The "Skiff". Command Deck.
The black abyss behind the panoramic viewports crouches like a soldier before a charge.
The stars—rare, cold, alien.
Inside, a viscous silence stretches until it rings in the ears.
The air is heavy, like after an explosion that hasn't happened yet.
The scent of machine oil... and something ominous.
As if the ship itself senses:
something is wrong.
Pietro sits at the console,
rhythmically tapping his fingers against the panel.
Not from boredom. From pressure.
As if he's holding reality together with sheer will.
No one speaks. Everyone waits.
And in that silence—more threat than in any alarm.
**
Vikhar rises from his chair.
Slowly. As if it takes effort.
He steps toward the holographic table.
His face—ashen-gray.
Like a battlefield where there are no enemies left. No allies either.
He says nothing. Several seconds pass. As if he's waiting for himself.
When his voice finally comes—
hoarse, fractured, tasting of sleepless nights—
it slices the silence like glass beneath a cutter.
"The first thing I want to know\..."
His gaze slides across every face like a targeting laser.
"...how did Martian saboteurs breach the airlocks—
while we didn't even get close?"
**
The panels hum. An electric impulse slithers like a snake through nerves.
Someone inhales too sharply.
Someone looks away.
Captain Manuel finally lifts his eyes from the terminal.
He leans forward.
Hands clasped like a man praying before execution.
But his voice—dry. Steady.
Sharp, like the edge of a blade:
"I believe there are several reasons.
These weren't ordinary crafts.
Small interceptors—maneuverable, slippery as eels.
They entered through the dead zone.
Disappeared inside the radio static.
When the sabotage began, the alert system went down—
as if everything had been timed to the second."
He pauses. As if exhaling a truth that arrived too late.
"And we? We charged straight in.
They were waiting for us."
**
Vikhar shakes his head. Slowly.
As if trying to rattle the irritation out of his own skull.
His fingers clench into a fist—knuckles whitening.
"Convincing. Almost too convincing.
Too bad we realized it after.
After we lost the ship. Lost comrades.
Lost..."
His voice tightens.
"...faith that the Platform could be broken."
He steps away from the table.
Walks along the wall.
Casts a glance at the tactical screen:
red sectors blink like wounds on the body of strategy.
"What now?"
His voice is dull, like it's echoing from underground.
"Suggestions. We can't go in blind anymore."
A heavy silence settles.
Deaf. Hopeless.
Then—Maria's voice.
Clear. Sharp. Like crystal on the edge of an abyss:
"I might have an idea.
We need to ask Alex and Yulia.
Through the worlds of the god Kyros, they can connect with the survivors on the Platform.
With Ivor.
According to our intel, he's no longer under Kyros' control.
Maybe resistance is already forming there.
Or... a plan."
**
Several seconds—silence on the edge of a detonation.
Then—a short, bitter snort.
"Interesting how the pieces keep shifting,"
Pietro says, with venom and exhaustion.
Like an android tired of his own disillusionment.
"Those two sabotaged the *Aspid*.
A third of our team died because of them.
Tala. Jamal.
Now we're supposed to trust them?"
His words land like a fist on a coffin lid.
They hang in the air. Too long. Far too long.
**
Vikhar doesn't blink. He watches Pietro.
Long. Without judgment. Without forgiveness.
Then finally speaks:
"You're right, Pietro.
Every word is true.
But remember—just yesterday, Earth was our ally.
We shared tech, supplies, ergonomics.
And today? We're calculating how to break them."
He walks up to Maria.
Looks her straight in the eyes.
No threat. No euphemisms. Just choice.
"As for your suggestion..."
A pause, like the words need tasting first.
"Yes. We need to try.
If there's even one ally left on that platform—
we don't have the right to waste that chance. Not even a fleeting one."
He turns to the tactical map.
The station is there.
Surrounded by enemy presence.
Like an island already caught in the tide.
"Do it, Maria.
Time's short. And our options—shorter."
Silence returns to the command deck.
But this time—it's different.
Taut.
Focused.
Like a bowstring before release.
And somewhere, deep in the command's collective mind,
a new impulse is born:
Never surrender. Not now. Not ever.