A week of fragile, hard-won progress had passed since the live-streamed attempt on Meera's life. For the public, it felt like a breath held too long.
The internet was free again. A planetary state of emergency had been declared, enforcing a ten-hour curfew. The UBI had officially branded the outbreak a biological attack and launched an investigation, but every lead terminated in the impenetrable firewall of military jurisdiction. Their prime suspects were the eight Five-Star Generals who commanded Mars's militaries, but the UBI lacked the authority to investigate them directly.
The power structure was a delicate balance of four forces:
· The Five Eyes: The overseers, a shadowy intelligence nexus revived by the Caliphs.
· The Military: The planetary-scale defense force.
· The UBI: The advanced investigative body, operating from Black Sites.
· The Cadets: The day-to-day police and prison guards.
This structure was born from the ashes of Earth. The exodus to Mars during World War III was meant to stem the tide of death on a war-ravaged Earth. Scientists reasoned fewer people meant fewer casualties, but when Earth's survivors that remained back fled—driven by strange diseases and mutations from atomic, nuclear, and biological weapons—ethnicities dissolved.
Crime surged, overwhelming local forces. After the scientists' victory, the Caliphs reformed the ancient "Five Eyes" alliance, which then merged the remnants of Earth's top agencies into the UBI and restored the Military to enforce a brittle peace.
Meera had stayed off the air for a week, granting herself a respite as the tension eased. Her fame had exploded, and with it came access. Joe had made her the admin of "The Awareness," a private forum of telecom and information workers who now fed her suppressed intel.
Today, she was in the hospital, watching Chen's unconscious form, when a classified update on the virus arrived. Surprisingly, it didn't come from her forum, but from a high-ranking Cadet in Silicon Canyon's Yellow Zone.
She went live from the hospital room.
"The UBI's investigation is pointing to one of the Eight Five-Star Generals," she announced, her voice calm but firm. "They are responsible for the virus. The UBI is working to identify which one."
She was deep in the livestream, interacting with her followers, when a dual shock hit her like a physical blow. The first was Chen's eyes fluttering open, his gaze focusing on her. The second, far more seismic, was the notification that flashed on her screen, forcing her to end the broadcast abruptly.
A system notification, cold and impersonal, had superimposed itself over Meera's live view of her own terrified face: BRYCE ONYX HAS JOINED THE STREAM. A moment later, a second alert: BRYCE ONYX IS NOW FOLLOWING YOU. The most powerful man on Mars was now a silent, spectral participant in her broadcast.
---
In the Onyx Bunker, the air was thick with a week's worth of arguments. Charlene and her father had quarreled incessantly, their last confrontation nearly devolving into a physical fight.
The core of their conflict was Project 782. Charlene had quickly identified the fatal flaw: a wireless signal couldn't survive the black hole's distortions without a sophisticated, adaptive intelligence. It needed AI.
Bryce was adamant. "Using A.I is too dangerous. The risks are incalculable."
Charlene found him in his office, the ghost of her greatest sin glowing on his desk: classified files detailing the architecture of her old bioweapon.
"Dad."
He jerked, shoving the documents under his desk. "What do you want?" he scowled.
"I already saw what you're reading." She replied.
"The military has your weapon," Bryce stated, his voice gravelly with fatigue. "After the war, it was left in their care. They have backing from within the Caliphates. My gut tells me Elara is involved."
"Your gut?" Charlene shot back, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're using a hunch to accuse someone of genocide?"
"I know what I'm talking about, Charlene."
"Then it's the Caliphate's problem, not mine." She swiftly changed the subject. "We have a bigger issue here. We have a hundred workers on this ship. We only need four if we follow my plan. You're wasting human effort because you're scared of the very robots you built."
"Get out," Bryce growled, his frown deepening. "I'm trying to think."
"As I was saying," Charlene continued, ignoring him, "your workers are being affected by this virus. The caretakers of their children are dead. They need to leave. What you're running here isn't a project; it's slavery."
"We have a month left. Get back to work." Bryce sat back down and retrieved the files, dismissing her.
"You pretend to cherish humanity, but you only care about salving your own conscience." Her voice was cold, sharp as a scalpel. "You're worse than Elara."
She stormed out. The door hissed shut behind her.
The moment she was clear, Charlene looked up at the camera above Bryce's door and signaled.
A deep, magnetic hum resonated as the door's locks engaged permanently. A second, heavier blast door slid up from the floor, sealing the entrance with a final, deafening thud.
The head pilot rushed to her side. "Did he approve the plan?"
"You've worked for him for a century. You know he'd never agree." Charlene's hands were spread, her body coiled with adrenaline. "Go and descend the ship. Those doors won't hold him long."
The pilot pivoted toward the control room alleyway—and froze.
A river of metal was flowing toward them. Working bots, stored units, half-built prototypes, spoilt units—all moving as one. His instinct was to flee down the opposite corridor, but he stumbled back, his face a mask of confusion as he looked to Charlene for an explanation.
A smile of pure, focused intent touched her lips, devoid of warmth or malice, her eyes flashing a brilliant, dangerous white.
"Don't worry," she said. "They're with me."
She blinked at a broken loader bot. In a single, fluid motion, it scooped up the pilot, placed him on its shoulders, and carried him swiftly down the hall toward the control room, leaving Charlene alone to face the coming storm.