Earth's orbit. Admiral Socrates' flagship.
The cruiser hangs in the void like a frozen verdict.
Titan and logic.
A monolith on the border of night—
where darkness does not end, but begins.
Space slides along its hull
like liquid velvet,
cold, soundless.
Beyond the viewports — the stars,
indifferent as the eyes of a burnt-out god.
---
Inside the command deck —
the opposite.
Emotions swirl like a storm.
Unseen, but felt against the skin.
The pulse of indicator lights
smears across faces,
now in toxic green,
now in ominous red.
Every breath — like the click of a loaded bolt.
Every thought — at the edge of morality.
---
In the center stands the scientist.
A grey coat fastened to the chin.
A face hidden behind a thin mask.
In his hands — a container.
He holds it the way one might hold
a holy relic.
Or a curse.
What am I carrying?
Salvation?
Or the end of all we still dare to believe in?
---
"It is a weapon," he says.
His voice trembles — not from fear,
but from the weight of knowing.
"A message from Tonsil.
The adepts of Kairus delivered it to us…
as a key. To destroy Hanaris."
---
He lifts his eyes.
Socrates — like a judge.
Only the eyes are alive.
Dark. Penetrating.
As if they see not only through him,
but beyond what is possible.
---
"Inside — nanoparticles.
Originally Martian.
Now…" — a pause, a breath —
"now rewritten.
Their function is the suppression of faith.
They penetrate neuro-architecture
and extinguish the sacred.
No gods. No hope. No pain.
Just… emptiness.
And you will not even know
what it is you are missing."
---
Socrates smiles faintly.
Quiet. Almost reverent.
"Perfect," he murmurs, taking the container.
"Even… elegant."
---
He steps to the table.
On the holoscreen — a capsule model flickers.
His fingers enter commands,
steady and precise.
Like a surgeon
cutting away belief.
---
"The plan is simple.
We use a carrier.
Small. Harmless.
An artificial kitten."
He glances at the scientist,
eyes almost tender.
"Let us call him… Sweetling.
He will enter their zone
as a stray,
a fragment of a lost platform.
A victim.
They will not pass it by.
They will take it in, care for it…
and carry the poison straight to the enemy's heart."
---
The scientist nods and steps away.
Beyond the glass — the kitten waits.
Small. Fluffy.
Eyes full of trust.
He stretches toward the glass,
blinks,
arches his back in a lazy stretch.
He does not know that in his chest
beats a programmable death.
---
"Beginning injection,"
the scientist whispers.
A click.
The container locks to the port.
Something stirs inside.
"Particles embedded.
Biosphere stable.
Behavior module — nominal.
No deviations detected."
The kitten sneezes.
Pauses.
Then begins chasing its tail again.
"All done," the scientist straightens.
"He never even noticed.
And neither will they.
Until it is too late."
---
"Excellent," Socrates says without looking away.
"Release it."
The airlock opens
with a short hiss.
The capsule trembles at launch
as if it knows the cargo inside
is more than just cargo.
Then — launch.
No flame. No roar.
Just a shadow slipping into the depths of the stars.
Only a fading impulse remains —
like the trace of betrayal.
---
"Signal steady," the operator reports.
Fingers glide over the panel,
eyes fixed on the numbers.
"Trajectory nominal. No deviation."
"Think they will take it?"
a technician mutters.
"Bet a hundred they will,"
another snorts, pulling out thin plates of currency.
"Fanatics are soft-hearted."
"Deal." The first grins,
digging in his pockets.
"Let us see just how much."
---
A minute.
Five.
The capsule drifts away —
like a forgotten toy
thrown into eternity.
Silence.
Not the working kind.
The praying kind.
Let someone bite…
and let them be weaker than us.
---
"Told you—" the operator starts,
but freezes.
A flash of signal.
"Gone!" the second shouts, springing up.
"There! Told you! They picked it up!"
"Damn," mutters the loser, leaning in.
"Coordinates?"
"Right by the beacon. Sector 8-22.
Someone intercepted."
The winner laughs, tapping his stake.
"Do not forget the rest," he says softly.
"Do not get stingy."
The loser grumbles,
laying down the last of his tokens.
But his eyes stay fixed
on the point where the signal vanished.
"Let us see," he murmurs,
"who laughs… when the infection begins."
---
The compartment stills.
Silence returns.
Cold. Almost ceremonial.
Somewhere out there —
between worlds,
between gods,
between faith and its death —
a small capsule drifts.
Inside — a creature.
Sweetling.
And in its soft chest —
a weapon hidden in affection.
A new phase of war begins.
A war where faith shatters like glass.
And technology learns to whisper…
in the language of gods.