The quarantine seals on the Comms Center hissed open, releasing the scent of ozone and contained silence. The pulsing red emergency sigils on the walls faded, replaced by the steady, cool blue of the ship’s normal operational lighting. The crisis was contained, but the truth of it was now a contagion locked within Admiral Valeriy Sineus’s mind. He had left Ensign Lyov with a single, quiet order to begin the formal memory-purge protocols for the quarantined staff, a grim but necessary act of sanitation. The boy’s wide, terrified eyes were a mirror of the cost.
Sineus did not return to his study. He proceeded directly to the small, shielded chamber reserved for interfacing with the Synod of Admirals. There was no time for reflection. Causality was a chain of iron, and the last link—the ghost ship Verniy—demanded the forging of the next. He stepped onto the central dais. The air grew cold as the holographic projectors engaged, weaving the physical world away and replacing it with the grand, simulated chamber of the Synod.
He stood in a perfect circle of dark, polished stone that seemed to float in a void of shimmering light. Around him, eleven other daises materialized, each occupied by the holographic form of a Boyar-Admiral of the Slavic Continuum. The air hummed with the low, resonant frequency of their collective authority. The seamless walls of the chamber were not solid but a living tapestry of light, a vast Gzhel Weave whose intricate blue-and-white patterns shifted and wavered with the currents of debate. It was here that the fate of fleets was decided. Sineus’s own projection was flawless, his uniform immaculate, his posture a declaration of unwavering resolve. He was here to demand a weapon, and he would not be denied.
He let the formal salutations conclude, a ritual of nods and curt greetings across the void. Then, he spoke, his voice calm and measured, carrying across the chamber without effort.
— Admirals. I formally request immediate command of Task Force ‘Peresvet’.
A soft chime registered the request on the central display.
— The purpose is a mnemonic integrity operation in the Zarya System, — Sineus continued, his justification deliberately vague. He would not speak of the Verniy in this open forum. To do so would be to unleash the very contagion he had just quarantined. He was asking for the Continuum’s most elite unit, a fleet designed for reality containment, based on nothing more than his authority.
The Gzhel Weave on the walls wavered as murmurs passed between the admirals. The first to solidify his opposition was, as expected, Valeriy Kurov. His holographic image was sharp, his uniform ostentatiously adorned with doctrinal purity medals. Kurov was a man who believed order came from rigid adherence to established principles, and he viewed Sineus’s secretive methods and unique abilities as a dangerous heresy.
— An integrity operation? — Kurov’s voice was laced with condescending skepticism. — Task Force Peresvet is not a tool for routine system audits, Admiral. You request our finest instrument of mnemonic warfare for a threat you will not name. You cite your authority, but your history is one of secrets and actions taken outside the sanction of this council.
The attack was direct. Kurov was weaponizing Sineus’s own past, the very reputation for ruthlessness that made him effective. He was framing Sineus as an unaccountable rogue, a narrative that found fertile ground among the more traditionalist members of the Synod. The blue filaments in the chamber’s Gzhel Weave seemed to dim, the pattern losing its cohesion as consensus fractured.
— The loss of Patrol Fleet Vigil is not a routine matter, — Sineus stated, his voice remaining level. He would not be drawn into a debate over his history. — The Zarya System is destabilizing. My authority in that sector is absolute, and my assessment is that the threat requires this specific asset.
— Your assessment, — Kurov countered, his tone sharp, — has often involved methods that this Synod cannot officially condone. You ask for our trust, but you offer no transparency.
The debate was at an impasse. Sineus had the authority to act within his sector, but ‘Peresvet’ was a strategic asset that required the Synod’s approval to deploy. Kurov had him trapped in a loop of logic. To get the fleet, he needed to reveal the truth of the Verniy. To reveal the truth was to hand Kurov the political weapon he needed to shatter the Continuum’s leadership.
Then, a new voice entered the chamber. It was not the voice of an admiral. It was smoother, colder, like jade and polished chrome.
— The Admiral’s assessment aligns with our projections.
The Synod turned as one. A new dais had materialized, slightly apart from the circle of twelve. On it stood the High Chancellor of the Celestial Mandate, Xian Tian. A treaty as old as Kingdom 39 allowed observers from allied powers to be present for such debates. The Chancellor was a tall, unnervingly thin man in robes of dark smart-silk, his long fingers—slender chrome prosthetics—hovering over a stream of holographic data that flowed around him like a captured nebula.
He had not spoken during the Rite of Weightless Counsel, but he spoke now. His support was an unexpected political maneuver, a weight thrown onto Sineus’s side of the scale.
— The Mandate’s auguries predicted this cascade failure, — Xian Tian continued, his voice a calm recitation of fact. — A minor mnemonic anomaly, left unchecked, creates exponential systemic risk. The integrity of the Zarya System is a variable in the stability of this entire galactic arm. The Chancellor does not care for Admiral Sineus’s methods. He cares for balance. Your internal doctrinal disputes are an irrelevant rounding error in the face of potential collapse.
The intervention was decisive. To deny Sineus now would be to publicly defy the logic of their most powerful ally. The Gzhel Weave on the walls brightened, its patterns beginning to re-form as a new consensus emerged. Sineus gave the Chancellor a barely perceptible nod of acknowledgement. A debt had been incurred.
Kurov saw his opening closing. He could no longer block the mission, but he could still poison it. He shifted his tactic from opposition to containment.
— Very well, — Kurov said, his voice conceding nothing. — If the Chancellor insists on indulging this venture, then the Synod must insist on transparency. A condition for the deployment of Peresvet.
Sineus waited. He knew a price was coming.
— To ensure all actions taken align with the foundational principles of the Continuum, and to provide this council with a full and unfiltered record, a Narrative Compliance Officer will accompany the task force. They will have full access to the mission logs and will report directly to this body.
It was a masterful political stroke. A leash. An ideological watchdog, placed at the heart of his command. It was a price designed to be insulting, a check on his authority that would slow his every move.
— The officer will be from the Archive Mandate, — Kurov finished, twisting the knife. — An organization that, unlike some, still values the sanctity of the complete historical record.
The Synod approved the mission with Kurov’s condition attached. A soft chime confirmed the vote: seven to five. A central display lit up with the amended order. Task Force Peresvet was his. And so was his warden. The name appeared in stark, glowing text.
Narrative Compliance Officer: Ksenia Voronova.
The archivist. The idealist who had stood in the Chamber of Redaction and spoken of erasure as a wound. The woman he had dismissed as a sentimental fool. Kurov had not just given him a leash; he had handed it to his most direct philosophical opponent. It was a perfect, elegant trap. The cost of his mission was the surrender of his autonomy.
The Gzhel Weave on the chamber walls solidified into a perfect, stable pattern, the debate concluded. But to Sineus’s eyes, one of the cobalt threads now glowed with a faint, discordant shade of grey, a permanent flaw woven into the pattern of his victory.
Sineus acknowledged the order with a single, curt nod. His face remained a mask of stone, betraying nothing of the cold fury that settled deep within him. He had accepted the political price for his mission. He had chosen to act, and this was the consequence.
— The Synod is concluded, — the lead admiral announced.
The holographic chamber dissolved. The shimmering void, the stone daises, the faces of his rivals and allies—all of it vanished, leaving Sineus standing alone in the small, cold reality of the projection room aboard his own ship. The low hum of the Stoikiy’s reality anchors was the only sound.
He turned and walked back toward the bridge, his stride measured and purposeful. He had his fleet. He had his mission. And he had his leash. The hunt could begin.
The doors to the command bridge hissed open. He stepped onto the dais, his gaze sweeping over the crew, who straightened instinctively at his presence. He looked past them, to the star-dusted void on the main viewscreen.
— Helm, — he commanded, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the bridge. — Set a course for the Zarya System.
