The quarantine had turned his private study into the sole point of reality in a sea of self-imposed silence. The alert from the Veche was a political annoyance; the data-burst from Patrol Fleet ‘Vigil’ was a historical inevitability. Admiral Valeriy Sineus stood before the large wall display, the corrupted log from the Zarya System frozen in a single, impossible frame. The image of the ghost ship, the warship ‘Verniy’, was a paradox made of light and alloy, its main batteries glowing with a fire that should have been extinguished a century ago. It was a perfect record of a thing that did not exist.
He accessed his private, encrypted records with a series of precise gestures. The system was layered with codes known only to him, a personal archive buried deeper than any state secret. A single file appeared, its date marker from a standard century prior. The text was stark, stripped of all euphemism: Operation: Mnemonic Severance. Target: Verniy Fleet. Instrument: Captain V. Sineus. There was no surprise, no shock of rediscovery. It was the cold confirmation of a fact he had carried for one hundred years. He had been the one to wield the knife. The ghost now hunting his territory was his own creation. His culpability was absolute, a clean 100% entry on a ledger only he could read.
A simple, brutalist block of metal on his desk hummed to life, decanting a stream of black liquid into a plain ceramic cup. The strong, bitter aroma of coffee, brewed without sugar or sentiment, filled the small, austere room. It was a ritual, a grounding in the physical world before confronting a problem that was tearing at its very script. He took the cup, its heat a small, solid truth in his hand.
A soft, three-tone chime announced a secure holographic channel. The air in the center of the study shimmered, coalescing into the form of Boyar-Admiral Ferapont Orlov. His mentor’s image was that of a seasoned, cautious statesman, his face a map of past campaigns and political battles, but his eyes were still as sharp as fractured ice. Orlov, a living legend of the Slavic Continuum, was the architect of the very stability Sineus was sworn to protect.
— Valeriy, — Orlov’s voice was a low rasp, heavy with the gravity of the situation. — The Comms Center is under Level 1. The entire deck is a black zone. What have you found?
Sineus did not turn from his display. He took a slow sip of the hot coffee, the silence a deliberate act. He was no longer the captain who had followed Orlov’s orders; he was the admiral who had to live with their consequences.
— A ghost, — he said, his voice flat. He gestured, and the main display in his study mirrored its image to Orlov’s end of the channel.
The old admiral’s face tightened. A flicker of recognition, the ghost of an old wound, passed through his eyes. He did not need to cross-reference the sigil. He had been on the Synod that day.
— The Butcher’s Bill, — Orlov murmured, the old, hateful epithet sounding like a prayer of damnation. — It has come due. This cannot leave this room, Valeriy. The Synod sanctioned that erasure to prevent a civil war. If this truth gets out, Kurov will use it to tear the Continuum apart.
Orlov’s logic was flawless, the cold calculus of a man who had balanced the fate of worlds for two hundred years. He was offering the path of forgetting, the path they had chosen once before.
— Quarantine the data. Classify the loss of Vigil as a sensor malfunction in a mnemonic deep. Let S.I.N.E.U.S. handle this quietly. Let another hand clean the wound.
Sineus set his cup down on the desk. The quiet click of ceramic on metal was the only sound. He turned to face the hologram of his mentor, his expression unreadable.
— No.
The word was absolute, a wall of principle against which Orlov’s pragmatism shattered.
— Causality is not a political negotiation, Ferapont. I was the instrument. The echo is mine to answer. To delegate this would be to lie to the universe itself, and history does not forgive such weaknesses.
He stepped closer to the hologram, his voice dropping to the quiet intensity that his crews had learned to fear more than any shout.
— This is my responsibility. I cut the thread. I will face the echo.
The choice was made. To accept this hunt was to risk his career, his honor, and the very political stability Orlov cherished. It was the price of facing the truth he had buried. As he spoke, the Gzhel Weave border on his display, which had been flickering with the ghost ship’s corrupted data, stabilized into a clean, sharp line of cobalt blue. Order, born of conviction.
Orlov studied his protégé’s face for a long, silent moment. He saw the unshakeable resolve, the same rigid honor that had made Sineus both the perfect weapon and a terrible politician. The old admiral let out a slow breath, a sound of resignation and deep, paternal worry.
— You were always a poor student of politics, Valeriy. And a master of principle. It will be your ruin or your salvation. What do you require?
The turn was complete. The mentor would no longer argue; he would support.
— Task Force Peresvet, — Sineus stated. — And a full mandate from the Synod.
— Kurov will fight you. He will demand oversight. He will try to leash you, — Orlov warned, his voice grim.
— Let him, — Sineus replied, his gaze unwavering. — A leash is only a problem if you intend to run.
With a final, respectful nod, Sineus closed the channel. Orlov’s hologram dissolved, the shimmering light fading until Sineus was alone again in the silent study. His decision was made, a new truth forged from the ashes of the old. He would lead the investigation himself, a direct intervention that carried the highest possible risk. He would hunt his own ghost.
The low hum of the Stoikiy’s reality anchors was a steady, reassuring presence, the song of a stable existence. The faint, clean scent of ozone and cooling coffee hung in the still air.
