Earth orbit.
Space remains still — as befits eternity. But in its cold shadow, beneath the shield of the blue planet, colossal shipyards pulse with life, like the heart of some ancient titan.
They resemble the belly of a celestial beast where war cruisers of the new world are being born — twenty-two steel colossi. Each one a crown of will, forged from command, sweat, and fear.
Gravitational rings hum on every deck. Shield domes shiver. Energy whips flare, stitching bulkheads together. Slow, massive engines stir to life before the eyes.
On the flagship's bridge stands Admiral Socrates — former head of Earth's Council. His figure remains motionless, as if carved from black meteorite. His gaze stretches into infinity.
But his thoughts lie where intuition meets threat.
Before him hovers a holographic window, clear as emptiness.
Beyond it — darkness, stars, and the fading glow of the damaged Platform.
"Something's wrong. Too precise. Too coordinated. This isn't an error. This is a move."
He doesn't trust the reports. That's why he came himself.
Ivor and Camilla step into the hall — and the air seems to solidify around them.
Artificial dusk rules here, torn by blue projections and the soft hum of analytical systems.
Everything serves one purpose: control.
Socrates doesn't turn.
He gives them time — to grasp where they are.
And who stands before them.
At last, his voice.
Low, steady, with a faint metallic undertone:
"Glad to see you."
Not a trace of joy.
"You, Ivor, have been appointed chief engineer of the Platform. You, Camilla — responsible for the launch. And Nicholas? Where is he?"
A pause.
Silence — taut, uneasy.
"He heads security. And the malfunction…" Socrates steps into the light.
"…happened on his watch. And now he's gone. Vanished. Accident? Or convenience?"
Camilla slowly lifts her gaze.
"We don't know where he is," she replies. Her voice is calm. Almost too calm.
"You don't know," Socrates repeats, his eyes unblinking.
"You two are his closest allies. And you don't know where he is. Curious. Suspicious. Convenient."
Ivor tenses. His fingers clench into a fist. His jaw tightens, but his voice is steel:
"We're looking for him ourselves. Nicholas isn't the type to disappear. He's after something. Maybe the truth."
Socrates moves closer. Only two steps between them now.
"Motives? Fine. Then tell me: why did the overload happen?"
"Peak output…" Ivor begins, but his voice cracks, like a fuse blowing.
He inhales — deep, cold, like pressurized oxygen.
"It nearly doubled the calculated threshold. We failed to account for resonance in the secondary core. It amplified the field. Accelerated the impulse."
"It was a wave," Camilla adds.
Her voice steadier, but her hands tremble. Fingers twitch slightly.
"The conduits started melting. I… I shut it down manually. Myself. Without clearance. Without a team.
Otherwise, it would've all burned."
Socrates says nothing.
He watches. Studies. Scans.
His gaze like a medical laser: cuts without blood.
"You saved the Platform," he says, unexpectedly soft.
"Camilla, you showed courage. The Order of Kyros thanks you."
She nods. Wordlessly.
No pride in her face. No relief. Only control.
"But Nicholas…" The admiral's voice hardens again.
"He vanished right after the incident. No trace.
This doesn't feel like an accident. This is grounds for investigation."
He steps back. Straightens his frame.
His tone now bears the weight of judgment:
"You're both under observation. Not arrested. But not free.
Investigators are already working.
And so is the law."
Silence.
Deep as vacuum.
The hall seems to contract. Lights flicker.
Holograms pulse.
And breath — catches in every chest.
Then — another blow. Words like a blade:
"But that's not the main concern."
"The enemy is advancing. From two directions.
Intelligence confirms mobilization.
We can't wait.
The Platform must be restored. Immediately."
"It is our shield. Our sword.
Without it — Earth will fall."
Ivor meets his gaze.
Cold. Unyielding.
"He's right. If I screw up — everything collapses. Even what we don't yet understand."
"I'll fix it," he says. Flatly.
Controlled.
"We'll make it in time," Camilla adds. Her voice cracks into resolve.
"I promise."
Socrates nods.
"Good. Earth counts on you.
And Kyros… watches."
He turns. Walks away.
Unhurried.
His shadow dissolves into the shimmer of holograms.
---
They remain alone.
Surrounded by screens, layers of projections, gleaming lines of control.
But it all becomes one room. One interrogation. One countdown.
"They don't believe us. But for now — they give us a chance."
"Then we must do more than fix it. We must win."
The air — thick as resin.
And yet, in their eyes — a spark.
They can still do this.
The Platform must awaken.
To let in those who come with Hanaris.
Before the real war begins.