Earth Orbit. Flagship Cruiser.
The metallic corridors tremble with the muffled jolts of the engines,
as if the ship isn't just flying—
but wrestling with space itself, reclaiming every inch of reality.
Holographic displays pulse with an anxious amber glow:
vectors, trajectories, debris—
everything moves in erratic, dangerous arcs,
as though the universe has lost its order.
The air carries a scent of ozone and burning.
Faint, but persistent.
Like the aftermath of a strike.
Like the ghost of a recent shock
the station has yet to recover from.
**
A docking signal.
The airlock stills.
Its doors part with a prolonged hiss,
welcoming the rescue pod.
Charred. Blackened.
As if it had passed through fire.
The metal—cracked like ancient armor,
yet inside—movement.
**
Technicians and medics swarm the pod like bees to a hive.
Screeches. Clicks. A flash of emergency light.
The hatch slides open, slowly, like in a nightmare.
And from within,
leaning on the edges,
he rises.
Gray-haired. Exhausted.
His face—streaked with soot and dried blood.
His eyes—heavy as lead,
but burning with something alive, unbroken.
Admiral Socrates.
He straightens,
as if his body remembers war better than his mind.
He scans those around him—
counts. Without numbers.
Just noting the living. And the dead.
"Report."
His voice is rough,
as if scraped from the ashes.
Too alive for a machine.
Too cold for a man.
A young officer steps forward.
His face—parchment stretched between duty and fear.
"All the capsules we found are aboard, sir. We're... verifying the list of the missing, but..."
He stumbles over the words.
They stick.
Like bones in a throat.
Socrates takes a step.
Slow. But inside it—
a fury coiled into muscle.
"What about the Platform?" he barks. "What the hell happened?!"
The officer pales.
He stares at the floor.
As if salvation lies in the dark beneath his feet.
"We have the data... The defensive field was manually deactivated. From inside."
"By who?!"
Socrates' voice is pure rage.
"Camilla, sir."
Time freezes.
The name cuts through the silence.
The admiral's face doesn't change.
But in his eyes—a flicker. A fracture. A premonition of collapse.
"She bypassed all protocols. Breached the core. Disabled the shields.
Then—an instant strike. The enemy responded almost immediately.
As if they were waiting."
"Their ships were cloaked. Perfectly. We..."
"We were betrayed."
Socrates clenches his fists.
Skin cracking,
knuckles whitening,
blood seeping through the fissures.
"Where is Camilla?.. Is she in custody?.. Where is she?! I'll interrogate her myself—"
He nearly breaks.
In his voice—no control, only a burning question without answer.
"Sir... She's not among the survivors.
Presumed... dead."
"Dead?"
Socrates grits his teeth.
"She's not the type to die first.
She ran.
She hid."
"Where's Ivor?"
"His pod hasn't been found, sir. He's listed among the missing."
Silence.
Dead.
Dense.
Like vacuum.
The ship seems to hold its breath.
Everything waits
for the man named Socrates
to accept the betrayal.
He steps closer.
Looks the officer in the eyes.
In those eyes—
not anger. Not pain.
But something ungraspable. Bottomless.
"I don't understand..."
"They were with us.
They believed in Kairus.
They died for him.
In whose name did they choose to betray us?"
"We don't know, sir...
We have no answers."
Socrates stares through the walls.
As if trying to cut through reality,
to find the sky—
or its reflection in ashes.
When he raises his head again—
his face is no longer a face.
A mask of frozen rage.
"Find them,"
he says.
Cold. Even.
Like a verdict.
"Alive or dead.
Find them.
And bring them to me."
"I will extract the truth.
Even if I have to tear it from their memory."
"Yes, Admiral!"
The officer salutes
and leaves.
Quickly.
Almost running.
Socrates remains alone.
He slowly walks to the viewport.
Beyond the glass—darkness.
The night side of Earth.
No lights. No stars.
Out there—
in the cold depths—
something hides.
An answer?
A lie?
Dust?
He doesn't know.
But he will.
And when that day comes—
the sky will burn again.
Not with stars.
With vengeance.