Ship "Skiff." Bridge.
Holographic screens are engulfed in flames of chaos.
The burning cosmos trembles from the aftershock.
Sparks. Debris. Shreds of smoke dancing in the vacuum like snowflakes in an airless storm.
Metal rods spin, scatter, die, vanishing into the abyss.
And among it all — capsules.
Tiny, flickering points of life.
Fragile. Alive.
"The Platform is destroyed," Manuel says hoarsely.
He leans back into his chair.
His shoulders sink, as if a weight carried for years has finally fallen away.
But his face shows no triumph, no relief.
Only exhaustion.
And the faintest tremor in his voice:
"We did it..."
The words ring hollow, almost absurd —
set against the screen where Earth and flame gaze at each other through the shards of a shattered world.
Joy gets stuck in the throat. Even searching for it feels like blasphemy.
Vikhar doesn't smile.
He stands with arms crossed behind his back,
as if restraining himself —
not to snap, not to reveal weakness, not to let despair spill out.
He stares at the projection —
at space burning like a lamp above a wound still left unstitched.
"This isn't the end. It's not even the climax. It's just the entry fee..."
"What are our losses?" he asks.
His voice is almost steady. Almost.
But beneath it — silent fear. Hidden. Frozen.
As if he already knows the answer.
And doesn't want to hear it.
Pietro turns his head.
His voice is rasping, like he spent the night shouting through a storm:
"Eight ships."
Silence.
"Earth's cruisers traced our trail and struck clean. We're down to twelve."
He doesn't blink. Eyes fixed on the data stream.
"We're lucky to still be alive."
Vikhar slowly lowers his gaze.
His fist clenches.
"Casualties. Too many. Each one — someone's name. Someone's voice that won't be heard again."
"The surviving androids must be saved," he says. "All of them. Every last one."
The fires on the screen flicker across his face.
They dance like reflections from a dying world.
Right now, he isn't a general.
Not a chairman.
He is a brother.
To those drifting in the frozen dark,
half-alive, half-forgotten.
"Mr. Chairman," Maria says gently.
Her voice is calm, but her fingers move across the interface
like prayer beads. Almost blindly. Almost devoutly.
"We won't leave anyone. All ships are active.
We're scanning. Retrieving capsules. Even those outside signal range. We're searching."
Vikhar says nothing.
"Where are you, Camilla? Where are you, Ivor? Are you still alive, or already dissolved into vacuum?"
He fears to speak,
as if sound might shatter the delicate shell of hope,
still faintly warm.
"What about Ivor and Camilla?" he finally asks.
But the voice isn't a commander's. Not an order.
It's the voice of an android.
Almost a whisper.
Laced with aching, painful hope.
Fragile. Final.
Maria hesitates. For just a moment.
Then lowers her eyes.
"No information yet."
He nods. Slowly. As if convincing himself:
"Then there's still hope."
The words aren't a command.
More like a spell keeping him alive.
He straightens:
"Gather everyone you can.
And as soon as we're done — we leave. Immediately. Before the enemy regroups."
And in that very moment,
as if the universe itself replies,
Pietro's voice cuts in. Sharp. Cracked:
"The spheres... they've started firing."
The bridge freezes.
Even the holograms dim.
The air thickens — like before a storm on a breathless plain.
Maria is the first to break the silence.
But there is no fear in her voice.
Only awe.
And something close to faith:
"Good. The second sphere — it's him.
Hanaris's envoy.
He's come. That means he's on our side."
Manuel rises slowly.
His face — puzzled. Eyes locked on the panorama.
There, beyond the transparent dome,
two points of light intertwine in a silent duel.
The cosmos breathes through their battle.
"Now the forces are balanced," he says quietly.
He doesn't smile.
He doesn't hope.
He states.
Like a doctor declaring a clinical stage
that might still not be fatal:
"Maybe... we really do have a chance.
A chance to win this strange, unearthly war."
Pietro lets out a dry, broken chuckle.
Short. Bitter.
His voice carries scorched irony:
"Just need to figure out how the hell to actually do it."
And in that moment — a flash.
Light floods the screens.
The two spheres collide.
A spark. An impulse. A blinding second.
No sound. No explanation.
And again — silence.
As if time itself holds its breath.
They gaze into the void.
And the void — answers.