Chapter 12

  The rescue ship, commanded by Captain Manuel, and Ragnar’s vessel race toward the hellish star like two arrows shot in madness. The sun pulses, and it seems they are falling directly into the fiery maw.

  A shrill alarm sounds—a metallic shriek, like the cry of the machine itself. The ship's defense systems are suffocating from the overload. Disturbances appear, and over the intercom, a voice quivers, almost desperate:

  — Captain Ragnar, if we don’t stop the chase, we’ll burn up! The systems are at their limit!

  Ragnar, feeling the hot surge of fury, slams his fist into the armrest. The same force that drives his will activates the tactile display, and it emits another alarm. His face turns crimson from rage and despair.

  — Damn it! — he growls, his fists clenched. — We’ve lost them… End the chase! Course—back to base!

  On the rescue ship, calm reigns. The upgraded hull acts as a shield, efficiently absorbing the destructive radiation of the sun’s flames. Pietro’s eyes gleam on the navigation screen, watching the pursuers pull away.

  — We’re pulling ahead! — he shouts, raising his hands in the air like a victor in the arena.

  — Captain, they’re turning! We made it!

  Manuel doesn’t rush to reply, his gaze fixed on the glowing, infernal disk ahead. He understands: salvation was merely a matter of time. His entire life, where outcomes were often decided at the last possible moment, has led to this inevitable moment.

  — Good, — he replies quietly, his voice like the warmth of black water. — Changing course. Heading home. Before we burn to an atom cloud.

  His words don’t sound like relief, but like a deep, restrained realization of the danger they’ve survived. They’re not saved. They’ve just made it out of the jaws of this battle’s most terrifying teeth.

  Base on Mercury

  The Inquisitors return to Mercury, bearing defeat. Ragnar’s ship, covered in the marks of overheating, slowly descends onto the landing platform by the main building of the corporation. It looks like a monster, battered and torn, yet still alive.

  Ragnar strides toward the central entrance, accompanied by a silent assistant. His gait reveals irritation, but his face remains stone-cold. He moves with precise, minimal motions, but there’s an underlying tension, like a lion poised to leap. The corridors greet them with the hum of ventilation and the chill of marble walls, seemingly endless and lifeless. They pass the almost invisible guards and stop at the reception.

  The secretary, Ivor’s assistant, with perfect hair and a face carved from wax, silently opens the door to the hall. Inside, they are met by a spectacle worthy of overshadowing any theater scene: virtual ocean waves, alive, crash against the walls and rise into the air, threatening to overwhelm, but Ragnar doesn’t flinch. He’s seen real hells, and more than once.

  Behind a massive desk, seated in a chair that resembles a throne, sits Ivor. His silhouette stands out against the backdrop of the raging ocean, like a majestic ruler unconcerned with the outside world. Behind him, a statue of the ancient Greek god Zeus, symbolizing his ancient, ruthless power. Ivor rises, his smile spreading like always—manipulative and confident.

  — Who do I see! — his voice carries a note of feigned enthusiasm. — Captain Ragnar in the flesh. Good to see you, my friend. Please, take a seat.

  — Likewise, — Ragnar replies curtly, sitting down opposite. His companion remains standing, straight as a rod, knowing his place.

  Ivor wastes no time. His eyes gleam with fiery light.

  — I hope you bring good news? Did you complete the mission?

  Ragnar pauses, his fingers locking together tightly, his gaze fixed on Ivor.

  — We arrived at the station. The capture went smoothly—there was almost no security. But the crew, led by the captain, managed to hide in a sealed section. We offered them a deal:

  they hand over all the ergon and live. In the future, they work for the corporation.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Ivor narrows his eyes, hanging on to every word.

  — Their response?

  — They detonated a thermo-grenade. Every single one of them. Ash.

  Ivor falls silent for a moment, processing the information. He doesn’t believe his ears, but his face remains impassive.

  — Are you sure?

  — Believe me, after such an explosion, there’s nothing left but memories. We didn’t waste time opening up. Everything on the station is now in space.

  Ivor closes his eyes again, his fingers slowly tracing the surface of the desk, as though he’s processing each moment. Even in this silence, his presence is felt like heavy, unbearable pressure.

  — What about the ergon?

  — Gone. The entire storage is empty. The station is cleaned out to the last bolt. They jettisoned the container into open space. Where it’s hidden, in the vacuum.

  Ivor remains silent again, but his gaze sharpens even further. He feels a storm approaching. But he already knows that things won’t be so simple.

  — Well then, — his voice sounds calmer than ever. — That means you’ll have to find the container. Got it, Captain?

  Ragnar doesn’t respond. His gaze speaks louder than words. This isn’t just a failure. This is a threat to everyone aboard.

  Ivor sits back in his chair, fingers interlaced in front of him. His gaze drifts into the emptiness. He understands the ergon is gone. The ocean behind him continues to rage, but in this world of virtual storms and illusions, it feels empty.

  — This… was a simple task. We bought their debts. You were just supposed to take the resource, break their will, and put them to work for the corporation. Instead, a suicide mission, a ghost station, and no ergon. The station is now cursed—no investor will touch it. And the debts… just paper. Do you even realize, Ragnar, what foolishness you’ve done?

  Ragnar sits before Ivor, his fists clenched, muscles taut, his face immovable. He doesn’t give up, doesn’t show weakness, but with every word from Ivor, the pressure on him builds.

  — Cool down, Ivor, — he snaps, barely keeping his calm. — I don’t make deals just with you.

  Ivor stares at him closely, his gaze like a needle—sharp, penetrating, leaving no room for doubt. Then, tilting his head slightly, he smiles with the corners of his lips.

  — Fine, — he says, as if agreeing, but with sarcasm in his voice. — At least you returned empty-handed?

  — Yes, — Ragnar exhales, his voice tinged with fatigue, like someone who has just survived a battle. — We didn’t stray far. We masked ourselves. Soon, a rescue ship arrived at the station. They didn’t save anyone—dead men can’t be revived. But… they found the ergon. We saw it. They hauled the container aboard. I’m sure they had coordinates. We tried to intercept, cornered them… but those idiots shot straight for the Sun. It was a desperate gamble. We went after them, but the overheating started melting the hull. We had to retreat.

  Ivor sighs quietly, his shoulders slightly slumping as if he’s processing what he’s hearing. His gaze slides over Ragnar, as though trying to determine what in this story is truth and what is an excuse.

  — Everyone’s an idiot… except for you, of course. Only you— the hero. Quite a story, Ragnar. Truly an epic. But there’s one problem. You missed the ergon, and then tried to take it from the one who found the treasure, — his voice lowers, becoming dark and ominous. — That’s a breach of corporation rules. Someone’s going to pay for this.

  Ragnar barely has time to comprehend what’s happening when Ivor suddenly pulls out a personal impulse gun from his belt. His fingers tighten, and in the next moment, a bright flash bursts from the weapon. The inquisitor standing next to Ragnar doesn’t even have time to scream—his body disintegrates in an instant, leaving only a handful of gray ash, which slowly settles onto the meticulously cleaned floor.

  Ragnar doesn’t move. His face reddens, his jaw clenches in fury and shock. He jumps up but immediately collects himself, holding back the storm of emotions like a seasoned soldier. Only his gaze betrays his internal tension.

  Ivor watches him, unblinking, with a near-indifferent expression.

  — Was I clear enough? — his voice is almost a whisper, but with such coldness that it pierces the soul. — Do you understand that the corporation doesn’t forgive losses and rule violations?

  Ragnar forces out a single word:

  — Yes, boss…

  And only then does he realize he’s addressed him like that—for the first time, with an undertone of subordination.

  Ivor nods, without noticing the pause, and puts the weapon back into the holster at his belt.

  — You’re free to go. — He says it as if dismissing an underling from a minor task. — Next time—come back with results.

  Ragnar stands up, turns, and heads for the exit. His steps are loud, like the final chord in this heavy symphony.

  — Wait.

  He turns around, his gaze firm, but without fear.

  — Tell the secretary to clean this up. — Ivor gestures carelessly toward the ash, as though it’s just trash. — I have too nice a floor for it to be ruined by dead men.

  Ragnar stands still for a moment longer, his gaze piercing, then turns without a word and exits the hall. The door closes behind him, and in the space, only silence remains, deep and ominous.