CHAPTER 21

  MERCURY. SECTOR 9. VOICES OF WAR.

  The information channels are filled with panic.

  Hundreds of news agencies, thousands of live feeds, millions of viewers glued to their screens — holograms, streaming windows, airborne panels — all consumed by one story:

  — A Martian diplomat has been assassinated.

  — Mars declares war on Mercury.

  — The first Martian fleets are leaving the docks.

  Mercury’s streets hum with unrest. Panic turns to fury. Fighters of the Inner Belt — former fugitives, anarchists, thinkers, and soldiers — feel the invisible hand of history tighten around their throats again. Every step is a harbinger of storms, every glance a lightning bolt in their darkened sky. But in this chaos, as always, there are those who see opportunity. Including those ready to answer the new challenge Mars has thrown.

  SPACE. IN ORBIT AROUND MERCURY.

  Darkness. Blinding, thick as tar. On the planet’s shadowed side, even the Sun is just a faint gleam on the black hulls. Space here is where time and distance warp, where danger hides. In this vastness, the lines between life and death blur — between reality and nightmare.

  A shuttle emerges from a dock. It has no insignias, jet-black like a coffin. Its shape isn’t sleek like a transport, but angular, with active landing gear and shields. It’s a combat craft disguised as a shadow drone. Black as the void, it moves toward a place where no one should be.

  Inside are two passengers. In the cabin, one can hear how the stars are silent.

  Vikar, leader of the Mercurian Corporate Coalition, tall, broad-shouldered, carries a heavy gaze. His features are sharp, and even in the dark, his burden is palpable.

  Beside him is Ivor, smuggler, diplomat, assassin — a secret leader of the Inquisitor syndicate. He has a strange charisma: the smirk of a gambler, the eyes of a mercenary, the stride of a survivor who outlasted those lost to dust. He’s not just alive — he’s the one who thrives in chaos.

  “They’ve done it,” Vikar says sharply, staring at the Sun blazing in the distance. “Started it. Openly. No ceremony. Seems they don’t realize they’re playing with fire.”

  Ivor, unfazed by glowing displays or the shuttle’s soft hum, grins.

  “They’ve always been predictable in their stupidity,” he replies, scratching his stubble. “They think a first strike wins wars. That’s last-century thinking.”

  He smiles, but then his gaze sharpens like a predator's.

  “But they haven’t seen what we’ve prepared. Haven’t seen us. That’ll be their mistake.”

  Ahead, through the holographic windshield, a shadow forms — the massive orbital station Aspida, hidden in the planet’s dark side. Its silhouette is jagged like beastly fangs, blending into space as if it's a part of the void swallowing light.

  This is no place for the weak. In this realm, only those who impose their will survive.

  “Welcome,” Vikar says, his gaze locked, something ominous flickering in his eyes. Time shifts its rhythm, and this place in orbit becomes the epicenter of the coming war.

  AIRLOCK. STATION ASPIDA.

  The hangar groans open, like the station itself waking from long sleep. Gravitational seals hiss, releasing the atmosphere with thunderous force. Red lights flash, activating landing markers. Inside — near-total darkness, interrupted only by the flicker of repair drones circling like clumsy insects in search of faults.

  Vikar and Ivor step out. Their silhouettes stand sharp against the station’s deep shadows, each step echoing in this cold silence. The titanium plates ring under their boots, but neither slows.

  They are met by General Jamal Arid, commander of the Belt system, a man whose reputation among androids and humans is already legendary. In armor without insignia, he stands like a mountain, his eyes cold but full of an unknown certainty that adds weight to his figure.

  “Chairman,” a short nod. “All systems are operational. We’re at full combat readiness. Test shot in eight minutes.”

  Vikar doesn’t move, his gaze fixed on Jamal, as if trying to pierce through him and see whether his words match the truth.

  “Lead the way,” Vikar commands curtly.

  COMMAND CENTER. HOLOGRAPHIC OPERATIONS HALL.

  They enter the heart of the station. This is more than a control room — it’s a system’s core. Data streams pulse through the air, vibrating like breath. The station is alive, sensing each word and choice.

  Around them: holographic panels, spinning 3D maps, stellar projections — stretching and collapsing like galaxies in miniature. On the central panel: the solar system. Every fleet ship is a point of light moving along a trajectory. This command center isn’t just data — it’s war visualized, where every move is priceless.

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  They are joined by two junior officers: android analyst Lia and engineer Sho. Both have neuro-implants allowing direct station interface. Their gestures blend with the tech — they’re part of the system, minds finely tuned to critical choices.

  “Target: fortified asteroid, Sector 34-B,” Lia says. Her voice is calm, but readiness hides behind it. “Shielded by drones with battle shields. Density — 96%.”

  Vikar doesn’t take his eyes off the rotating model. He seems to sink into its cold outlines, studying every angle.

  “Good,” he says. “Show me what you’ve got.”

  The operator activates a gravity projector. Space flares in the center of the hall. The target appears — volumetric, realistic, as if hanging in the void before them. This is no simulation. This is the object they must destroy.

  “Charge the weapon,” General Jamal orders. His voice is deep and sharp, like a hammer strike.

  At the far end of the station, an energy collector begins to charge. From its core bursts a dazzling stream — concentrated ergon, a new kind of crystalline fuel. Its brightness scorches the air. The beam intensifies until space itself holds its breath.

  “Firing in 3… 2… 1…”

  And — the shot. Not sound, but a strike on reality itself. Space folds, and the beam lashes through the void like a tear in time. On the hologram — an explosion. The asteroid’s core evaporates instantly. Shards are swallowed by the pulse. The drones’ shields collapse like ash.

  Silence. Just the whisper of terminals. This entire cosmos, all this power, now hangs heavy in the air, wordless.

  Then — applause. Restrained but tense, as if no one fully comprehends the strike’s power.

  “We have a chance,” Ivor says, turning to Vikar, his voice filled with reverence and awe.

  “We have will,” Vikar replies. His voice is so firm it seems to rebound from the walls. “A chance is redundant.”

  ADDRESS HALL. HOLOGRAPHIC TRIBUNE.

  The room glows in soft bluish light. Holographic images of androids — Mercury’s citizens, sector leaders, activists, veterans, engineers — float in space like living statues. Their eyes, like lenses, fixate on one figure: the one who must speak. On Vikar.

  Before the tribune — Vikar’s holographic projection. He seems to emerge from the planet’s shadow. His face is stern, his eyes burn. His figure is broadcast to the ten largest agglomerations, entering every home, every corner of Mercury.

  “Free citizens of Mercury,” his voice booms — low, heavy like a hammer striking metal. “Today we don’t just hear the drums of war. Today, we see Mars trying to drag us back into chains. They believe they can break us.”

  His words tighten reality itself. His voice carries not just awareness of the threat, but the gravity of destiny they must embrace.

  “We ran from them. We built a life here. We believed freedom was possible. And that we would not be slaves — because we chose to be free.”

  He pauses. Everyone holds their breath. Holographic cameras capture his face in close-up. His eyes are as dark as space, but in them burns not exhaustion — but fury hot enough to melt stone.

  “And now? They send fleets. Drones. Killers. Blades to wipe us from this world. To erase us from history.”

  His words strike light. Holograms begin to distort, as if the technology buckles under the pressure of his rhetoric.

  “They want us to forget that anyone ever dared to break free. Dared to challenge their plan.”

  Crowds across every sector begin to surge. These are not just words. This is a call. Vikar feels their pulse, their power — to him, it’s more than energy. It’s memory — the kind that won’t allow surrender.

  “We are not slaves. We are the sword,” Vikar continues, clenching a fist. His voice grows stronger, echoing through every corner of the planet. “We are those who do not bow. Not to a planet. Not to a regime. Not to fear. We are those who declare freedom not just as a right — but as our strength.”

  Thin lines of light flash like lightning across the holographic screens as Mercury’s people, all tuned to the transmission, begin to shout.

  “We are not slaves!” — the crowd roars in unison. This is no chant — it’s a spark of consciousness, a new reality.

  Vikar stands like a statue in this energy, his gaze piercing every transmission point, every heart.

  “They forgot who we are,” he says with a force that shakes the air. “We are Mercury.”

  The crowd answers again. The roar builds. This is not a victory cry. It’s a cry of liberation. A scream of the sentient who will not bend under fear and force. It sounds like a verdict.

  “We are the Free Mercury,” Vikar repeats. The phrase becomes their battle cry.

  OUTER PLATFORM. FAREWELL.

  In the silence of the station, Ivor and Vikar stand at the airlock. Their silhouettes are almost invisible against the shining horizon of Mercury.

  Behind them — a landing capsule. Black, angular, ready to fly into the void. It gleams like a final spark of hope.

  Vikar casts a glance at the capital’s domes, where life boils. In his eyes — echoes of decisions yet to be made.

  “Do you think they’ll hear you?” he asks, voice heavy, weary. But within it lies something deeper than strength — something almost prophetic.

  Ivor smiles. His gaze is unwavering, but thoughtful. He shakes his head.

  “No. But maybe someone will. And ‘someone’ is better than ‘no one’.”

  He offers a hand. Vikar shakes it — firm, strong. This is more than goodbye. This is the moment two friends understand they stand side-by-side at a crossroads where one misstep can change everything. Now — they walk separate paths toward fate.

  “Take care, Ivor.” Vikar says it quietly, but there’s weight in his words — a burden passed.

  Ivor nods, feeling their gravity but not answering. He simply says:

  “Then you take care of Mercury.”

  He turns and walks toward the capsule. Step by step, he becomes part of the planet, its spirit, its will.

  Inside, the doors close with a low thud. The countdown begins. Time flows — and the beam of light, like a tunnel, carries him into the unknown.

  Vikar remains, unmoving, watching the capsule vanish into brightness. He stands in place, feeling how his own fate entwines with this quiet yet pivotal moment. He doesn’t yet know what lies ahead — but he knows this: this farewell is not an end.

  It is the beginning of something new.

  He turns. Walks back into the station.

  His steps sound heavy, resolute — the steps of one who is not only ready to face trials, but to overcome them.