The Council Rotunda-7 was a circle of absolute silence, a space so pure it felt like a vacuum. Joris Crane moved through it not as a man walking, but as a variable being introduced into a stable equation. His shoes made no sound on the polished obsidian floor. The air, scrubbed of every particle of dust and doubt, smelled of nothing, a sterile emptiness that was the highest achievement of the Babylon Compact. He was here to meet the Ambassador, a necessary and irritating step in the calculus of command.
His destination was a private alcove set into the vast, curving wall, a room without walls defined only by a shimmer of projected light. Inside, the Ambassador of the Compact stood waiting. He was a man whose function was to smooth the gears of power, a specialist in the application of procedure as both a weapon and a shield. He adjusted his thin wire-rimmed glasses as Crane entered the field of light, a gesture of intellectual consideration that was as practiced as it was meaningless.
— Director, — the Ambassador said, his voice a carefully modulated baritone. It was a voice designed for recordings, for pronouncements that would be archived and studied.
— Ambassador, — Crane replied, his tone flat, containing no deference. He did not offer a hand. Such physicalities were inefficient. He gestured toward the center of the alcove, where a column of blue light waited. — The matter is time-sensitive.
The column of light resolved into a three-dimensional map of the territories bordering Eden, a projection from the Aegis Display system that served as the council’s all-seeing eye. It was a beautiful, sterile representation of a leprous reality.
Crane began his briefing. He spoke of a heightened security patrol, his words a cascade of technical jargon and operational acronyms. He was not explaining; he was burying the truth under the weight of official language. The price of this meeting was truth itself, a currency Crane spent without a second thought to acquire the one he valued more: sanction. The system required a reason, so he would provide one.
— We’ve logged a significant spike in Chorus-type energy signatures emanating from Bracket Nine, — Crane stated, his finger tracing a line on the holographic map. The map pulsed, a section of the border glowing an ominous violet. — The pattern suggests a precursor to a major incursion.
The data was a lie. A clean, elegant fabrication, its probability of acceptance calculated at a near-certain ninety percent. The energy signatures were real, but their intensity had been amplified in the presentation, the raw numbers massaged into a shape that demanded a response. It was a simple matter of adjusting the variables to achieve a desired outcome.
The Ambassador leaned closer to the Aegis Display, his reflection a pale ghost in the tactical light. He made a show of studying the fabricated projections, his brow furrowed in concentration. It was a performance of due diligence, a necessary ritual before the inevitable conclusion. He was not looking for flaws in the data. He was looking for assurance that the data was strong enough to justify what came next.
— A precursor event of this magnitude… it’s unusual, — the Ambassador murmured, the words a soft probe. He was testing the strength of the narrative, not the facts.
— The Chorus is not a rational actor, — Crane said. It was the perfect, unassailable response. It ended debate by defining the enemy as beyond comprehension. — Their patterns are not our patterns. We can only observe and react to the threat they pose to systemic stability.
The Ambassador straightened up, the performance of scrutiny complete. He had seen enough to provide him with the necessary political cover. The system of checks and balances had been observed, if not truly enacted. He had done his job.
— The potential for casualties is a necessary cost for stability, — the Ambassador said, the words coming out smooth and polished, already sounding like a line from a future historical transcript. He had accepted the premise. The choice was made. Now, all that remained was the paperwork.
Crane’s expression remained unchanged, but a cold, internal satisfaction settled in him. The first part of the operation had succeeded. The political mechanism was now aligned with his strategic one.
— Precisely, — Crane said. He brought up a new screen of light, a requisition form. — To that end, I am formally requesting the allocation of assets for a pre-emptive sanitization patrol under Directive 11-38. The operation will require artillery support and a full waiver of witness protocols as detailed in… Manifest 734.
He let the designation hang in the air. Manifest 734. The name was a key, a piece of classified history that unlocked a certain kind of operational freedom. It referred to a past incident where extreme measures had been sanctioned to eliminate a perceived threat, an event scrubbed from all public records. Mentioning it was a signal to the Ambassador that this was not a standard operation, and that its details were to be buried at the deepest level.
The Ambassador’s eye twitched, a flicker of unease that was almost imperceptible. He knew the name. He knew the cost associated with it. But he also knew the power it conferred. He gave a single, sharp nod.
— The request is logged, — a synthesized female voice announced from the room’s hidden speakers. The voice of the tower itself, the ultimate arbiter of procedure. — Approval granted. Procedural deviation logged: one. Full council vote bypassed under emergency security protocols.
The conspiracy was now official. It was no longer a plan; it was a sanctioned military action, sealed and recorded in the Compact’s infallible archives. The system had bent, as it was designed to do for men like him.
On his desk, nestled among data slates, sat a small, pre-Fall dosimeter. A relic of brass and glass he used as a paperweight. Its needle was frozen, its internal components long dead. It was a reminder of a time when risk was a physical, measurable thing. Now, risk was merely a column in a spreadsheet, a variable to be managed. The silent, dead clicks of the past were a comfort.
Crane gave the Ambassador a curt nod, the transaction complete. He turned and walked out of the alcove, his steps once again silent on the obsidian floor. His confidence was absolute, a perfect 100%. The machine was working as intended. The parts were all moving according to his design.
He did not look back at the holographic map. He did not need to. He could already see the pieces moving in his mind, the cold, clean lines of his strategy converging on a dusty ravine in the Grey Wastes.
The air recyclers hummed their endless, quiet song. The light in the Rotunda remained a constant, sterile white.
And in the wastes, a pilot changed course.
