The Anubis barrels through the blue fire and lightning of the gatechain, its deep hum reverberating through her hull.
The old warship glows electric blue as each gate ignites, streaks of light crawling across her frame like veins of fire.
Arthur works at the information terminal. Hours pass. His face is pale — drawn tight with exhaustion.
He types in the transponder code: LHRS1456-239.
The readout flashes red: CLASSIFIED — LEVEL X CLEARANCE ONLY.
Arthur stares at it for a long moment.
“Level X, huh.” He shakes his head. “Government sanctioned.”
A memory stirs — sharp and unwelcome.
—
Arthur sits behind a metal desk.
Two men in dark uniforms approach — their badges unmarked.
“General Hammond,” the first man says.
“Yes,” Arthur replies, barely looking up as he works.
The silent man steps forward and drops a file on the desk with a heavy thud.
Arthur glances at it, but doesn’t reach.
The silent man finally speaks. “This is the file on Lieutenant Murr.”
“What about Murr brought you all this way?” Arthur says. “I know him. Lacks discipline, but he’s passable.”
He finally stops typing and looks up. “What’s this about?”
The first man clears his throat. “He’s a traitor. We arrested him thirty minutes ago.”
A heavy silence settles. “Thought you should hear it from us first.”
Arthur leans back, eyes narrowing. “Next time the Office of — whoever the hell you are — runs an operation on my base, I expect to know before it happens.”
He stands and flips open the file.
Every page inside is blank.
Arthur laughs — cold and bitter. “Redacted. This is a joke, right?”
He drops the file into the trash. “Next time you bring me a file, it better have something in it.”
He turns, staring out across the base — nearly four thousand men and women under his command, each a life he’s responsible for.
“Get the hell off my base.”
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—
The console’s beeping snaps him back to the present.
Arthur tries his old military clearance code.
Instant response: ACCESS DENIED.
He stares at the flashing denial, jaw tightening — the crimson glow washing across his face.
The hum of the gatechain deepens — a low growl that seems almost alive.
Arthur leans over the main console, eyes locked on a scrolling list of ship IDs. Blue light ripples across the walls.
“Anna, how’s the security footage coming along?”
At a second terminal, Anna’s fingers dance across the keys. Her console pulses with bursts of green and white.
“Found them. They were at Sol’s a month ago.” She keeps typing. “Typical Hunters — two four-man teams.
Transponder codes: MHRS1756-248 and VHRS3459-746.”
Arthur enters the first code.
CLASSIFIED — LEVEL X CLEARANCE ONLY.
He exhales sharply, arms folding across his chest. “Damn.”
He enters the second code.
Again — CLASSIFIED — LEVEL X CLEARANCE ONLY.
Anna swivels toward him. “How’s it coming?”
Arthur’s eyes are worried. “Everything’s classified. Highest possible security level.”
“Even to a general,” she says. “Honestly, I’m surprised your codes work at all.”
“Same government,” Arthur says, still typing. “Why would they care about the clearance of a dead man?”
He pauses — staring at the pulsing lines of data. Thinking.
A grin forms. “Anna, you’re a genius.”
“Wait… why?” she asks, confused.
He spins her chair back toward her console. “I just need to up my clearance — that’s all.”
He starts hammering the keyboard with purpose.
Her eyes flick between screens as the glow of his terminal turns blood red — system locks overridden one by one.
The engines deepen into a rumble. The Anubis trembles around them.
“Arthur… what are you doing?”
Arthur grins. “Using my clearance codes to find deceased higher-ups. Then I borrow their access. Make a few ghosts who can pull high-level files.”
Tension coils between them as the warning lights pulse faintly across the consoles.
—
Later, Arthur leans over the terminal, fingers hovering above the keys.
The air hums with energy — engines steady, lights flickering from the gatechain outside.
He enters the transponder codes again.
A pause. Processing. A long, tight beat.
Then — the screen flashes green: ACCESS GRANTED.
Arthur exhales slowly, a faint smirk crossing his face.
“Got you.”
---
A sterile, brightly lit space.
Walls, floor, ceiling — all the same shade of clinical white.
Two cells face each other across a glass-walled corridor.
Inside one — THOMAS.
Inside the other — SARAH.
Both wear white hospital scrubs. Their clothes, their dignity, their identity stripped away.
Doctors move briskly between the two cells, checking instruments, murmuring into recorders, refusing to acknowledge the human beings in front of them.
Thomas steps toward the glass.
“Hey, guys… you don’t have to do this.”
They ignore him.
“I’m a molecular engineer.” He leans against the wall, exasperated. “And even I can’t tell you why we are the way we are.”
Across the corridor, Sarah sits back on the padded bench.
“I’ve studied biology and chemical science,” she says. “I don’t have formal certifications — but I assure you, I know what I’m talking about.”
Her frustration cracks. She raises her voice.
“Nothing you do is going to give you answers!”
A GUARD steps forward — faceless behind a mirrored visor.
“Shut your mouth,” he says softly. “Before I shut it for you.”
Sarah exhales, steadying herself, and lies fully back.
“Guard,” Thomas says calmly. “What’s your name?”
He walks over without a word.
Presses a button on the wall—
VVVNNNNNNT!
A sonic weapon blasts.
Thomas’s body jerks as every muscle locks. He collapses, blood threading from his nose.
The guard crouches beside him.
“Keep your mouth shut too.”
The hum cuts off.
Thomas gasps, dragging in air. He wipes blood from his lip, eyes sharpening.
A smile — faint, dangerous.
“Why don’t you just leave it on?” he says. “When I get out of here, I won’t hurt the scientists.”
He waits until the guard’s eyes meet his.
“But you… we’ll have to see how it goes.”
The guard hits the switch again.
VVVNNNNNNT!
Thomas convulses, blood now seeping from his ears.
The guard releases the button.
Thomas drags himself upright, crawling back to his feet.
“Yeah…” he says, voice ragged. “I don’t think you’re gonna make it.”
“I said shut your mouth before I have you gagged,” the guard snaps.
Sarah shouts across the hall, “Just stop—”
She hesitates — just a breath — her eyes going distant.
Then, softly:
“Arthur. None of these people have a choice in what they’re doing.”
The guard smirks.
“Listen to your woman. It’ll go a lot easier on both of you.”
Thomas wipes blood from his chin, staring straight at him.
“I’m Arthur. And she’s Sarah.”
A small, courteous smile.
“Never hurts to be polite.”
The guard freezes, uncertainty flickering — then scoffs and turns away.
The lab bustles around them. Doctors prep instruments.
Screens flash vitals.
Syringes glint under harsh lights.
Metal trays clatter like distant bells.
Through the glass, Thomas and Sarah watch — silent now.
Both knowing what comes next.
—
Over the next few days, they brutalize Thomas and Sarah —
cutting off limbs just to watch them grow back.
Thomas watches as they perform an autopsy on Sarah.
She is alive.
Fully conscious.
A task so cruel it defies language.
She screams —
and the pain does not stop.
Her scream echoes into the Void, or the remnants of the Void. Nanites talking, looking for the coin drive that isn't there.
where Thomas appears beside her floating in white space, desperate to pull her away from the agony.
“Think of your happiest memory,” he says, voice steady despite the horror.
“Focus on the tiniest details. The sounds. The quiet things.
You can lose the pain there.”
She screams again.
And the white room keeps going.
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