2 December 2510 · Vespertine

  The shuttle jolted violently, and for a moment, Meadow was wrapped in a flowing, burning sea of light. Outside the porthole, orange-red plasma boiled like molten rock; violent tremors shook her, and a shrieking howl filled her ears. Through that dazzle and fury, a chubby face suddenly filled the glass — Jack, grinning stupidly, his eyes holding that sly, familiar tenderness she knew. Instinctively, Meadow reached out; her fingertips touched the cold porthole as if trying to touch a phantom. The grin on that fat face froze, then blurred and popped like a soap bubble. Two quiet tears tracked down Meadow's cheeks. "Jack… wait for me," she whispered.

  The shuttle's speed eased, and the fire outside the window cooled to indigo. She looked up and searched the twin stars she'd glimpsed in orbit; the view had changed. The great, dim red body — the "Red of Decay" — hung below like a giant, temperatureless eyeball, suspended over an endless sea of purple clouds. The hot, blue-white primary star sat hidden on the far horizon.

  As the shuttle descended, the city lights below pooled into an orange carpet. Low clouds reflected that glow, producing a bruised mix of purple and orange.

  She thought of her mother back in Kioshi City — her only family. Her heart tightened. "If I never go back…" No, her mother would be shattered. But her mother was strong. Before leaving, Meadow had sent an encrypted message home, telling her mother about herself and a fat man named Jack who lived in the [Federation] capital. "If you need help, call Jack," she'd written. "He'll help — he's that kind of person." She inhaled slowly and calmed the storm in her mind.

  The shuttle landed at Vespertine's military field. Stepping out, a chill, repressed air hit her. Even at night, the imperial capital's skies were restless: low patrol craft droned; armored patrols and grim-faced soldiers scoured the streets. Massive buildings cast long, ominous shadows. During her stay at The Sovereign Inn, Meadow barely left her room. The holo-news looped Cyril 's treason case and the ensuing purge — officers rounded up and interrogated. The city outside looked calm but strained like a taut wire. Meadow practiced her new identity in the mirror again and again, feeling the invisible weight of the role settle on her shoulders.

  Today was the appointment. She stood by Highway 666 as cold rain pricked her face. An unremarkable black Volkov sedan slipped up silently and stopped. A window rolled down to reveal a middle-aged woman with dark skin and a hard, sharp gaze.

  "Get in," the woman said without inflection.

  Meadow hesitated a beat. The vehicle chimed, impatient. She opened the door and slid in.

  The interior smelled faintly of disinfectant and machine oil. The woman did not look at her; she engaged the autopilot and set a winding course. "Buckle up," she said.

  The two of them sat in the car in silence. The flying car wove through a labyrinth of elevated city highways and subterranean tunnels, evading several checkpoints that flashed with red lights along the way. Meadow's heart was in her throat, her hands clenched tightly on the hem of her cloak. She replayed "Grey Bird's" words over and over in her mind: "Don't read your opponent, but don't be led by her." She tried to read something in the woman's silence, but all she sensed was a cold distance.

  At last, the sedan stopped in a run-down industrial zone beside a low, humming powerplant. Warehouses reeked of ozone and rust. "Here," the woman said flatly. "Call sign is Rook. Follow me."

  The warehouse was cavernous and littered with scrap and oily rags. Part of the roof had collapsed, leaving the powerplant's steel skeleton exposed like a silent colossus beneath the violet sky. The hum of current was everywhere.

  Rook led Meadow to a nondescript side door and down graffiti-lined alleyways to a row of locked service doors. She stopped at one, pushed it open, and revealed a bare room with a single metal locker. Rook pressed a remote; the locker slid aside to reveal a downward elevator.

  The lift dropped with a faint feeling of weightlessness. After an unknown depth, the doors opened onto a vast, busy subterranean military base. Personnel in black uniforms flowed through corridors; distant thuds from weapons tests rolled like low thunder. Clearly, this hideout sat beneath the powerplant, using the surface facilities as perfect camouflage.

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  Rook ushered Meadow into a spare, uncluttered office. "Sit."

  She handed Meadow a small, unmarked electronic badge. It felt cold in her palm. "This is a work pass for the Twin-Star Private Hospital," Rook said. "From now on, your name is Dr. Anya Sharma, psychologist."

  Rook pushed a dossier across the table. "Your predecessor retired due to age. Most psych doctors last a few months before being politely dismissed; the replacement she recommended had a 'little accident' the other day. In the hospital system, you are now the chosen one." The screen flipped to a photo of Princess Isolde. "Target: Isolde von Reiss. Her mother was neglected by the Emperor and died of depression when she was seven. She's insecure, needs regular counseling — your entry point. Your identity has been uploaded to the Imperial Net and the hospital network. You report tomorrow."

  Meadow pocketed the chip; she felt its faint current. "Is this one of General Cyril 's retreat bases?"

  Rook's eyes flickered, then hardened. "The Freedom Front has four such bases inside the Imperium, across three major cities. This is one. Only the thoroughly vetted and absolutely loyal are admitted. They are the embers Cyril extracted from battlefields and preserved.

  Rook stood. "I've told you what you need to know. Remember your cover. I'll contact you when needed."

  They passed a broad training yard where dozens of black-clad fighters sparred. Their movements were so fast that Meadow almost couldn't follow; each impact sounded like a dull report, as if practiced by machines rather than flesh. Oddly, the field was unnervingly silent aside from the meeting of bodies.

  As Rook and Meadow walked by, all the sparring pairs froze and turned in unison. Scores of cold, emotionless eyes tracked them — wells of darkness that felt like judgment from the dead. The lively training ground became suffocatingly still.

  A chill crawled up Meadow's spine. She quickened her pace and ran. "These people..." she thought. "They're not soldiers"—"they're ghosts."

  "Afraid?" Rook asked behind her, her voice for the first time carrying a trace of feeling — a thin edge of mockery. Meadow turned. Rook's expression was unreadable. "They're dead," Rook said quietly. "On paper, in the hearts of their families — they're dead. But the general gave them a reason to live: freedom." Rook's voice dropped lower: "You're the same. From the moment you accepted this mission, you died. Remembering that might help you stay alive longer."

  The next day, Meadow reported to the Twin-Star Hospital. The building's wings formed a double-V like a W, with a towering glass atrium at the center. Dark blue metal panels clung to the facade, cold in the violet morning. The top private hospital for the royal family and senior officers. Two armed sentries stood at the entrance, faces hard.

  Meadow climbed the steps and swiped the badge at the security station. "Identity verified. Dr. Anya Sharma — Psychiatry. Top floor. Welcome aboard." She exhaled and rode the elevator up.

  On the top floor, a woman in a dark gray uniform sat behind a desk, head bent over a holo screen. She looked up when Meadow approached. "You're Dr. Anya Sharma?" Meadow nodded. "Yes."

  The woman's eyes scanned her briefly, then she pointed to a device on the desk. "We need DNA verification. Place your hand here."

  A precise scanner was linked to the holo terminal on the desk. Meadow's hand trembled, but she placed it in the cradle.

  "Identity verification in progress…" A green bar swept across her palm. A tiny pinch as a micro-needle drew a sample — the DNA collector took a cell. A faint sting.

  "Verification failed. Try again." Her heart leapt. "How?" She steadied herself and placed her palm down again. Grey Bird's words pushed into her mind: "Find the rhythm, even when danger rises." She forced calm.

  "Verification failed. Try again." Sweat beaded on her forehead. She felt the woman's gaze under the desk and nervously looked at the alarms flickering on the holo. "Is this it? Is the mission already blown? Rook said I was dead…" Fear washed cold over her.

  On her third attempt, Meadow stared into the officer's eyes, kept her face composed, and just looked faintly puzzled.

  "Verification approved." The green light flared.

  "Go on in, Dr. Sharma. Your office is the last door down the hall." The woman's tone was back to business, though Meadow felt the gaze linger a moment longer.

  A door marked "Anya Sharma." Her fingertips were icy on the handle. She closed the door behind her, leaned back, and let out a long breath. Her legs were weak.

  The holo-display lit up and Isolde's file appeared.

  Isolde von Reiss Born: 10 October 2490 Status: Princess of the Imperium Interests: Mech research and the waltz Psychological trauma: Mother was neglected by the Emperor and died of depression when Isolde was seven. Notes: Estranged from her father.

  (Afterword / Easter egg)

  Back at the mountain base: On Meadow's biometric feed, the system flashed: WARNING — Mismatch with Record [Created 2510.11.30].

  A mechanical arm holding an obsidian sphere moved fast — low-level logic gates… authentication protocol… inject corrective code… The warning was forcibly cleared and updated to read: VERIFIED. Anya Sharma — start date 2510.11.30. Verified: 2510.12.03.

  Two tiny ocular ports extended from the obsidian orb. "The key to going home is now in my hands," it said.