Time blurred inside the Base. Missions came and went, and between them Youri drifted through its corridors like a malfunctioning machine left on standby. He gambled with guards in storage rooms, with technicians in maintenance halls, with soldiers in mess lounges long after curfew — cards, dice, digital tables, it didn't matter which. He would lean back in a chair with his boots up on a crate and bet everything, every last zell, and he always lost. When his pockets were empty he would turn to Kess without even looking embarrassed, and Kess would sigh and shake his head and transfer the credits anyway. "You're impossible," he would mutter. And Youri would lose that money too. That was usually when Adin stepped in, arms folded, his voice sharp but controlled. "You're not self-destructing," he would say. "You're just wasting oxygen."
Kess and Adin had recovered since the day they first arrived at the Base — at least on the surface. Kess had become Helios's active pilot, and he flew often. Too often. Every mission carved something out of him, because Helios demanded a synchronization whose cost no one could fully measure; within a year Kess had lost half his sight, and a numbness was spreading slowly through his limbs, so that his reflexes grew sharper even as his sensation faded. He never once complained. Adin had not been so fortunate. He had failed to synchronize with Montern, and the attempt had nearly killed him; when he woke he was physically intact, but altered. He still laughed, still argued, still carried that quiet intensity in his voice, but something behind his eyes had dimmed. He was given an inactive role as Halvek's second-in-command — strategy, oversight, operational planning — and he was still important, and still sharp. But he had not been chosen.
Youri, unfortunately, remained chosen, and when missions came, he and Kess were sent out together more often than not.
Helios Claims Its Due
Two years after they joined the God Unit program, Helios finally claimed its due. The mission had been a success — it always was — but when the extraction teams arrived, Kess was barely breathing. His heart had collapsed under the strain of forced synchronization, and they kept him alive just long enough to carry him home. He died shortly afterward.
Youri didn't react when they pulled him out of Altopereh's cockpit. He went back to his quarters without speaking a word, and hours later the door slid open and Adin stepped inside. He didn't look up — he couldn't — and he stood near the doorway with his hands clasped behind his back, like a man delivering a report rather than a death. "He's gone," he said quietly.
Youri rose from where he had been sitting, and no expression crossed his face — no tightening of the jaw, no shift in his posture. He had lost all his tears long ago. Kess deserved them. But weapons do not cry. He let out a faint, hollow chuckle. "Huh," he muttered. "I owed him ten thousand zells."
Silence swallowed the room, and Adin slowly raised his head, and their eyes met. Youri's were green — but only in color. Whatever warmth had once lived in them had worn away completely. Adin had hated him once — not for who he was, but for what he represented: the rival he could never surpass, the pilot chosen above him, the standard he could never reach. And yet he respected him, as he had respected Kess, who had never hesitated, never feared Helios, never regretted stepping into that cockpit. Adin turned away first, and left without another word, and Youri didn't stop him.
Marta's
That same day, Youri left the Base. When the transport dropped him at the perimeter checkpoint, he noticed a bike in a small storefront across the road — sleek and matte black — and he walked toward it slowly and ran his fingers along its frame. "Can I take it for a spin?" he asked the seller. The man hesitated, then handed over the keys, and Youri straddled the bike — and paused. "You know what," he said calmly, handing over a card, "send the bill to this address." He didn't wait for an answer. The engine roared to life, and he rode off into the night.
Fansilia's streets glowed beneath him, neon reflecting off polished metal and wet asphalt while towers of glass and light reached into the sky, and the lines of traffic blurred as he accelerated, weaving between vehicles like a shadow with headlights. The city didn't sleep, and neither did he. Eventually he slowed, and turned into the night district, and into narrower streets, and then into an alley lit by holographic signs, where a new pub stood on the corner of an aging building. Above its entrance a hologram shimmered — an animated woman laughing, her glass raised high — and the sign read Marta's.
Youri cut the engine and went in. The interior was warm and dim, its walls paneled in dark, aged timber and its brass fixtures casting soft halos of amber light over solid oak tables, each with a small holographic display set into it flickering with drink menus and news feeds. A long counter lined with chairs ran along the far end, and behind it stood the woman from the sign — tall and confident, her hair pulled loosely back, smiling as though the world had never wronged her. Youri took a seat, and she came over. "Hello there. What can I get you tonight?"
He raised his head slowly. "A special drink," he said, his voice low. "To send someone off."
She studied him for a second. "You're a soldier, aren't you?"
He chuckled quietly. "I wish I was. It would probably be easier that way."
She laughed. "I like you. I'm Marta. This is my place. To whom do I owe the pleasure?"
For the first time in months, Youri smiled — faintly, but truly. "A ghost of the past," he said, "and the destroyer of futures."
Marta blinked. "Damn," she said with a grin. "I'll give you that drink first." She set two small glasses on the counter. "This one's called Last Words. Gin and green chartreuse. One for you, one for your friend."
Youri looked at the pale green liquid and its sharp scent. "This might be the right drink," he said quietly. "But I've got to go to the right place."
Marta nodded. "I'll make you a bottle to go."
Barnaby
When he stepped back outside with the bottle in his hand, a voice spoke behind him. "They said I'd find you around here." He didn't need to turn. Barnaby came up beside him with a cigarette glowing between his fingers. "We haven't seen each other in a while."
"Yeah," Youri said. "It's been some time."
Barnaby took a drag. "What do you think of this Empire?"
Youri chuckled faintly. "That's above my pay grade."
Barnaby laughed too. "True." He flicked the cigarette away and slid his hands into his pockets. "I feel like I've had this conversation with you before."
"Who knows," Youri said. "We were never the talkative type."
Barnaby smiled. "I'm leaving, kid. And I'm not coming back." Youri stayed silent. "I know what you did," Barnaby went on, "and I don't blame you. But Volar was home to me too." The city flowed around them; people walked past, and music thumped in the distance. "Come with me. Let's build the next great empire."
The night waited, and then Youri spoke. "Barnaby… maybe in the next life — if I'm allowed to exist again — if you asked me the same thing, I'd do everything for you." A pause. "But in this life, I'm someone else's weapon. And my hatred for you, I won't forget it. So for the sake of that, I hope we never see each other again."
He mounted the bike and rode away without looking back. What he felt for Barnaby, he didn't understand. He had hated him once — truly. But whatever that feeling had become, he would only understand much later.
Last Words
He went back to the Base, to the old academy barracks, where the field lay empty and cold beneath the open sky with a lone bench and table standing in it. He set the bottle on the table, took out two glasses and poured carefully, and then he leaned back on the bench and looked up at the dark, star-strewn sky, and lifted one glass. "May I pay that debt," he murmured, "when we meet again."
A single tear slid from his right eye. He remembered standing on that same bench years ago, Kess laughing and pointing at the wide blue sky while Youri lay back with his legs crossed, pretending not to care. Peace — real peace — if only for a few moments.
He closed his eyes, and drank.