Chapter 4: Politics

  The Cycles of War: History, Politics and Fate – Chapter 5 – Saphira Don

  The Council of the Universal Government is made up of ten planetary delegates, each one elected by direct suffrage among every inhabitant of Klynos (or of each world annexed to the U.G.), and by the figure of the First Delegate, who acts both as supreme representative and as guardian of legitimacy.

  The guiding principle is simple in appearance: every resolution must receive six affirmative votes to be approved. However, the constitutional design introduced an element of asymmetry: the vote of the First Delegate has the value of two effective votes, because he is the one who received the most votes in the election.

  Thus, in a Council of ten wills, eleven are actually heard. This imbalance was not an accident, but a conscious political decision. The goal was to find a balance between the plurality of the worlds and the need for a central axis that would prevent the fragmentation of power.

  Critics of the time pointed it out clearly: “The arithmetic of the Council is the arithmetic of control. Beneath the guise of democracy lies the certainty of obedience.” (Voren Luth, Letters from Klynos, year 4995).

  Since then, each vote is not merely a deliberative procedure: it is an act of faith in the very architecture of the Government. To trust that ten representatives can counterbalance the double weight of one, or to resign oneself to the fact that this weight is the true center of gravity of interplanetary politics.

  Lin woke up before the alarm sounded.

  It was common. Five or ten minutes earlier, sometimes more. His body already anticipated the start of the day before the technology could remind him of it. But he never allowed himself to stay in bed. It didn’t matter if he was tired or if his mind was still trapped in the fatigue of the previous day. Getting up was the first act of control. Omnis could easily wake him, but he preferred to do it himself.

  He sat on the edge of the mattress and rubbed his face with both hands. Tau Ceti. The Assembly. Santiago. All of that was there before he could even think about what to have for breakfast.

  He let out a slow sigh and stood up.

  His apartment had no luxuries. It was an optimized space, functional, with no excess and no distractions. If someone who didn’t know him walked in, they might assume it was a temporary place, not a home.

  Quick shower. Hot water, but not scalding. Just enough to relax the muscles without numbing his mind.

  In the kitchen, his datapad was already on the table, projecting the morning news. The crisis on Tau Ceti IV. Demonstrations on Klynos. Expert analyses on the viability of the Link Project.

  Nothing new. Nothing that lessened the pressure on his shoulders.

  Omnis’s voice distracted him.

  “Do you wish me to assist you with anything, sir?”

  Lin felt a flicker of irritation, but didn’t answer rudely. No one spoke rudely to Omnis.

  “No, thank you, Omnis. I’m fine.”

  Lin went on with his routine.

  Breakfast:

  Black coffee, no sugar. Any other food would be an unnecessary excess that would fill him too much and distract him from his objectives.

  Sitting at the table with the mug in his hand, he watched as the datapad vibrated with a personal notification.

  His mother.

  “Good morning, son. We haven’t spoken in days. I hope you’re well. How is everything going?”

  Lin set the mug down with a measured movement and slid the notification to the side of the screen. He knew that if he let it sit too long, a second message would arrive.

  “Son, if you’re busy, I won’t bother you, but tell me if everything’s all right.”

  Then a third one, shorter.

  “Let me know when you can.”

  Always the same sequence.

  He checked the time. 06:14. He had time until the evening. If he replied now, the conversation would stretch on. If he did it later, it would just be a gesture.

  He would do it later. When he had a moment, when he could pretend it didn’t weigh on him to talk about things that didn’t matter. He finished his coffee and stood up. The day was just beginning and he already felt the weight on his back.

  He dressed with precision, but without obsession. A common mistake was to confuse his efficiency with coldness. It wasn’t that. He simply had no room to waste time on unnecessary details.

  As he adjusted his jacket, the weight of the meeting with the delegates fell on him all at once.

  Operation Bastion had to be approved.

  It wasn’t just an instruction from Santiago. It was an order. And Robert Santiago did not handle mistakes well.

  This time it wasn’t a simple directive. It was a big assignment, important, unlike any other he had received from him. Lin caught himself wondering why, but silenced his thoughts. It wasn’t the time. Those doubts would not help him at all.

  He looked at his reflection in the wardrobe mirror. He looked acceptable. Soon he would have to cut his hair: even combed back, it already reached his neck.

  At 06:30, he left his apartment.

  The fresh city air hit him in the face. The protest in the plaza had dispersed, but it would return. He thought of the young man they had arrested. He hoped the boy had reconsidered.

  He ignored the banners, ignored the surveillance drones floating above the people. They weren’t relevant.

  The only thing that mattered was the meeting.

  The only thing that mattered was securing those votes.

  Lin reached the meeting room the way he always did: before anyone else, with his mind already in the conversation he was about to have.

  He paused for a moment at the entrance, scanning the layout of the space. The precise white light illuminated the polished metal table at the center of the room, large enough for eight people but with only four seats occupied. There were no distractions. None were allowed.

  The delegates began to file in, one after another.

  “Well, well…” murmured Dario Gilmour, leaning back in his chair with a half-moon smile. “Look who honors us with his presence.”

  “You know what I love most in this life?” Marla Jinet cut in, folding her arms with an exaggerated gesture. “Being a high-level political representative and being received by an assistant.”

  “Oh, excuse me, but let’s be precise,” Dario added, bowing with feigned courtesy. “A very good assistant. From a good family with prestige earned in politics… like his grandfather. But I’m sure he won’t end up the same way.”

  Loran Vek didn’t smile. Unlike the others, his sense of humor was entirely absent. His dark eyes were fixed on Lin with a stony expression.

  “Tell me something, Lin. Is Robert Santiago busy, or is he simply despising us?”

  Lin didn’t react immediately. He waited. He knew silence could be more effective than the wrong answer.

  “The First Delegate has multiple priorities,” he said at last, with the calm of someone explaining something obvious. “But one of the most important is making sure that the three of you do what you must.”

  Vek snorted and placed his elbows on the table, leaning forward.

  “That is, to please his needs.”

  “Evidently,” Marla echoed, rolling her eyes.

  Lin slid his gaze over them. Irritation pulsed in the veins at his temple when he spoke.

  “If this feels disrespectful to you, you’re within your rights to be offended, and I apologize on behalf of the First Delegate and myself,” he said, trying to sound as cool as possible. “But I assure you that what will happen to you if we fail the vote will be even more insulting. I ask you to be professional and get to work.”

  The tone in the room shifted. They didn’t like being spoken to that way. But they also knew he was right.

  Lin settled into his seat, resting his hands on the table with deliberate calm. He liked that abrupt silence.

  “Let’s start with what matters. The First Delegate is going to need guarantees from each of you.”

  Vek let out a dry laugh.

  “Guarantees? After what we’ve seen these last months, Lin, nothing seems guaranteed anymore.”

  Lin didn’t blink. He had no time for detours.

  “Representative Vek, understand that I’m not asking for opinions about what you think you’ve seen. I’m simply asking you whether I have your vote.”

  Vek held his gaze for a moment. He knew this wasn’t a negotiation. Not yet.

  “Fine,” he said at last, as if the word burned his tongue.

  Lin turned to Marla.

  “Representative Jinet?”

  She nodded immediately.

  “I’m not going to be the problem here. What we want is still the same.”

  Gilmour smiled sideways.

  “You have my vote, of course.”

  Lin placed his hands on the table and let his eyes run over the three of them.

  “Then we’re aligned.”

  Silence settled over the room. A brief pause. A moment in which the sensation of control returned to his hands.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  Lin leaned back in his chair, exhaled slowly and crossed his arms.

  “Now comes the hard part.”

  Dario smiled with a hint of mockery.

  “Are you telling us we’re easy?”

  Lin ignored him.

  “Who can we get the extra vote from?”

  Marla shook her head.

  “There’s no one. Everyone has already chosen a side. Bastion is not just any bill.”

  Lin didn’t flinch.

  “We don’t need just anyone. We need someone who brings more votes along with them. There can be no margin for error.”

  The silence grew heavy. They all knew whom he meant.

  It was Vek who finally said it out loud:

  “Solvyn.”

  No one spoke for a moment. It was madness. But it was also the most tempting possibility.

  Dario shifted in his chair.

  “If we win Solvyn, we gain three votes at once… But that’s not going to happen, kid.”

  Marla clicked her tongue.

  “Before joining something like Bastion, Solvyn would quit politics altogether.”

  Lin allowed himself the faintest smile.

  “Perhaps there’s something I can do.”

  Three pairs of eyes turned to him. He’d said more than he wanted to.

  “And what does that mean?” Vek asked, narrowing his eyes.

  Lin rose from his chair.

  “It means I know who to talk to in order to try.”

  The meeting ended. The delegates stood one by one with precise movements, exchanging wary looks. Lin remained seated, watching as the room slowly emptied. When Loran Vek passed by his side, Lin extended a hand and lightly touched his arm.

  “Delegate Vek,” he murmured in a neutral but firm voice, “a moment more, please.”

  Vek frowned slightly but nodded. He waited in silence until the last representative left and closed the door behind him.

  Lin waited a few seconds more, making sure they were completely alone before he spoke.

  “Loran, I need real guarantees. I can’t afford surprises in the vote.”

  Vek pressed his lips together, visibly annoyed by the implication.

  “I already told you that you have my vote, Lin. What more do you want?”

  Lin breathed calmly, leaning slightly forward over the table.

  “I know your planet is in a critical situation. I need to know exactly what you expect in return, what it takes to make sure your vote is more than a promise.”

  Vek looked away, running a hand over his face with obvious exhaustion.

  “What I need is more real support on Tau Ceti IV. I need soldiers, Lin, but not the kids they’re sending now. I need experienced soldiers, people who know how to fight and don’t fall apart in their first battle. People are already calling for my head, and all they see are children fighting.”

  Lin understood Vek’s frustration perfectly. He even agreed, to a point. But the situation was more complex than that.

  “Tau Ceti IV is crucial; you know it as well as I do,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “But you also know we’re fighting on more than one front. I can’t promise you we’ll send all our veteran forces there. We don’t have them available.”

  “Then give me something real,” Vek shot back firmly. “People blame me, Lin. They see that I send children to fight while I rub shoulders here with all of you. Give me something more.”

  “I understand… So the problem is how people see you. Is that it, Loran?”

  Vek clicked his tongue.

  “It’s both things, Lin. It’s not just about winning the war, it’s about seeming to care for our own. More than being, you have to seem. As Santiago’s assistant, you know that better than anyone.”

  Lin remained silent for a few seconds, thoughtful.

  “If you know experienced soldiers who aren’t active right now, give me their names. I’ll personally see to bringing them back to the front.”

  Vek was silent for a moment, weighing his words carefully. Finally, he sighed, defeated by a memory.

  “I had a man I trusted. Probably the only one I ever fully trusted: Rellan Gaius. But he’s dead. He died fighting down there, on Tau Ceti IV.” Vek paused briefly, as if pulling up a buried image. “But there was someone else. His second in command. Gaius spoke wonders of him; said he was solid as a rock, the kind who doesn’t crack easily. His name was Dossian Glass. That man has scars on his face; bringing back men like him is the kind of thing I want to announce.”

  “And where is this Dossian now?” Lin asked cautiously.

  Vek shook his head slowly.

  “Discharged for mental issues. Tau Ceti broke him inside, like so many others. He’s out, but I’m sure he still has something to offer. We don’t need more dead kids; we need soldiers who can stand the pressure. I want real men.”

  Lin nodded slowly, making a mental note of the name.

  “Dossian Glass. I’ll personally see to his reinstatement to active duty, Loran. You have my word.”

  Vek stared at him, weighing the sincerity of the promise.

  “Glass isn’t enough, Lin. Glass is a symbol, but we’re going to have to announce more than a single old madman. I want a public announcement, something big, and I need it urgently. People have to know I’m doing everything I can to win this war.”

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  Lin tilted his head slightly, signaling the end of the conversation.

  “I understand perfectly, Loran. I’ll make it happen.”

  Vek rose slowly and headed for the door in silence. Before leaving, he paused for a moment, looking back at him with grave eyes.

  “I hope you don’t fail me, Lin. If we lose Tau Ceti, this all collapses. That’s not a threat, it’s a certainty.”

  “That won’t happen, Loran. Not if I can prevent it.”

  The door closed, and Lin was left alone with the echo of the pressure still ringing in his mind. Now he had a name, an opportunity. Dossian Glass could make the difference. Or at least, that’s what he hoped.

  A notification sounded in his skull. The message was brief:

  “Drop by when you can, we need to talk about the weapon.” From Gornal.

  Lin sighed and tried to keep his stress under control. He would speak with Huckson and with Gornal later. Someone else was waiting first.

  Dossian Glass woke up drenched in sweat, his breathing ragged and his heart pounding wildly against his chest. It took him several seconds to understand where he was; his mind was still trapped in Tau Ceti, in the unending echo of screams, the deafening roar of fire and the agonized voice of Rellan Gaius calling him over the radio before dying.

  His small apartment was a succession of cluttered rooms, saturated with a stale, almost bitter air, a mix of damp and confinement. The furniture was old, worn, barely functional. The only luxury he had ever allowed himself—a lamp that simulated natural light—had been broken for months. He had never found the strength or motivation to repair it.

  With effort, he sat on the edge of the bed, covering his face with his hands, trying in vain to shake off the memories. His breathing was shallow, still accelerated by the tail end of a panic attack that had not fully passed.

  There were days when the mere act of getting up was a battle in itself. This was one of those days. To make matters worse, the pain over his eye was more intense than ever. Dossian cursed into the air. An inert, useless eye whose only function was to make him feel the heat of fire from time to time.

  Outside, the city woke with its usual implacable precision. Dossian could hear the noise of the streets, the murmurs of people beginning their routines. That everyday, ordinary world was now a foreign reality to him.

  He finally stood up and activated the Omnis console on the wall with a weary motion. A small metallic opening in the wall emitted a faint hum before producing a steaming mug of coffee, which Dossian took with trembling hands. Omnis did everything, even something as basic as feeding him. The days when he had had the strength to leave the apartment were long gone. There was no longer any reason to abandon his self-imposed confinement, and not much out there that needed him.

  As he took a sip of the hot, bitter coffee, he glanced absently at the digital calendar on the wall. A week since he’d last tried to go out and turned back at the building’s door. He was isolating himself more each time; people had become unbearable to him, a constant reminder of the life he had lost.

  The screen on the wall showed accumulated notifications, unopened messages from former comrades, banking alerts. He ignored them systematically, day after day. They were nothing but reminders of a life he could no longer claim.

  The Universal Government had discarded him like a worn-out tool. Years of service on Tau Ceti had earned him the right to leave the front lines, but the State had decided not to grant him a pension. A bureaucratic formality, they had said. A betrayal, he knew.

  He drank the coffee slowly, without pleasure, as if each sip were a deliberate act that required courage.

  The morning went by as it always did: empty hours he could not fill. He tried to read. For the last two months his reading had consisted entirely of tales and stories of battles. But his concentration broke after a few minutes. He tried to write something about his memories, but the words tangled and lost their meaning until he was left with something barely legible and even less interesting. He ended up sitting on the sofa, staring at the dark screen, listening to his own breathing.

  He thought of masturbation. A classic resort in flat moments like this. Maybe it would help.

  A new attack arrived without warning. First a light tingling in his hands, followed by a pressure in his chest, a sudden shortness of breath. He clutched the back of the sofa, feeling his heart race, the room shrinking around him.

  He closed his eyes, held his breath, repeating to himself what they had taught him in therapy before he stopped going, back when he still had money to pay for it.

  “Breathe. Count to ten. You’re safe, at home, not on Tau Ceti. You’re at home.”

  Slowly, the pressure eased. The attack ebbed like a wave rolling back. Dossian let out a shaky sigh. He was exhausted. He felt more defeated by himself than by the war. His body was collapsing inward, so deep he could barely understand why.

  He realized he needed air. He needed real noise, something other than the echo of his own memories. Maybe just a short walk, walk until he was exhausted, until he couldn’t think anymore.

  He grabbed a threadbare jacket and left without even looking back. He went down the stairs slowly, as if each step took him a little farther from the past. When he opened the front door of the building, the natural light blinded him for an instant, reminding him how many days had passed since he’d last seen the sun.

  And then he saw him.

  At the building’s entrance, a man was waiting patiently, with a serene expression and his hands tucked into the pockets of a neat gray jacket. His black hair was slicked back neatly. Dossian had never seen him before, but instantly sensed he was not an ordinary person; his presence clearly clashed with the building’s decaying surroundings.

  When he saw him come out, the stranger gave him a polite smile and took a step forward.

  “Dossian Glass?” he asked politely, with a neutral but firm tone.

  Dossian looked at him suspiciously, his muscles tensing slightly, still conditioned by years of war.

  “Who wants to know?”

  The man inclined his head slightly in a gesture of respect.

  “My name is Lin Shimamoto. I work directly with First Delegate Robert Santiago. I need to talk with you.”

  The mention of Santiago made Dossian’s stare harden, a mix of surprise and resentment. It seemed very strange to him that Robert Santiago even knew who he was. Stranger still that he needed him for anything.

  “What does Santiago want with me?”

  Lin held his gaze without flinching.

  “This isn’t only about Santiago. It’s about Tau Ceti IV, Commander. We need your experience.”

  Dossian felt a stab of anguish mixed with rage. Tau Ceti. Always Tau Ceti. Always demanding more, always taking something from him, like a spirit that would not stop haunting him.

  “Tau Ceti already took everything I had,” he said at last, his voice rough. “I have nothing left to give it.”

  Lin didn’t move, didn’t lose his calm.

  “With all due respect, sir, I don’t think that’s true. You can make a difference.”

  Silence stretched between them while the city moved around them, oblivious to their private ghosts.

  Finally, Dossian stepped aside with a resigned gesture.

  “Come in. I’ll hear what you have to say.”

  The war, after all, had never really left him.

  Lin entered the apartment slowly, discreetly observing the state of the place without making any comment. Dossian felt a sting of discomfort at the mess, but made no effort to excuse it.

  “Sorry about the disaster,” he said dryly. “I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

  Lin shook his head, politely brushing it off.

  “I didn’t come to judge your home, Commander. I came for you, specifically.”

  Dossian let out a short, humorless laugh.

  “No one’s called me that in a long time. I’m not a commander anymore.”

  “That’s precisely why I’m here,” Lin said, sitting down slowly in a nearby chair without waiting to be invited. “I know how the Universal Government has treated you. It isn’t fair.”

  Dossian raised one eyebrow, skeptical.

  “You came all the way here just to tell me that?”

  “Not exactly. I came because the war on Tau Ceti IV is on the brink of collapse. We need real soldiers there, people who know how to face a crisis like this.”

  Dossian kept his gaze fixed on Lin, expression neutral, hiding the growing discomfort inside.

  “I already told you outside: Tau Ceti is over for me.”

  Lin leaned forward slightly, intensifying the conversation.

  “Precisely because you know that hell, we need your experience. Young people are dying because they don’t have anyone to guide them in combat. They’re kids, Commander. They don’t deserve to die like this.”

  Dossian pressed his lips together.

  “That’s nothing new. It’s always been like that.”

  “Yes, but now we can change it,” Lin insisted. “Loran Vek asked me expressly to come find you. He trusts your judgment. We need someone who can save lives.”

  Dossian let a long, uncomfortable silence pass. Inside, images of Tau Ceti crashed back into him—the betrayal of Lupers, the bodies of his soldiers, the explosion that wiped out Gaius’s squad. Yet when he finally spoke, his voice sounded calm, almost indifferent.

  “Then he made a mistake. I can’t help you.”

  Lin looked at him intently, searching for some sign that would let him insist.

  “Commander, I know you lost a lot there, but—”

  “You know?” Dossian cut in, dry. “What exactly do you know?”

  Lin didn’t retreat.

  “I know enough to understand that no one should go through what you did. But now you have the chance to keep that from happening to others. I wouldn’t be asking you this if it weren’t absolutely necessary.”

  Dossian was silent for a moment, weighing his words carefully.

  “I don’t think you really understand what you’re asking for.”

  “I understand it perfectly, Commander,” Lin replied firmly. “Rellan Gaius trusted you completely. He said you were the only one he could rely on when everything went wrong.”

  The mention of Gaius was like a cold blade that Dossian did his best to ignore. His face remained unreadable.

  “Rellan is dead.”

  “Yes, but you’re still here,” Lin pressed. “We need veteran soldiers. We can’t keep sacrificing young people to political mistakes.”

  “I’m retired. Officially. You know the Government took care of that.”

  Lin nodded slowly, acknowledging the fact.

  “That’s why I’m here in person. I’ll make sure that changes. You’ll have resources, recognition, everything necessary to return to active service.”

  Dossian shook his head slightly, still impassive.

  “The Universal Government already made its decision about me. You can’t change that.”

  Lin studied him for a moment, deciding to insist one last time.

  “How can I help you, Commander Glass? What do you need to reconsider?”

  “Nothing,” Dossian replied with absolute calm, even as his memories burned inside him. “My answer is not going to change.”

  Lin remained seated, still searching for another angle.

  “Commander, I understand that—”

  “I’m not a commander anymore, kid. Anything else?”

  Lin finally recognized the determination in his voice and understood the futility of pressing further. He slowly stood, adjusting his jacket.

  “I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Glass.”

  Dossian simply nodded once, with a hint of courtesy.

  Lin headed for the door. Before leaving, he paused and looked at him one last time.

  “I truly am sorry. I wish I’d come sooner, when there was still something left to save.”

  Dossian kept his expression unmoved as Lin gently closed the door behind him. He remained there, motionless, until he heard the footsteps recede. Only then did he allow the tension in his shoulders to ease, closing his eyes for a moment.

  His mind snapped back to Tau Ceti with merciless force. The memory of fire, of screams, of Lupers’s face as he handed them over to the enemy. He felt the pressure return in his chest, but managed to hold himself together.

  He took a deep breath, walked to the window and looked outside with tired eyes, feeling the certainty that he would never go back there.

  He had already given enough of himself to that hell.

  Lin left Dossian’s apartment with his brow slightly furrowed. He wasn’t used to failure, much less when it involved such a specific assignment. As he walked slowly through the now-emptier streets, he mentally replayed the conversation with a mix of frustration and self-criticism.

  He had underestimated the extent of the damage in Dossian Glass. Vek would not be satisfied, and Lin knew he would have to quickly find another way to secure that crucial vote. But even as he considered alternatives, his mind was already leaping ahead, toward the element that was absolutely fundamental if any of this was going to work:

  The machine.

  The device pulsed in his head like an open challenge. Lin knew full well that the project needed to be ready before its approval. Any adverse scenario would lead to speculation, delays, even suspicion. He had to speak with Huckson, and with Gornal.

  He stopped briefly in the middle of the street, gazing at the distant lights of Klynos. In them he saw reflected all the accumulated pressure of the day, all the uncertainty of the immediate future.

  He exhaled deeply and resumed his stride with firm steps. He might have failed with Dossian, but he would not fail with the machine.

  He would not allow himself another mistake.

  The corridor leading to Anara Huckson’s office was an extension of the same coldness that defined the Administrative Tower of Klynos. The air was perfectly purified, with no trace of human sweat or any organic imperfection. Every wall was a dark metal surface, interrupted only by lines of light pulsing with a calculated rhythm. Efficiency was the only religion practiced in this building.

  Lin walked with steady steps, crossing the access threshold into the restricted section. Two soldiers in black armor watched him without a word. They didn’t need to ask for credentials; this was not a place anyone could reach without absolute authorization.

  Most of the workstations were empty. Lin had planned it that way: he had come after official working hours on purpose. A bit more privacy, a bit more room.

  The doors to Huckson’s office slid open in silence, and Lin entered without announcing himself. Anara Huckson was not the sort of person who appreciated unnecessary gestures.

  The room was dominated by a massive hologram in the center, a data network in constant mutation. Huckson watched it without blinking, her silhouette cut out against the bluish light of the projectors. Algorithms flowed like a living current, adjusting in real time through Omnis. Lin knew that every line of code drifting before her eyes was a calculation about life and death.

  “Prototype performance: 87.4% efficiency in simulations. Projected impact: 3.2 million people isolated within 48 hours. Probability of total elimination of spatial connectors: 98.7%.”

  Huckson didn’t even look up when Lin walked in.

  “I hope you’re not here to waste my time, Assistant.” Her voice was as precise as the numbers around her.

  Lin remained impassive.

  “The First Delegate wants to make sure Bastion is implemented without delays. He plans to activate it next month.”

  Huckson let out a breath, a barely audible sound, before making a small gesture with her hand. The hologram shifted. Now it showed the plans of a cylindrical structure, an orbital platform the size of a city floating in space. Lin recognized the design at once: it was not a conventional weapon.

  “Human labor undoubtedly slows things down.”

  Lin felt tension move through his body. That kind of phrase was becoming more common lately.

  “You’re not suggesting…?”

  Huckson cut him off.

  “Using Omnis? No. I don’t want to watch my baby work from a prison cell,” she said, pointing at the schematics.

  Lin stayed silent, waiting for Huckson to continue. Anara seemed to savor silences for their own sake.

  “The device will be ready in less than a week,” Huckson said, with the calm of someone used to playing with enormous destinies. “But we need the Council’s final authorization to proceed with implementation.”

  Lin studied the design in silence. He didn’t ask what Operation Bastion did exactly. At this point, he already had an idea. What he did know for certain was that it was not something that could be undone once activated.

  “That won’t be a problem,” he said at last. “I’ll make sure they approve it.”

  Huckson tilted her head slightly, studying him.

  “The Council still has members who believe war can be won with sweet words.” Her tone wasn’t disdainful, just stating a fact. “I hope that doesn’t interfere with our plans.”

  Lin didn’t blink.

  “The First Delegate understands that war is no longer won with armies. It’s won with precision. With control.”

  Huckson allowed herself a tiny smile.

  “That’s the theory.” She stepped forward, letting her fingers slide through the hologram. “Execution is another story.”

  Lin watched as the design broke down into layers, revealing its internal workings. It wasn’t a traditional system of mass destruction. There were no turrets, no missiles, not even orbital bombardment arrays.

  It was something more precise. Something surgical.

  “We’re adjusting the final calculations,” Huckson went on, pointing at the shifting data patterns on the structure. “We can’t afford to fail. We have to leave the weapon at Robert’s disposal.”

  Lin felt a twinge of unease at hearing someone refer to the First Delegate by his first name. He also didn’t like the way Huckson spoke about time before precision. If anything in the calculations failed…

  “Your lapdog works well. I’m impressed,” Anara said, glancing toward one of the office walls, where Gornal was. “I almost forgive Robert for forcing him on me.”

  Lin nodded, uneasy. Gornal was truly capable; that much was undeniable. And a good narrator of what was happening in there.

  Silence.

  The only important thing was ensuring that Bastion happened.

  “I’ll make sure the Council approves the bill,” he repeated.

  Huckson nodded slowly, shutting down the hologram with a single motion.

  “Then we have nothing left to discuss.”

  Lin didn’t reply. There was nothing more to say.

  He turned on his heel and left the room. He knew what he had to do. He knew whom he needed to pressure, which strings to pull, which promises to make and which threats to hint at.

  But first, he needed to hear the same thing from a second person.

  The corridor received them with the same clinical silence with which they had entered. Gornal waited hunched over, his hands sunk in the pockets of his civilian coat. When Lin emerged, he straightened, and without a word began to walk beside him. The echo of their footsteps was the only thing filling the air.

  “She’s going to kill me, that woman,” Gornal said at last with a tired smile, referring to Huckson. “She talks as if the device were a closed equation, but you know how this works… equations don’t bleed.”

  Lin turned his head slightly toward him, with a gesture that was part acknowledgment, part warning.

  “You’ve always been the one who puts his body on the line so those equations don’t blow up in our faces.”

  Gornal laughed quietly, with no real mirth.

  “Yeah… and you’ve always been the one selling the idea that they’re ready even when they’re not.”

  They glanced at each other for a moment. There was more than camaraderie between them: it was years of complicity. They knew exactly how far they could trust each other—and how much they had to keep quiet.

  They turned a corner and reached the side exit of the Tower. Beyond the glass, Klynos stretched out like an ocean of lights and perfect geometry. Outside, the night air was clean to the point of unreality.

  “Lin, tell me the truth,” Gornal said in a low voice as he lit an electronic cigarette. “Do you know what they’re voting on with Bastion? It’s not a simple bill. It’s not budget, it’s not logistics. We’re asking for permission to use a weapon that wasn’t designed to win battles, but to cut arteries.”

  Lin kept walking, cold.

  “Breaking nodes. Yes. I know.”

  Gornal nodded, exhaling the vapor as if he needed to give shape to his anxiety.

  “If the calibration isn’t perfect, we’re not just talking about leaving a planet cut off for a few weeks. We’re talking about resonances in the connectors, instability in hyperspeed. Shockwaves that could fracture orbits. Entire planets could end up wounded… or worse.”

  Lin stopped in front of him, forcing him to stop as well. He looked at him with the firmness of someone who had heard the same thing many times before.

  “And yet no one but you can make it work.”

  Gornal watched him in silence. His eyes were red, sunken from sleepless nights, but his face held the uneasy confidence of someone who knew the other man all too well.

  “I’m telling you as a friend, Lin: I’m worried.”

  For a moment, Lin let the mask crack. The mention of those years hit deep.

  “I know,” he said, his tone lower. “I’m worried too.”

  They started walking again. Patrol drones flew over the avenue, washing the fa?ades in white light. Gornal spoke again, his voice now heavy with fatigue.

  “Sometimes I think the biggest mistake was agreeing to this project. Huckson wants results, Santiago wants a vote, and I’m stuck in the middle with a machine I still don’t know if I can control.”

  Lin placed a hand on his shoulder. The gesture was brief, almost imperceptible, but sincere.

  “That’s why I chose you, Gornal. Because I know that if anyone can calibrate it down to the last digit, it’s you. This isn’t about blind obedience. It’s about making sure that when this thing blows… it blows outward, not inward.”

  Gornal glanced at him from the side, with a bitter smile.

  “Optimize it until it stops being scary, huh? That’s always been your specialty.”

  “And yours is making it actually work,” Lin replied, without taking his eyes off the city. “So do it. Adjust every variable, every sensor. Not because Huckson demands it. Not because Santiago orders it. Because I need it.”

  Silence stretched between them as they walked on. It wasn’t an awkward silence, but the kind shared by two colleagues carrying a burden too heavy to put into words.

  Finally, Gornal exhaled slowly and nodded.

  “All right. I won’t promise perfection, but I promise I’ll give it everything I’ve got.”

  Lin looked at him from the corner of his eye, with a near-smile that never fully formed.

  “That’s more than anyone in that Assembly promises me.”

  They kept walking under the cold lights of Klynos, not as politician and engineer, but as two old friends who knew they had already crossed a point of no return.