The summons had been a thread of cold light, pulling her from the ordered warmth of the archives into this sterile, white void. The Chamber of Redaction was a perfect circle, its walls a seamless expanse of matte alloy that absorbed all sound. It was a place designed for the precise and solemn act of unmaking history. Ksenia Voronova stood before the four Archive Censors, her posture as rigid as the doctrine she was about to defy. Her simple, coarse grey linen robes, the uniform of a field archivist, felt inadequate in this chamber of absolute power. Her goal was not to win, but to bear witness to a truth the state wished to forget.
At the center of the curved stone table, the Head Censor, Ieronim Volkov, gestured with a bony hand. His face was a dense web of wrinkles, his eyes dark and narrow.
— We are convened to consider the redaction of Event 77B, — his voice was dry, devoid of inflection. A central holographic display shimmered to life, projecting glowing Svyazopis text that identified the target memory. It was a minor but violent revolt on a frontier mining colony, suppressed a decade ago. Beside the text, a Gzhel Weave pattern materialized, its cobalt blue lines fractured and snarled, a visual representation of the memory’s discordant nature. — The record is deemed mnemonically destabilizing. It poses a risk to the coherence of the sector’s historical narrative.
Ksenia’s hands clenched at her sides. This was the state’s default policy. A memory that did not fit the perfect story of the Continuum was not a lesson to be learned, but a flaw to be excised. She took a steadying breath, the chilled, recycled air a stark contrast to the scent of old paper and data-crystals she considered home.
— Head Censor, I formally object to the use of the Sudopis Shear on this record.
Volkov’s gaze was dismissive. He had heard this argument from a hundred junior archivists, all filled with a fire that the institution would eventually quench.
— State your reasoning for the record, Archivist Voronova.
This was her choice. To speak was to risk her career, to place her conviction against the full weight of the Archive Mandate. The price was irrelevance, a life spent cataloging dust in some forgotten outpost. She paid it without hesitation.
— Erasure is not a solution. It is a wound, — Ksenia’s voice was clear and steady, each word a carefully placed stone. — Every memory we sever from the Sudopis does not vanish. It festers. It creates a void in the fabric of reality, a pocket of nothingness that the Screaming Darkness rushes to fill. We are not pruning a narrative; we are bleeding reality to death, one cut at a time.
High on the wall, a small, dark observation lens regarded the scene. Ksenia was aware of it, a silent witness to their proceedings. She did not know who watched, but she directed her argument as much to that unseen eye as to the Censors before her. Behind the lens, on the bridge of the Stoikiy, Admiral Valeriy Sineus watched the hologram, his face an impassive mask. Such idealism was a luxury afforded only to those far from the front lines of the war for reality, a fact the Admiral knew with cold certainty.
Volkov let the silence hang in the cold air for a moment before shattering it.
— Sentimental idealism, Archivist. Your function is to preserve order, not to collect scars. The integrity of the Continuum’s memory requires a stable, coherent narrative. Event 77B is a discordant note that threatens the symphony. We are the conductors, not the audience.
He made a small gesture.
— The vote.
One by one, the other three Censors spoke a single, clipped word.
— Redact.
— Redact.
— Redact.
Volkov added his own.
— Redact. The motion carries, four to zero.
A sharp, sterile chime echoed in the silent room as the votes were registered. The system had rejected her truth. The state had chosen forgetting over remembering. Volkov’s gaze settled on Ksenia, and it was as cold as the void between stars.
— Archivist Ksenia Voronova, you are formally censured for doctrinal deviation. Your belief in the absolute sanctity of all memory is incompatible with the practical duties of this Mandate.
He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle.
— You require a more pragmatic education. Effective immediately, you are reassigned. You will serve as Narrative Compliance Officer on the staff of Admiral Valeriy Sineus, aboard the flagship Stoikiy. You will learn the price of the order you so casually critique.
The words struck her with the force of a physical blow. She was being given as a leash to the very man who embodied the philosophy of erasure, the Butcher of the Verniy Fleet. It was not just a punishment; it was a calculated act of ideological cruelty.
On the black pedestal in the center of the room, the Sudopis Shear activated. The paired metallic rods, made of a polished, black alloy, hummed to life. The intricate Palekh-style patterns inlaid on their surfaces glowed with a soft blue light, forming a perfect, ironic Gzhel Weave. A coherent energy field, invisible to the eye, formed between their crystalline tips. The fractured weave of Event 77B on the display was targeted.
There was a sound like ice fracturing in deep cold. The snarled pattern on the display shattered into a million points of light and then vanished. Where the memory of a revolt had been, there was now only a perfect, empty blackness. The air smelled sharply of ozone.
A junior functionary approached and handed Ksenia a data-slate. Her new orders. She took it, her fingers numb. She had lost. The system had chosen to cut another piece from itself, to create another wound. And now, her punishment was to serve the master cutter. She turned and walked from the white chamber, the memory of the fractured Gzhel Weave burning behind her eyes, replaced by the chilling finality of the void. Her new path was set, a journey not toward the truth she cherished, but into the heart of the lie she despised.
