The ghost scout appeared without a sound. It was a tear in the fabric of the void, a shimmering patch of agitated reality that refused to resolve into a solid form. It made a daring, provocative run along the port side of the Stoikiy, a minnow testing the flank of a leviathan. On the main tactical display, its sensor profile was a flickering question mark, a ghost that the ship’s logic systems could not properly name. The elegant Gzhel Weave that framed the display wavered for a moment, a thread of cobalt blue struggling against an encroaching grey before the ship’s Logos Weave corrected the flaw.
A young lieutenant at the tactical station leaned forward, his knuckles white.
— Ozvuchivatel Projectors are ready, Admiral. The Reshitelniy reports a clear line of sight. We can paint it for them.
Sineus did not turn. His gaze remained fixed on the shimmering anomaly. The political victory in the Synod had been narrow, won with his mentor’s capital. The subsequent integration of Brotherhood technology had been a success, but it was Ksenia Voronova’s success, not his. This was an opportunity. A simple, clean solution to a minor nuisance, executed with the unique authority that was his alone. It was a chance to reassert the fundamental truth of his command.
— Negative, Lieutenant, — Sineus’s voice was calm, absolute. It cut through the low, resonant hum of the bridge’s reality anchors. — Hold your fire. All stations, hold fire. I will handle this.
The choice was made. The price was the risk of failure, a currency he had not paid in a century. He felt Ksenia Voronova’s gaze on him from her station, analytical and cold. She was a political weapon his rivals had aimed at his heart, a ghost of principle given form. He would show her the difference between her theories of integration and the swift, clean finality of severance. He would show her what true power was.
He stepped forward, away from the command throne, planting his feet firmly on the deck plating. He closed his eyes, and the sounds of the bridge faded into a distant murmur. The universe narrowed to a single point of focus: the shimmering, indistinct form of the ghost scout. He reached out with his mind, not with the clumsy tools of the Archive Mandate or the brute force of the Brotherhood’s iron, but with the innate, surgical power that was his alone. It was an act of will, a focused projection of order intended to find the single, foundational memory of the scout and sever its connection to the Sudopis. To unmake it.
The air on the bridge grew cold. The low hum of the ship’s systems deepened, a resonant tone of immense power being drawn and focused. He felt the connection, a thin, fragile thread of grieving memory. It was weak, frayed. This would be simple. He gathered his will for the final, cutting act.
He pushed.
Agony. Not the clean snap of a severed thread, but a violent, explosive feedback. The scout’s memory was not a simple echo. It was a mirror. As his will touched it, he felt not its memory, but his own, reflected back at him with the force of a physical blow. He was standing on the bridge of the Verniy a century ago, the faces of its loyal crew turned toward him. He heard their final, unwavering oath of loyalty, a chorus of voices pledging their existence to the Continuum he was about to betray. He felt their confusion, their faith, and then the cold, absolute horror of their unmaking as his own power tore them from the script of reality. It was the memory he had buried, the sin he had committed for the sake of order, and it was now a weapon aimed at his soul.
The psychic feedback was a white-hot lance through his mind. The Gzhel Weave on every display on the bridge shattered, the brilliant blue and white patterns exploding into a chaotic scramble of dead grey static. The cold on the bridge became a bone-deep chill.
Sineus staggered back, a choked gasp escaping his lips. His vision whited out, the polished deck of his flagship replaced by a blinding, featureless void. The connection to the ghost scout, to his own power, snapped. The pain was absolute, a crippling, silent scream that consumed his consciousness. He clutched his head, his body trembling, his carefully constructed mask of invincibility shattered. The ghost scout, its purpose served, shimmered and vanished into the void, its test complete. It had proven that the Butcher of the Verniy Fleet could no longer cut away his own ghosts.
For five seconds that stretched into an eternity, the bridge of the Stoikiy was utterly silent, save for the frantic, high-pitched whine of overloaded diagnostic systems. The crew stared, frozen. They had seen admirals die. They had seen ships break apart. They had never seen this. They had never seen their commander, the unyielding pillar of the Pravda Mandate, fall to his knees. They saw not an admiral, but a man, broken by an invisible wound. The ship’s morale, a tangible field of conviction, dropped by 15% in an instant, a cold wave of doubt washing over the command deck.
Ksenia Voronova watched, her face impassive, but her mind was a storm of calculation. She saw the failure not as a weakness, but as a data point. The philosophy of erasure had just met its absolute limit. It had consumed itself.
Sineus forced himself to his feet, his movements stiff, his face pale as bone. The pain was a physical weight, a crown of thorns forged from his own past. He ignored the stares of his crew, the silent questions, the sudden fear in their eyes. He straightened his uniform, a purely mechanical act of will.
— Report, — he commanded, his voice a harsh rasp, a pale imitation of its former authority.
The tactical officer, shaken, found his voice.
— The contact has disengaged, Admiral. It has vanished from all sensors. No damage to the Stoikiy.
No damage. Sineus felt the hollowness of the words. The ship was intact. But he, its primary weapon system, was broken. His greatest strength, the very power that had defined his life and career, was gone. It had been turned against him, transformed from a scalpel into a brand of shame.
The low hum of the reality anchors felt different now, a half-beat slower. The scent of ozone from the overloaded displays was sharp, acrid.
