The air inside the Kestrel VTOL was cold and tasted of recycled oxygen and ozone. Three days out from Dubai, the aircraft was a self-contained world hurtling at 450 kilometers per hour over the deep, placid blue of the Indian Ocean. Isabelle Moreau sat at the controls, her focus absolute, a silhouette against the green glow of the instrument panels. In the cramped main cabin, Nadia Petrova monitored a bank of screens, her expression a mixture of academic intensity and the hard-edged alertness of a soldier. Between them, on the cold metal decking, Sineus worked.
He laid out the spoils of their globe-spanning hunt. The data core from Polyus-9, a heavy cylinder of a dense, unknown alloy, was still cold enough to frost the air around it. Beside it lay the Memorum alignment rod from the Zenith Tower, a smooth, black baton that seemed to drink the light. These were the keys, stolen from the frozen north and a desert fortress of glass. They were pieces of a puzzle that had cost them resources, allies, and the last vestiges of their anonymity.
Sineus opened the housing of the Astral Compass. The crystalline dodecahedron, an artifact that projected a living map of phantom constellations, sat inert in its cradle. With the precision of a bomb disposal expert, he slotted the Polyus-9 data core into a recessed port. It clicked into place with a solid, satisfying sound. He then placed the black alignment rod into a groove alongside it. The two artifacts, one Soviet and one Axiom, touched for the first time, ancient purpose overriding modern enmity.
He connected the data slate from Barcelona, a thin grey rectangle of ceramic and metal that held the Navigational Formula. The system was complete. All the disparate pieces of information—the star phases from the Vatican’s logbook, the parallax tables from the Arctic, the alignment key from Dubai, and the ocean current index from Spain—were now physically linked.
— Is that everything? — Nadia’s voice was tight, cutting through the steady drone of the VTOL’s engines. She had turned from her screens, her eyes fixed on the assembled artifacts.
— All the pieces we have, — Sineus replied, his voice low.
He initiated the synthesis.
The Astral Compass came to life. A low hum vibrated through the deck plates, and a soft blue light began to pulse from within the dodecahedron. A three-dimensional star chart bloomed in the center of the cabin, a chaotic storm of swirling light and disconnected points. Constellations no human eye had ever seen twisted and writhed, a visual representation of the unstable data they had collected. The light washed over their faces, painting them in shifting patterns of sapphire and cobalt.
For a long, tense moment, the chaos held. The storm of light churned, a vortex of raw information without structure or meaning. Sineus watched, his face impassive, feeling the discordant energy of the projection as a pressure against his skin. This was the moment of truth. Either the formula would bind the data, or it would tear itself apart.
Then, a single line of light shot through the holographic storm, connecting two distant points. Another followed, then another. The chaotic swirl began to slow. The star chart was resolving itself, the Navigational Formula acting as the loom, weaving the disparate threads of data into a single, coherent tapestry. The process took a full seventy-five seconds, a lifetime in the silent, humming cabin.
The storm of light collapsed inward, folding into itself until all that remained was a single, brilliant point of light. It pulsed once, then projected a clean, stable set of coordinates onto the VTOL’s main navigation display. A location. A single, unwavering destination in the North Atlantic. The discordant hum from the artifact smoothed into a pure, steady tone. The chaos had been forged into purpose.
Sineus reached into his pocket and pulled out the small, brass gimbaled compass he always carried. He held it flat in his palm. The needle was rock-steady, pointing to a perfect, unshakable north. For the first time since the Zenith Tower, the physical world and the world of Memorum were in complete alignment.
Nadia leaned over her console, her fingers flying across the keys as she cross-referenced the coordinates with the temporal data from the Subterrane Logbook. Her breath caught.
— We have a window, — she whispered, her voice filled with a reverence that bordered on disbelief. She looked up, her eyes wide. — It opens in thirty-six hours. And it stays open for less than one.
From the cockpit, Moreau looked back over her shoulder. The hard lines of her face softened, and the barest hint of a smile touched her lips. It was a rare sight, a crack in her armor of cold professionalism.
— Then we’ll be early, — she said, her voice calm and confident.
Sineus looked at the burning coordinates on the screen. The cost of those numbers had been paid with the lives of allies and burned resources. They had bet everything on this single string of numbers.
He glanced down at the compass in his hand one last time before slipping it back into his pocket. The needle was heavy and definite.
Moreau’s hands moved over the controls. The VTOL banked smoothly, changing its heading. The deep hum of the engines shifted to a higher pitch as she pushed the throttle forward, accelerating toward their new destination. The Indian Ocean gave way to the sky as they climbed, a silver dart aimed at the roof of the world.
The deep blue of the ocean stretched out below, endless and calm. The low hum of the engines was a steady promise of arrival.
They turned the aircraft north to claim their prize
