The path to the ruined pagoda was a lie. Every ten meters, the jungle shifted, the ground sighing like a lung. Sineus pushed through a curtain of giant, dripping ferns, his objective clear: reach the meeting point designated in Anya Sharma’s treacherous data packet. The alliance Moreau proposed was a desperate gambit, a pact with rivals born from the shared certainty that Lars Magnusson could not be allowed to win. This detour cost them time, and the spire, a black needle stitching a wound in the sky, seemed to grow no closer.
They found the pagoda nestled in a fold of the impossible landscape. It was a delicate structure of dark, rotting wood, its tiered roof sagging under the weight of a constant, glitching rain that fell in fits and starts, sometimes sideways. Inside, where there should have been an altar, sat a rusted twentieth-century steam locomotive, its iron bulk a brutalist intrusion on the building’s forgotten grace. The air smelled of wet decay, ozone, and cold iron.
They were not the first to arrive. Figures stood in the shadows, their mistrust a palpable force in the humid air. A man with a hard, weathered face and the insignia of the Russian Northern Fleet on his worn gear watched them enter, his hand never far from the pistol on his hip. He was flanked by two salvage divers, their thick frames filling the space. Near the locomotive’s dead firebox, a woman in a practical headscarf studied a data slate, her calm eyes missing nothing; behind her stood two men in desert fatigues, their bearing suggesting the quiet competence of Arab cryptographers. A third group, led by a wiry man in expedition clothes, huddled by the far wall, murmuring in Hindi. These were the non-Axiom players, the remnants of national programs and private ventures, all trapped on this island. All enemies.
— You are late, — the Russian said, his voice a low gravel. He was the leader, his authority unquestioned.
— The terrain is unstable, — Sineus replied, his tone flat. He unslung his rifle and leaned it against the pagoda’s wall, a small gesture of non-aggression. Moreau and Nadia did the same. The trust level in the room was zero. Forging an alliance here would be like trying to weld rust.
Sineus wasted no time on pleasantries. He pulled a ruggedized tablet from his pack, its screen glowing in the gloom. He projected a schematic onto the rusted hull of the locomotive. It was a detailed cross-section of the spire.
— This is not a negotiation about territory or artifacts, — Sineus began, his voice cutting through the sound of the rain. He did not command; he presented facts, an engineer laying out a problem. — This is a tactical briefing. Magnusson is moving toward the spire’s control center. If he reaches the Chronos Engine, he will rewrite everything. Your missions, your nations, your memories—all of it will become subject to his edit.
He pointed to a conduit on the schematic. — He will be focused on the primary access corridor. But there is a secondary route. A geothermal coolant intake, here. My team will breach it. Your teams will create simultaneous diversions at these three points. We divide Axiom’s forces, overwhelm their command and control, and I will reach the console to lock Magnusson out.
The Russian salvage diver, Volkov, let out a short, harsh laugh. — You want us to be your diversion? My men died in the Barents Sea because of a corporate promise. Why is this different? You work with her, — he jerked his chin toward Moreau, — an agent of the West. We are not fools.
— The Barents Sea Incident was Axiom’s betrayal, not ours, — Moreau’s voice was cold steel. — Magnusson’s report listed your team as ‘acceptable losses.’ He sees you, all of you, as assets to be liquidated once his objective is secure. That is the only promise he will keep.
The Arab cryptographer looked up from her slate. — Your plan is direct, but it assumes Axiom’s network security is centralized. It is not. A breach at the intake will trigger isolated lockdowns. We would be trapped in our sectors.
The debate erupted, a tense cascade of overlapping languages and past grievances. The Indian linguist argued that the spire’s internal defenses were likely memetic, not physical, and that their approach was tactically naive.
Sineus let them argue. He watched their faces, saw the fear and pride warring in their eyes. He was not their commander. He was a catalyst.
Finally, he raised a hand, and the arguments subsided. — You are all correct, — he said, his quiet voice cutting through the tension. — The plan is flawed. Your mistrust is earned. But look outside. — He gestured to the glitching rain, to the sky that felt too close. — That is the only fact that matters now. Magnusson is not your rival. He is the storm that will drown us all. We can face it together, or we can argue about who gets the last breath.
He reached into a pouch and pulled out a single, spent 9mm shell casing. He placed it on the schematic, on the point marked for the spire’s coolant intake. — This is our vote. My team is going in. Who is with us?
There was a long, heavy silence. Then, the Arab cryptographer, her face set, stepped forward and placed a small, polished data chip on the schematic next to his casing. One vote.
The Indian linguist followed, adding a small, carved wooden token to the growing pile. Two votes.
All eyes turned to Volkov. The Russian diver stared at the schematic, his jaw tight. He looked at his men, then at Moreau, his expression a mask of cold fury. For a moment, Sineus thought he would refuse, that centuries of geopolitical rivalry were too high a wall to climb.
Volkov stepped forward. He did not place a token. He drew a heavy combat knife and stabbed its point into the schematic, right next to Sineus’s shell casing. The metal tip scraped against the locomotive’s rusted hull.
— My team will handle the northern diversion, — he growled. — But if this is a trick, I will find you.
A consensus. Fragile. Forged in desperation. But it was real. A multi-national coalition, born in a ruined pagoda on an island that did not exist, was now operational.
The tension in the room did not vanish, but it changed. The hostility was replaced by a grim, professional focus. The leaders of the newly formed coalition gathered around the schematic, their shoulders almost touching.
— The northern approach has seismic sensors, — Volkov said, pointing with the tip of his knife. — My divers can bypass them underwater, but we will need to disable the power grid for exactly ninety seconds.
— We can create a cascading failure in their network that will do just that, — the cryptographer replied, her fingers already flying across her data slate. — But we will need access to a primary data conduit.
They were no longer enemies. They were engineers, soldiers, and scholars, solving a single, complex problem. The plan was no longer Sineus’s. It belonged to them all.
The plan was set, a fragile web of timings and dependencies. But as they finalized the approach vectors, Sineus felt a cold certainty. They were missing a piece. A final key.
