The uniform was a lie. Zora felt it in the chafe of the synthetic collar against her neck, a sterile grey fabric designed for invisibility. It smelled of industrial cleanser and recycled air, the official scent of the Ministry of Public Harmony’s background operations. Her own scent—sweat, metal, and the faint, coppery tang of her own healing wound—was an act of rebellion in this pristine environment. The maintenance jumpsuit granted them Class-3 access, a key to the kingdom’s back doors, but it felt like a shroud.
Sineus moved beside her, his stride even and unhurried. He carried a diagnostic kit that was mostly an empty shell. Zora carried the real tool. Tucked into a pouch on her belt, the replica microphone felt dense, a small, heavy lump of treason. Its weight was a constant reminder of the risk. One mistake, one biometric scanner that saw through their forged credentials, and this quiet, sterile hall would become a tomb. The dull ache in her shoulder, a gift from a Pacifier Frame in Sector K, pulsed in time with her steps. A reminder of the price for their last mistake.
They were walking through the heart of the lie. The Agora was not a place of power; it was a theater for it. Vast, silent halls of white ceramic branched off in perfect geometric patterns. There were no people. Not real ones. In the grand chamber ahead, the performance was underway. They paused at a junction, looking through a wall of smart-glass into the main assembly. Floating platforms drifted in a slow, calculated ballet, each occupied by a single, shimmering holographic ambassador.
— Ninety percent of them are just projections, — Sineus murmured, his voice a low hum that barely disturbed the unnatural quiet. — Looping gestures from a library of approved diplomatic motions.
Zora watched a hologram of the Eurasian delegate make a placid, open-handed gesture. The image flickered for a nanosecond, a barely perceptible reality fray, and for that instant, she saw the empty platform behind it. A ghost arguing with other ghosts. The whole world was a Datenspuk. The thought came and went, sharp and bitter. This was what they were fighting. A planet-wide consensus built on empty air and programmed smiles.
— Our target is the central podium, — Sineus continued, pointing with his chin. — The one place a physical person has to stand to address the assembly.
Zora nodded. The plan was simple. The execution was the part that could get them killed. Sineus would create a diversion. She would make the swap. Sixty seconds of exposure. An eternity. The price for planting their ear inside the enemy’s mouth was offering their own necks. She took a breath, the filtered air tasting of nothing. It was a choice she had already made. To act was to live. To hide was to wait for death.
They entered the chamber through a service entrance, their soft-soled boots making no sound on the polished floor. The silence here was different. It was a deep, humming void, the sound of immense processing power. The air vibrated with it. Zora felt the low thrum in her teeth. The holographic ambassadors continued their pantomime, their voices a soft, meaningless murmur that was piped into the space for effect. It was all for show.
Sineus moved toward the central podium with a practiced ease, his movements economical. He looked like he belonged here, another cog in the great, silent machine. Zora’s own body felt tense, a coiled spring of aggression in a world that had outlawed sharp movements. She forced her shoulders to relax, mimicking his posture. Performance was survival.
— Light panel on the dais is showing a power fluctuation, — Sineus said, his voice pitched just loud enough for any nearby audio sensors to register it as a maintenance report. He knelt, opening his empty diagnostic kit.
That was her cue. The diversion. All eyes, digital and otherwise, would be drawn to the minor, insignificant problem. The system loved order. A flickering light was a tiny tear in the fabric of its perfection, a problem that demanded immediate, quiet resolution. Zora walked to the podium, her heart a cold, steady drum against her ribs.
The podium was a simple, elegant column of white polymer. The microphone was a slender silver stalk, its head a perfect sphere of black mesh. It looked like every other high-level Ministry audio device. Zora’s hand went to her belt pouch. Her fingers closed around the replica. It was cool to the touch. Identical in every way, except for the hardware hidden inside, designed to skim the encrypted pass-phrases of anyone who spoke into it. The Anthem Mic.
She glanced at Sineus. He was pointing a meaningless tool at the light panel, his face a mask of professional concentration. He was giving her sixty seconds. She pulled the replica from her pouch, shielding the movement with her body. Her other hand reached for the real microphone. It unscrewed with a faint, oiled whisper.
Her hands were steady. The fear was a distant thing, a cold star in the back of her mind. This was action. This was real. This was not hiding in a tunnel, waiting for the world to fall on them. This was kicking the door down. The memory of her blade scraping against a whetstone flashed in her mind. The principle was the same. A sharp edge applied at the right pressure point.
The real microphone was in her hand. She slipped it into her pouch. The replica screwed into place with the same silent click. Done. She stepped back from the podium. Nothing happened. No alarms. No sudden flood of Pacifier Frames. The holographic ghosts continued their silent, pointless debate. The swap was visually undetectable. The bug was planted.
She looked at her reflection in the polished floor. A distorted figure in a grey uniform. For a moment, the image wavered, the flickering light from Sineus’s “repair” catching the surface. Her reflection seemed to split, one Zora in a maintenance uniform, the other in her own worn cargo pants, a blade in her hand and a defiant smear of blue in her hair. The flicker passed. The reflection solidified. Just a technician.
Sineus closed his kit. — Power cycle complete. Fluctuation resolved. — His voice was calm, closing the loop on their performance.
They turned and walked back toward the service entrance. Every step was a lifetime. The silence of the Agora pressed in on them, a heavy, expectant thing. Zora resisted the urge to run. Walk. Breathe. Belong. They passed through the doorway, and the heavy panel slid shut behind them, cutting off the humming void.
They didn’t speak until they were three levels down, back in the labyrinth of grey service corridors.
— Status? — Sineus asked.
— It’s active, — Zora said, checking a small, battered datapad. A single green light pulsed on the screen. — The Anthem Mic is listening.
They had done it. They had pushed back. It was a small victory, a single move in a war fought in shadows and whispers, but it was a move forward. It was a proactive strike, a piece of leverage bought with pure audacity. The axis of their world had shifted, just slightly, from running to hunting.
They reached the rendezvous point, a disused water reclamation cistern deep in the Berlin under-levels. Ksenia and Ansel were waiting. The air smelled of damp concrete and Ansel’s bitter coffee.
Ksenia looked up from her own datapad as they entered. The bruise on her temple was a dark plum color. She didn’t waste time on greetings.
— The data from Prague is decrypted, — she announced, her voice tight. — I know what Voss is doing with the Void Catalyst. And I know where the components are coming from.
She turned the screen toward them. It showed shipping manifests, encrypted corporate communications, and a map of the North Atlantic. A single location was circled in red. A chaotic, semi-submersible city built on a repurposed oil rig, operating in the lawless waters outside any national jurisdiction.
— He’s moving the catalyst cores through a free zone, — Ksenia said. — A black market hub called the Neptune Platform.
