Anastasya Orlova moved with a speed that bordered on a breach of protocol. The data-slate felt cold and heavy in her grip, a slab of crystal containing a truth so corrosive it threatened to dissolve the very foundations of the Regalis Regime. Her objective was the Command Center of Vigil-Stone Outpost. She had to present her findings on the pump-house, the undeniable proof of a state-sponsored conspiracy, before the tendrils of that same conspiracy could close around her. Every guard she passed, every salute she returned, felt like a potential threat. The Weft of Vigil, the intricate geometric pattern of interconnectedness etched into the polished basalt walls, seemed to mock her with its promise of a perfect, logical Order.
She reached the blast doors to the Command Center just as they began to slide open. But it was not the outpost council assembling to hear her report. The air that washed out was colder, charged with an ozone stillness that spoke of immense, contained power. A figure filled the doorway, flanked by two guards whose Crystalline Myxoid armor was a shade of black she had never seen, polished like obsidian and absorbing the ambient blue light. The man himself was a monument to the severest interpretation of their law.
He was Justicar Gerasim Frolov, an arbiter from the central Bastion itself. His own armor was a masterpiece of menacing geometry, its cold light pulsing with a slow, intimidating rhythm. One of his eyes was gone, replaced by a polished, multi-faceted Crystal Lens that moved and focused with an unnatural, insect-like precision. In his gauntlet, he held a heavy mace, its head a living, glowing crystal. The Judgement Rod. His arrival was not a visit; it was an occupation. The threat in the room had not just doubled; it had changed its state entirely.
— Officer Orlova, — Gerasim’s voice was the sound of shale splitting, a gravelly monotone that cut through the hum of the station. His crystal eye swiveled, scanning her from head to toe, and she felt the sensation of being analyzed not as a person, but as a data set. — You are relieved.
The words were a physical blow. She had no time to present her findings, no chance to make her case. He had preempted her.
— Justicar, with respect, I have urgent intelligence regarding a direct threat to the Regime— — she began, her voice tight with discipline.
— I am aware of the threat, — Gerasim interrupted, stepping into the room. His armored boots made no sound on the basalt floor. — The threat of chaos. The threat of ideological contamination. Your handling of this border sector has been deemed a failure. By the authority of the Chancellery of Forms, I am assuming direct command.
He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. His authority was not a matter of rank; it was a physical presence that bent the air around him. He gestured to a console, and her command codes vanished from the screen, replaced by his own. The price for her unsanctioned investigation was being paid. Her authority, her command, her place in this world—all forfeit in the space of a single breath.
Gerasim turned his attention to the central console, his movements economical and severe. He brought up her recent patrol logs, the reports on the Umbra culling party, the discovery at the pump-house. His Crystal Lens glowed with a brighter intensity as he processed the information, but Anastasya knew with a sinking certainty that he was not seeking truth. He was hunting for heresy. He was looking for the flaw in her adherence to doctrine, not the facts she had uncovered.
— You have consorted with a Silvanus deviant, — Gerasim stated, turning from the console. His gaze was flat, accusatory. — You have adopted his chaotic reasoning. You have abandoned protocol and acted on the word of a savage.
— The Silvanus, Lauri Vatanen, provided actionable intelligence that prevented the loss of my patrol, — Anastasya countered, her own voice cold as the armor she wore. — His senses detected threats our own technology could not. The evidence I gathered—
— The evidence you gathered is irrelevant, — Gerasim cut her off. — The fact that you gathered it in concert with an agent of chaos is the only crime that matters. Order is a blade. It must be used to prune the wild growth, not to study it. You have been ideologically tainted.
The verdict landed, and with it, the walls of her world collapsed. Guilty. Not of failure, but of pragmatism. Guilty of seeing the world as it was, not as the doctrine dictated it should be. The Weft of Vigil on the walls seemed to tighten, the pattern no longer a symbol of unity but the schematic of a cage.
Gerasim raised a hand, and two of his black-armored guards moved forward.
— Take the Silvanus for processing, — he commanded. — Find out what other lies he has planted. Officer Orlova, you are under official review. You will be confined to your quarters until a formal inquiry can be convened. Surrender your sidearm.
Processing. A sterile word for what she knew was torture. They would break Lauri, not for information, but to validate their own prejudice. They would destroy the one person who understood the true nature of the blight. The hope she had felt at the pump-house, the grim purpose that had driven her here, all of it turned to ash in her mouth. She looked past Gerasim’s guards to where Lauri was being held in an adjacent chamber. She saw the quiet resolve in his eyes, the way his hands trembled with a tremor that was no longer a sign of weakness, but of endurance. He was facing this with a clarity she now envied.
Her hand instinctively went to the weapon at her hip, but she stopped. To draw it would be suicide. Her training, her entire life, screamed at her to comply, to trust the system. But the system was the enemy. The system was a lie.
As the guards moved to take her weapon, her eyes met Dmitri’s. He stood behind Gerasim’s elites, his face impassive, a model Regalis soldier. But for a fraction of a second, he gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. It was not a promise of rescue. It was a statement of allegiance. His loyalty was to her, not to the Justicar. Not to this perversion of Order.
The blue light of the Weft of Vigil on the wall seemed to mock her with its perfect, unfeeling geometry. The only sound was the faint hum of the station's life support, cycling air that had suddenly become too thin to breathe.
