over him as he attempted to move.

His stride was slowed. His heartbeat, an echo pounding slowly inside his head.

The grinding of steel continued. It was not loud, for that would have been a mercy. A distraction from what he faced. A sound to overpower his fear.

Instead, it was low. Just harsh enough for his mind to understand it was there. Like a drill, boring into his skull with agonizing laziness.

He moved toward the door.

He had to leave.

But his legs were sluggish, as if they were underwater.

And every step reverberated oppressively. Whalesong, calling for some beast beneath his feet to feast.

He finally reached the door.

And almost vomited once he touched its handle.

The reaction was immediate. A revulsion and rejection as his body screamed and recoiled from its reach.

Had it been coated with poison? Thought Valentin, as malaise and lightheadedness threatened to overcome him.

He pulled his hand away, and felt instantaneous relief.

Confusion gripped him, and curiosity directed him to more closely observe the metal this handle was made of.

The metal was obsidian. Etched in symbols and runes, not unlike the Traveler´s own shell.

But where the Traveler´s designs were beautiful and begging to be deciphered, there was a wrongness to this symbology he could explain.

Straight lines.

Sharp angles.

Interlaced with each other, forming impossible mazes which threatened to trap his thoughts forever inside never ending halls.

The metal shimmered and waved in front of his eyes, as if it were a liquid, and yet he knew it was solid from its texture and feel.

Most unsettlingly, there was a….gravity to it.

A pull.

Ever so tantalizing.

But he knew that it would pull and never let go.

Like a black hole devouring a bright, young star.

Leaving nothing but dust and memory.

He swallowed a lump that had built within his throat.

He had to move.

He grabbed the handle and opened the door.

Lucky him that his residence was on the street level.

He thought as he dryly retched. The poisoned touch of that unholy metal leaving a black pit inside his chest.

Like a piece was carved out of him.

Like he was now...lesser.

He lifted his gaze, and felt the strength leave his legs.

Where once he would have found himself on the streets of the Moscow megapolis, with its magnificent vistas and awe inspiring design inspired by the Traveler's divinity, he was now somewhere he could only describe as the complete opposite.

A black mirror to its excellence.

He looked to the skies, and beheld nothing but a starless night. Thick and inky, its absolute darkness revealed not the presence of celestial bodies or a Sun to nurture life of any kind.

He wondered if it was simply night.

Or if the light of the stars could not reach this defiled place any longer.

He did not want to ponder on the answer.

The oppressive dark was only broken, or perhaps accentuated by, ghostly lights emanating from black towers, rising in mockery to the Traveler's spires. Monoliths of dark crystal, carved from the same cursed metal he had encountered before, rising as obelisks toward the black skies above.

Emanating light that could be likened to the bioluminescence of a deep sea creature, organized in straight, angular divisions .

Uniform and invariable. All set in sharp, straight angles. None of the creativity, imagination or soul of what he had experienced before.

Monotone, complying, and orderly.

And taller than the rest, a black tower rising to the deep heavens, interlaced with unwelcoming carmine light. Its eminence a constant sight for his tired eyes, commanding the attention of his peripheral perception as he tried to look away.

He would have called what he saw dull, if not for the sheer imposing nature of the otherwise simple city he now walked, for how small and vulnerable it made him feel as he traversed silent streets, the iron scream still nestled inside his head.

Its simplicity was a statement.

One that, ironically, he himself had realized before.

Power was more than a look, it was a presence. A presence which could never be faked or imitated.

There was power in this place.

Tangible, terrible and ancient.

Not of the Traveler, or the Light.

But that of its counterpart.

He dared not speak the name.

He was not safe here, he had to somehow leave.

Knowing not where else to go, he found himself being called toward the tower which stared him down from the skies.

Despite his every impulse screaming otherwise, he forced himself to move.

Malaise a constant in his stomach as his two feet shuffled unenthusiastically.

He felt a mounting sickness as he walked the obsidian streets. As if he had stepped into the inside of a nuclear reactor, and the atoms which built his body found themselves under constant assault from invisible death.

Worse yet, were his enhanced senses.

Where once his sight allowed him to see the Light interwoven on all things, the unseen yet ever present tapestry of creation, here he could see nothing of the sort.

There was a melancholy feeling of emptiness which chilled his very sense of self.

It was not just that he had not encountered a living soul inside this graveyard.

Or the fact that nothing eventful had yet occurred, feeding into his anticipation and growing dread.

But that there were no birds singing.

No insects flying or chirping.

No vegetation to cut through the stygian limbo he walked.

He did not even feel the wind blow.

There was Nothing.

All he knew was that an unseen weight pressed down upon this city.

An absolute, unfathomably titanic force of gravity which slowed his stride to a crawl and made his head throb with pressure.

If the Traveler had gently caressed Humanity with Her hand, then this deity, or force, or whatever it was carelessly held one finger above his species' head.

And now, more than ever, he truly realized he was but an ant.

An ant, walking on the table of a grinning God.

All it had to do was squish.

His thoughts were interrupted by screams and gunfire.

The sounds hit him with whiplash, for he had now grown somewhat used to the absolute loneliness of this city.

His eyes darted in the direction of the sound.

Three people - and there were people here - fired weapons of some kind toward something behind them.

Any feelings of hope he might have felt as he lay eyes upon his potential allies were quickly dashed, as he saw a horrifying look of desperation and pure, unrestrained terror on their faces.

They seemed to not realize he was there, so fear stricken by whatever chased them.

And he quickly realized why.

Three armored figures pursued them, slowly and calmly walking toward them, unconcerned or unbothered by their attempt to escape.

One wore large, imposing armor, dwarfing that of its companions. It was a full suit, carved from the same pitch black metal this city was seemingly entirely constructed from. Sleek, with sharp, aggressive angles accentuating the arms, legs and shoulders.

Its stature was tall and with impressive bulk, clenched fists of dusk steel which he could tell from a glance would have absolutely no difficulties pulverizing bone. The ground shook in rhythmic patterns, the tempo of a heartbeat, as its armored boots marched in ordered steps.

The face concealed by an inhuman mask, two red searchlights emanating from where eyes would be. This was a soldier of some sort. A soulless, efficient enforcer of whatever regime governed this forsaken place. An implacable, unstoppable force which would shatter anything unfortunate enough to be caught in its path.

Another wore a long cloak. A mantle of night which obscured many of the features and hid the face as well.

This, he could barely tell was Human from looks alone.

It resembled a wraith, as it floated above the ground and moved with unsettling fluidity and movements. Haunting, ghostly light emanated from its mask, the same bioluminescent glow he knew of deep sea predators.

An spindly arm extended from inside the cloak. Wicked, barbed knives stood at the ready between the fingers of its clawed hand. Strapped to its arm, he could see syringes, hooks, pliers, and other unsightly instruments of cruelty. Carved from that gaping steel, there was a horrifying sterility to these tools. Its user was not a simple sadist, or an unthinking brute, but a calculated professional.

A master of terror, then. A monster which stalked through this endless night, sapping the hope of any who dared resist, as it spirited them away to fates worse than death.

The third unsettled him the most.

The figure wore a full bodied garb. Its face was once again obscured, but this time by a mantle. It reminded him of those worn by widows, but pressed against the face. He could see the outline, female but otherwise featureless.

Inscribed to the black robes were the same, labyrinthian runes etched into the streets and the epochal metal, carved in gold that glimmered strangely under the darkness.

Strange, alien regalias clad in gold and sharp ruby lined the garb subtly, with the detail that caught his eye and alarmed him the most being golden triangles etched above the heart and on the palms of its black gloves.

The figure sang softly as it walked toward the fleeing people.

Each note in its hymn induced an unintelligible whisper inside his head.

The song itself he could describe as the machine shrill that hummed throughout this city, somehow recreated by Human vocal chords.

He could tell that this being knew truths and realities he did not, and did not wish to, grasp.

Just as he did with the Light.

The bullets fired by the pursued were tragically useless, fired from weapons that seemed unrefined, primitive, and crude. They were as toys used against adults; and they were treated as such. The bullets were caught in fluid, shimmering fields which emanated from the bodies of the figures.

When they seemingly had enough of slowly, sadistically following their prey, the three raised their hands toward their victims.

Their fingers twitched with a poorly masked hunger which made Valentin pause.

Inside each was an unseen, yet ravenous and always present beast that was just unchained and thrown toward the unfortunate targets.

One was instantly pinned and crushed into the ground, as if the entire oppressive gravity that permeated this place was suddenly brought down upon them. The finger of this jeering God brutally crushing the defenseless ant that simply wanted to live.

Blood, viscera, and snapped bone were left in a puddle as the armored figure released its grip.

Majestic.

The word arose within his mind as he beheld the carnage.

Another fell to the ground as her legs disappeared in a puff of black smoke.

The half of the woman crawled and pleaded to the cloaked figure which flew toward her, like a vulture swooping down upon one who was already dead. Trying to appeal to a long extinguished sense of Humanity.

The cloaked figure extended an arm and motioned to its mask, telling the wounded woman to shush.

Then one of her arms fell from its socket.

Then the other.

And before she realized what was happening and could scream, the monster took her mouth and her eyes.

The woman was left imprisoned within her own body. A writhing torso of a person, trapped in silent agony, her only sense left being her hearing, and yet entombed in a city where no sound could even be heard.

Majestic.

The specter stood over her helpless form.

There was no satisfaction as far as Valentin could tell.

No savoring.

It was more like… hatred.

Or disdain.

Pity.

Before the torso was given swift release.

What was once a woman, now nothing but black specks of dust.

Valentin felt ill.

Such nonchalant cruelty.

Such unspeakable crimes conducted with insulting, unnerving, casualness.

Because they have done this before. Many many times.

What was this?

Where was he?

Why was he trapped in such an abominable place?

His thoughts were interrupted, as the final victim, close to him, was encased in a perfectly angled block of… ice?

No, not ice. Crystal would be a more appropriate word, even though it sapped what little heat Valentin enjoyed. The cold was now cutting through him, sharp and jagged, and he had to hold himself in order stay close to warm.

The crystal was black along the edges, with a sickly pale white center, where the man was encased in a preserved scream.

Now nothing but a memory. An effigy, to the futility of man.

To the death of hope, strangled mid wail.

Majestic.

The three figures approached the crystalline formation.

"Why do you spare this filth? It is not worth the dust under our boots!"Demanded the armored figure in a rumbling voice which assaulted his ears with the impact of a meteor.

"Perhaps she wishes to extract what it knows," the cloaked figure proposed, his voice slick and poisonous, like an oil spill suffocating all the unfortunate animals caught under its grip."The Pluto Processing Center is ideal. They will not harm the body irreversibly, in case you desire conversion."

"Observant as always, Fang. Yes, I see something in this bound savage. A black center, ready to be nurtured."Finished the garbed figure. The song of metal inside his head reached a foul crescendo as it continued boring into his mind.

He sincerely felt sorry for the poor man encased in the crystal. He saw his eyes weakly attempt to blink, trapped and immobilized as they were. Of course being encased in that crystal did not give the mercy of unconsciousness.

However, something else caught his attention.

What was that name she said?

Fang?

What?

The woman approached the man, helplessly trapped inside the crystal, and slowly removed her veil.

Once Valentin saw her face, he had to intensely fight to suppress his every urge to scream.

They did not seem to realize he was standing there, right beside the trapped man.

He was not going to take his chances by making a sound.

The woman, no, the thing in front of him, was hideous beyond words.

Not because of some repulsive mutation, but because of how hollow her features were.

The face was pale, not naturally, but that of someone that has not seen the Sun for ages.

Corpselike.

The face was...blurred. Smooth. Devoid of blemishes.

Deprived of any details one might require to identify a person. Unremarkable to a degree that she looked designed by someone devoid of inspiration or talent.

There were hints. Faint traces, memories and remainders of the person she was before.

She had been reduced.

Like an eraser taken to a drawing, without finishing the job. Blotches and smudges left on the paper.

Another observer would have remarked that she lacked a face, but Valentin saw the faint outline of a nose, and something that could pass off like lips if he tried hard enough.

The eyes were the worst.

They were…shrunken. Atrophied. As if no longer used under this harsh night.

There was no spirit behind them.

No rage, no happiness, no sorrow, no regret, no joy.

They just looked on, distantly, dispassionately. Staring off and unfocused into something which was not there.

He expected to see malice. Cruelty which matched the gravity of their actions and monstrousness.

But there was nothing.

Empty vessels.

They were no longer people.

They were less.

Valentin´s discretion did not pay off, however.

As those same, dead eyes stared without warning into his.

And he felt himself be plucked away by that same force pressing against this grave of potential.

His screams and protests dismissed by the soundless air.

---

A LESSON

Valentin was dragged through a corridor of thought and will. A dark passageway, woven as intricately through this city as the Light he once had the privilege of understanding, so gentle and inviting.

A forlorn wish, at this point.

Its grip was absolute, a black vine coiled around his neck, constricting his extremities. He quickly learned that struggling would only cause him further distress, and accepted the invitation with muted foreboding.

The hand slowly pulled him toward unwelcome visages. Doors torn through the fabric of existence with masked politeness, as if he were being shown around a house, as its guest of honor.

Valentin was forced to witness sacrilege and defilement as he was thrust from one vision to another, a malevolent mirror to the wisdom the Traveler had conveyed through similar means.

Mind.

A classroom. Rows of muted children sit in acceptable stasis.

The crowd is a monolith. Shaved heads, identical clothes.

A robed figure levitates toward a desk near its front. It speaks in whispers and hymns.

The students form a line.

One by one, they extend their hands.

The Dark sings.

And those who cannot follow, are taken away.

The children take their seats. The class continues.

It is better that the names are not said.

Birth.

A woman sits on a hospital bed.

She awaits its physical examination.

A doctor arrives. He carries a small shape wrapped in a mantle.

Genetic aberration, he honestly states.

The woman understands.

Snaps the failure´s neck.

"The next will be adequate."

It is better for it to not have lived.

Life.

He rises at three in the morning.

He drives to the production center.

Five hours on the assembly line.

Ten minutes to consume his nutrient paste.

Five hours in the assembly line.

Ten minutes to consume his nutrient paste.

Five hours in the assembly line.

He drives back home.

A small wave to a wife and children.

Nods of acknowledgement.

He sleeps.

He rises at three in the morning.

It is better to exist with purpose.

Death.

Luna. Pluto. Charon. Phobos.

The lame. The rebel. The heretic. The anathema.

Oil the engines. Feed the fires.

Arm the chambers. Build the pyres.

Cast your weakness to the abyss.

Build a species full of bliss.

For by culling and pruning, the Final Shape you reach.

It is better, that to the Lord your value you teach.

The exhibition stretched for what seemed like eternity, proudly showing Valentin what his people had become in this unspeakable future.

Until it stopped, seemingly satisfied with its work, and let him unceremoniously drop.

He gathered himself, disoriented and still sickened by the displays, and analyzed his surroundings.

Polished, black floors. Engraved in intricate and noble patterns.

It reminded him of his own residence.

Large, sleek windows allowed him to peer into the outside world, and he realized he was located somewhere high.

He could see black spires just barely reaching the level of his location, and the starless sky of night filled the rest of the horizon with noxious ink.

That tower, then. Perhaps he was on its top level.

His sight then moved toward the center of the room, and he paused.

A desk.

Eerily familiar. And yet much bigger in size.

"Valentin. A pleasure to see you again."

The voice lit a spark in him.

His heart filled with rage, disdain and outrage, combined in a cocktail of emotion whose intensity caught him by surprise.

That voice belonged to him.

Of course it was him.

Who else could preside over a hell such as this? Who else could utterly unmake everything good about the world?

Clovis Bray.

His head shot up.

He expected to behold that same pathetic, small man he so vividly remembered. That simple bureaucrat who thought himself a god. That embodiment of every single impulse and instinct holding his people back from enlightenment and evolution.

Instead, he found himself face to face with a colossus.

His anger was diffused, and confusion took its place.

The thing was massive. Nearly four times the size of the average person, with bulk to match.

He was a machine man, and he was now familiarized with the concept, but he was different from those he had met and lived amongst.

Sharp talons instead of blocky fingers. Pointed. Precise. Elegant. Robust arms and legs, powerful pistons and servos. Armored extremities and joints, a lack of visible structural deficiencies or weaknesses.

This was a body suited for war. A true eclipsing of the Human baseline beyond what augmentation of the flesh could produce.

He was now a weapon. Not merely a statesman. Not merely a coward who would send others to bleed and die in his stead.

Majestic.

But there was an attempt to sanitize this fact.

His chassis was colored white. Clean and polished. His design inspired not fear, but awe.

As in mockery to the Traveler.

As if he could wash himself of the blood.

He felt himself observed by two crimson receptors that stood for eyes. They adjusted, flickered, and moved as he was analyzed. The inhuman mechanics made him feel unnerved, as if they were the lens of a camera, or a microscope, dissecting and measuring every single cell and atom of his person.

There was a curiosity to Clovis´s observation. Like he was inspecting yet another tool to be used and later discarded. Or perhaps an interesting relic of a past long left behind.

Or perhaps he was simply waiting for Valentin to answer.

But he was not going to lower himself enough to deign to speak to that monster.

Finally, the machine man broke the silence.

He had no visible mouth, but his mechanized voice blared all the same.

"Magnificent, isn't it?"

Valentin could swear the machine was smiling.

"What our people can accomplish, freed of chains."

At this, Valentin´s rage swelled. The sheer hypocrisy of the statement let him realize that this monster was still that old, fearful fool he so closely knew.

That beneath the metal, there was a man.

"Freedom?" He demanded. "This is no freedom, Clovis. It is a delusion - worse it is one that you have succumbed to. This-" He pointed to all of the outside, this sterile monument to terror he had seen. "This system can only function through subservience - and you are a slave to it. A slave to the Triumvirate." Valentin spat the words with righteous disdain. "You could not fathom a world beyond yourself and your self-perceived brilliance - even if you had to enslave everyone you claimed to be freeing."

He shook his head. "You have no idea what you have done with this. You have ruined us beyond return." Valentin intended to say this with force, to channel his rage into righteous condemnation, but the words he spoke only held sorrow and pain.

It was true. In this world, his people were doomed. And the Traveler knew.

Which is why She had abandoned Humanity. That was the reason for Her absence.

All the possibilities, all the miracles, all the advances.

Gone.

Humanity had been so close. So close they could graze Her Light with their fingertips.

But the opportunity had slipped. Like sand falling between fingers.

She had not left because She had been defeated, or pushed away, but because She had been rejected by the people She sought to uplift.

Because of him. And his accursed Triumvirate.

"Triumvirate", said Clovis, with a mechanical drawl, as if that was the one thing that interested him about Valentine's denouncement.

"Triumvirate," repeated the machine man.

As if savoring the word. Tasting it. Feeling its entonations and spelling.

As if it was unfamiliar.

A chill went up Valentin´s spine.

"Ah. A dead word that has long lost its use. Do not be concerned, my friend," a spark lit in one of the crimson receptors. A giddy, terrible glee. "I agree. The Triumvirate long outlived its purpose."

The receptors widened, and a ravenous sneer was somehow reproduced by the mechanical features of his face. "And when it did, I destroyed it - and remade it into what it needed to be."

The bluntness and curtness of the statement amplified the weight of what he said. He saw inside those deep, crimson eyes a history of murder beyond the scale of what he could ever comprehend.

Genocide that his faux apologetic choice of words failed to disguise. As if he was forced to do it. As if he did not revel in the carnage. As if the machine man was not hungry for more.

He could now smell the smog. He choked on the poisonous gas. He could hear the engine roar to life and feel the oiled cogs groan.

Valentin swallowed.

Clovis continued speaking.

"Clarity flows within us, Valentin. We sift through lies to find self-evident truths."

The machine took one step forward.

"The world is not built upon the laws you love. Not on fragile moralities incapable of withstanding calamity and crisis. Not on soft, paradise islands struggling to stay afloat despite the shifting of the currents."

Another step.

"Not on infantile hopes and febrile dreams. Not to those who will cry out in desperation. They will beg for mercy, for unearned salvation."

The steps were ponderous.

"And we will not heed them, Valentin."

They pounded in his ears.

"For we have supped on the divine ichor of titans, it is the air, the gravity, the ocean, it is us."

The words had no passion or fervor behind them. This was no creed, no dogma or ideology produced by the mind of the insane. It was something far worse.

Fact.

This had happened before.

And it would happen again.

Again and again.

Species after species. People after people.

But it did not need to be this way. He knew it didn't have to be.

He stood before the machine man, who had not ended his life yet. He talked instead, as if trying to convince Valentin of his arguments. As if trying to justify what he had become.

Perhaps.

Perhaps, there was something left of Clovis inside the prison of steel. Perhaps something worth salvaging. Perhaps one flicker of Humanity that screamed for help, trapped behind those carmine lenses.

"Fight it." Was all that Valentin could muster.

The machine man stopped his monologue. He cocked his head, the words catching him off guard.

"This… is not who you are, Clovis." He could not believe he was saying this to this monster, but he had to try. He had nothing else left. "Despite all that you were...you believed in what you were doing. You believed it was justified. All out of care for Humanity. Look around you, Clovis. You know this is not utopia. You know this is no liberation. You said you were above deluding yourself with inconvenient facts - stop deluding yourself!"

Clovis stood in place. Despite his stature, despite the unimaginable power he exuded, he appeared to hesitate.

Valentin nodded. "You wanted our species to be strong. To stand on its own. A people that is not ruled by gods! And what have we become instead? A tool for It's use!"

Clovis gave no answer. The man stood motionless, a small pang of regret visible on his eyes. Regret, but not apology. Regret that hardened into necessity. It was something. Valentin pressed further, softening his tone.

"You are afraid, and it is natural to feel such." He said. "You want our people to survive, and who can condemn such a wish? But you must see, Clovis, that we are not of that Wave. We are not It, and we will never be, despite how much you push and how much you fight. This is subservience and delusion. A lie that has been spun to take advantage of you."

He indicated the outside. "One day we will no longer be useful. There will be another, more powerful, more pliant, more loyal. And when that happens, we will fade, and be fed to Its kilns. You will watch it, and if you refuse, It will destroy you." He allowed some scorn into his voice. "Are you so arrogant to think you would have been the first? That none before you have thought to use It as a means to an end? You are not special."

He slowly, cautiously approached Clovis who still stood motionless. Valentin´s words cutting deeper than he hoped.

He extended a gloved hand. "This path is tempting, Clovis. It tells you what you want to hear as It consumes everything you are. The Light is the harder path, Clovis, because it requires something that is weakness in our ruthless world - trust. It is difficult to trust. It is difficult to be merciful. But this path is the only one where we can truly survive. And there is a way back - even for you."

The machine contemplated. "I respect a valiant argument. I respect those who stand for themselves, especially when threatened. Spine and courage are worthy of respect. But no, Valentin." The machine man answered, the crimson receptors locking with Valentin´s eyes. His heart sank to his stomach.

One arm shot out with blinding speed, the pistons firing into action, and grabbed Valentin by the neck and lifted him up to its face, as Valentin struggled for air. "One thing that the Light refuses to acknowledge is that anyone could deviate from it's ordained will. No, Valentin, I am under no delusions. I made this choice - and it was the correct one."

The ceiling snapped, polished black roof rippling, undulating and collapsing in on itself. Clovis dropped him. Above, to the now open sky, black blood wept down. Droplets falling on them.

Intense, every droplet hammered against him. Faster, harder, in seconds, the city outside was drowning in black. It flowed like an ocean. Like tar, dribbing, boiling tar.

It rose up.

It flung itself, a storm, a tsunami, an avalanche. An ocean of the night. The city disintegrated before it.

"The only one under a delusion, Valentin, is you," Clovis stepped back, and fell to a knee. "The wave is coming, Valentine."

The droplets coiled around Clovis's optics, leaking down like black tears. "That wave is God, and we, we are of the wave."

The ocean lifted itself from the floor, expanding as it did so and coalescing into a humanoid silhouette, until it towered over the city, flattening everything in its path.

It is Him.

It stood above them all.

Clovis glanced back at Valentin. "Where is your Light, Valentin? Your bulwark against the tide? Where is the fight?"

Valentin´s heart raced at the sight of the horror, at the world as it broke down. Then he felt it. Motes of light drifted around him. Raw power and fury, the motes became stars, the stars became a burning sun radiant and blinding in the night.

The Light, in all its majesty and illumination.

The machine shook its head, hurling itself off of the building, down into the black tide.

The thing emitted a reverberating, metallic sound which mimicked a laugh. The wave struck, it was acid, it was lava, it was a billion billion molecular edges.

He could not help but choose me.

He could not help but thrive.

The Old King´s voice was a maw.

It's words negentropy.

It's breath annihilation.

It welcomes him. It is a gullet, endless in hunger and petals that open as to consume his soul. The Deep warps, his own sweet flavor fills Its senses. He is cradled, locked in motionless descent, rocks away fear with teething recognition. He is stretched, warped, and cribbed.

His power dies.

His radiant star smothered.

His light snuffed.

Seeds bloom when nurtured.

The maw yawns, and he is the lone point amidst its space set adrift. Distant at the edges, forward only deeper.

All the distance of space, dead to the nothingness and black.

All the eternities of time, seconds blurred into millenia.

He is the reluctant witness. The wayward vine to be pruned by shears. A warden to its vacancy. The heir to a chair of sustenance. Visitor to the sojourner of meaning, ever seeking.

Rot within the Garden.

Serpent coiled around its tree.

It reverberates the dull tone of congruence. It screams to Valentin. Grasps, never to tire, the unique causality of his mind. It grows, unceasing. Death to death forever.

They turn to me.

When they fear.

When they crave.

Its gullet sings reverberation and trails his every step. He trips on gravestones and memorials. Laughter rumbles on inscribed names. A silent static stasis boils away the edge of consciousness. He runs, searching for a way out. The halls stretch, the tongue tastes.

II Where Sky shades not, the Deep doth thrive II

II In wanting hearts and troubled minds II

II But fall or rise, the path you choose II

II It is never mine II

II It was always yours II

---

SOMEWHERE ON MARS

The vision ended abruptly and he stumbled back onto the brown grasses and red soil of Mars. He could feel it again, the Light was part of him again. He'd only had it such a short time, and when it had been taken away from him, a part of himself had been stripped away.

He shook. The air was warm, but at his core he still felt the cold. The Darkness he had witnessed.

The future that could be. The future he had been shown in such crisp and complete detail he had no doubt it was drawn from somewhere that had happened before. Such She had seen before. It was a warning of what Could Be. What Clovis wanted it to be. Because at the end of all of it, what Clovis had said stuck with him.

He'd chosen this.

There'd been no hesitation or shame. It had been a choice made. And She respected choices. Even if the choices destroyed them. And that, perhaps that was what chilled him the most now that the vision was over.

Because She could decide to leave.

If they rejected Her, She would oblige.

And something else would come instead. Something that would not oblige rejection.

He shook his head, standing under the Martian night. How long had he been out? Hours? Days? It didn't matter now. He realized that he could see unimpeded, and he also realized that he was wearing the robes that had been gifted to him in the vision. He was wearing the mask which he now realized allowed him to see clearly.

Machinery clicked inside it, promising different uses and modifications. One gloved hand reached up to touch the smooth material. Flawless. With two fingers he unhooked it and it detached from his face with ease, and he could once more see the world in it's golden, perfect form.

The possibilities. The beauty. The life.

All of which could be extinguished.

He was Her Speaker. He had known what he was to do. He had seen the mistakes he had made. He had seen the consequences of his failure. He had seen the ultimate truth of who would lead his species into this dark future. Where there had been confusion, now there was no doubt.

His purpose was clear, his path was set.

And it was time for him to begin.

Vigil appeared beside him. "[Did She show you what you needed to see.]"

"[Yes,]" he said slowly, as he carefully placed the mask back on his face. "[She did - and I know what I have to do.]"

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TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER XVIII | RESURGENCE

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A/N: Been a couple months since the last update. Apologies for the delay, but as is hopefully apparent, this was a big chapter and this was one that had a lot of direct input from all of my editors. King helped hit the tone as usual, and helped shape the Hamaza scene, Sevoris wrote and edited Ana, and of course Edumesh is responsible for the vision itself at the end.

Life and vacations conspired against us for the chapter, not helped by the fact that each of us literally life in different countries, but it all came together into what I think is one of the best chapters. A good way to kick off Act III, and I hope everyone enjoyed it, and what's to come.