He found them gathered in what might have once been a nave. The architecture of the Spire defied easy labels. Soaring arches of black basalt met overhead in a groined vault that seemed to absorb the light from their tactical lamps. There was no altar, only a wide, circular dais of polished stone. In the center, a faint shimmer in the air suggested a column of immense, contained energy. The air was cold and smelled of ozone and wet rock.
The leaders of the coalition—what was left of them—looked up as he approached. Isabelle Moreau, her face a mask of controlled exhaustion. The big Russian, Volkov, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression a block of granite. Zahara Al-Jamil, the Arab cryptographer, her eyes scanning the space as if reading its invisible code. And Rohan Singh, the Indian linguist, who seemed to be listening to the spire’s hum. They were enemies, united for a handful of hours by a greater threat.
Sineus unrolled a printed schematic across the dais. It was a partial blueprint of the spire’s core, pieced together from Cato’s data and Nadia’s analysis. He placed a hand on it, his palm still tingling from opening the native interface.
— The plan has changed, — he said, his voice flat and devoid of ceremony. The statement hung in the cold, still air. — Blocking the console is not enough. Magnusson will find another way. We can’t just deny him access. We have to seize control.
Volkov grunted, a low rumble of skepticism. — Seize control of what? A machine that makes the sky fall sideways?
— It’s not a machine, — Sineus corrected, tapping the schematic. — It’s a system. And it has a back door. A native interface. I found it.
He explained what Cato had told him, what the void had shown him, and what the wall had confirmed. The binary choice the console would offer was a trap. The third path was not to command the Chronos Engine, but to integrate with it. To become its operating system. A living firewall.
— One person has to key in, — Sineus concluded, his gaze sweeping over their faces. He let the silence stretch, letting the weight of the words settle. — One person has to become the lock. Only a native can do it. That’s me.
The silence that followed was heavier than the stone around them. It was Moreau who broke it, her voice sharp as shattered glass.
— No.
She stepped forward, her eyes blazing with a cold fire he had not seen before.
— There’s another way, — she insisted, her jaw set. — We stick to the plan. We create the diversion, you get to the console, and we destroy it. A surgical strike.
— It won’t work, — Sineus said, his voice quiet but absolute. — Destroying the console would be like breaking the steering wheel and expecting the engine to stop. The system will default, or Magnusson will bypass it. The only way to secure it is from the inside.
— Then I’ll do it, — she shot back. The offer was instant, a reflex. A soldier stepping in front of a bullet meant for another. — Tell me how.
He met her gaze, and for a moment, the war, the spire, and the end of the world fell away.
— You can’t key the interface, — he said, the words gentle but firm as bedrock. It was not a challenge. It was a statement of fact, a law of this strange physics as immutable as gravity. — I can.
In his eyes, she saw no hint of martyrdom, no desire for a glorious end. There was only the stark, clean logic of an engineer who had found the only possible solution to an impossible problem. The rivalry that had started in a dripping Vatican ossuary was finally burned away, leaving something else in its place. A transfer of duty. A succession. He was passing the watch to her, and her role was not to die with him, but to stand the post after he was gone.
She held his gaze for a long moment, the battle of wills playing out in the space between them. Then, she gave a single, sharp nod. The argument was over. The price was understood.
Sineus turned back to the others. — The new plan is a synthesis. My sacrifice achieves her objective: control. I will become the control mechanism. A permanent one.
He looked at the stoic Russian. Volkov stared back, his pale eyes unblinking. He ran a thumb along the scar on his cheek, then nodded slowly.
— A soldier’s choice, — Volkov said, his voice a low growl. — One man for the mission. My team will hold the perimeter. We will give you your opening.
Zahara Al-Jamil spoke next, her focus on the schematic. — The logic is sound. A single point of failure becomes a single point of control. If you can truly lock the system, my team can disrupt Axiom’s network during the integration sequence. It will blind them at the critical moment.
— The script demands a balance, — Rohan Singh added, his voice soft. He placed a small, carved wooden token on the map. — A price for a prize. It was always written. We will prepare a counter-chant to mask your approach to the interface.
One by one, they committed. Volkov slid his heavy combat knife from its sheath and stabbed it into the schematic, the point piercing the diagram of the spire’s core. Zahara placed a polished data chip beside it. Moreau laid a single, unspent 9mm cartridge on the paper. They were voting not with words, but with tokens of their trade. With promises.
Sineus looked at the collection of objects on the map. A knife, a chip, a bullet, a carving. The tools of a fragile, desperate consensus. The price of his future had been accepted by the people who had, only days ago, been his enemies.
The plan was set. The final vote was cast.
Now, all that was left was to pay the bill.
