The council car of the Perun smelled of hot metal, ozone, and stale fear. It was a cramped, functional space, its steel walls vibrating with the rhythmic clatter of the crawler’s progress. In the center of the car, a holographic map cast a pale blue light on the four figures gathered around it. The map was a tapestry of their failure. Red icons pulsed over their home territories, each one a fresh wound where Lev Dementiev’s weaponized Unraveling had struck. Resources were critical. The pressure was a physical weight in the recycled air.
Sineus stood slightly back from the table, his arms crossed. The weariness from the battle for Trestle 7 had settled deep in his bones. He watched the others, their faces grim in the shifting light. Irina Pavlenko, her expression as hard and precise as the tools in her satchel. A gaunt, dry man from the Order of Memory, his eyes fixed on the data streams as if they were the only real things in the room. And the delegate from the River Commons, a man whose sun-cracked skin and calloused hands spoke of a life spent wrestling with water and barges. He was the first to break the tense silence.
— This is suicide, — the River Commons delegate said, his voice a low rumble. He jabbed a thick finger at the map, at a blinking red icon over a major water gate on the Volga. — My people are facing floods and drought at the same time. Our gates are being erased. We must turn back. We must defend our homes.
His objective was clear: retreat. It was the logic of fragmentation, the old, familiar song of the wastes. Every faction for itself.
— Turn back to what? — Irina’s voice cut through his plea, sharp and cold. She stepped forward, her hands moving over the console at the edge of the map. New data flooded the display, connecting the red icons with clean, undeniable lines of causality. — Look. The attacks are not random. They are coordinated. A rail junction for Union 9. A water gate for the Commons. A data node for the Order. He is dismantling us piece by piece.
She brought up a timeline, showing the attacks happening at precise, staggered intervals. — Retreating is not defense. It is walking into an execution chamber alone. There is nowhere to run where he cannot reach.
Her argument was irrefutable, a perfect machine of logic. But it offered no warmth. The River Commons delegate recoiled, his face a mask of anger and fear. The alliance was balanced on a knife’s edge, caught between the impulse to flee and the cold fact that there was no safe place to flee to.
The delegate from the Order of Memory spoke then, his voice as dry as dust. — The data supports Engineer Pavlenko. The pattern is statistically significant. Retreat is illogical. It lowers our collective probability of survival by 47%.
He offered no hope, only a number. The air in the car grew colder, thicker. The council was deadlocked, trapped between a fear that demanded action and a logic that proved all action was futile. Sineus felt the fragile bond of their alliance begin to fray. He saw the tri-spoke_symbol etched into a support beam of the car, a maker’s mark of old-world quality. A sound design, honest materials, skilled work. It was a memory of how things were supposed to fit together.
He pushed himself off the wall and stepped toward the table. The other three looked at him, their expressions ranging from Irina’s guarded expectation to the delegates’ open despair. He did not look at the data. He looked at their faces.
— He is not conquering territory, — Sineus said, his voice quiet but carrying through the hum of the crawler. The delegates leaned in, straining to hear. He let the silence hang for a beat, forcing them to focus.
— He is deleting the board.
The simple metaphor landed with the weight of a power hammer. The delegates stared at him, their understanding shifting. It was no longer a war for resources. It was not a war at all. It was an erasure.
— We are the pieces on that board, — Sineus continued, his gaze moving from the River Commons delegate to the man from the Order. — Union 9 is a pillar. The River Commons is a pillar. The Order is a pillar. If one pillar falls, the hall falls. There is no safety in being the last one standing in a ruin.
He had given them a new way to see, a truth that went deeper than data or fear.
Irina seized the moment. — A vote, — she declared, her voice ringing with renewed authority. — All in favor of continuing the mission, of holding the line together?
Her hand went up. The Order of Memory delegate, after a moment’s calculation, slowly raised his. Sineus raised his hand. Three hands in the air. The River Commons delegate looked at their raised hands, his face a storm of conflict. He shook his head, his loyalty to his home overriding the logic of the hall. He lowered his gaze and kept his hand down.
The vote was 3 to 1. The alliance would hold. But it was not whole. A crack had formed in their new foundation. The price of their unity was the knowledge that it was not unanimous.
The delegates dispersed without another word, the tension leaving with them. The Perun continued its relentless push east, the clatter of its wheels on the iron rails a steady, rhythmic beat. It was the sound of a choice made, a future chosen.
The air in the council car slowly warmed. The holographic map still glowed, its red warnings a constant reminder of the stakes.
