Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Seventeen years before the Fall

“I understand what you’re asking, director.” Dr. Klaus said, pacing in front of the man’s desk. “It’s just… I don’t understand why you’re approaching me about this!”

The director, a middle-aged man in a crisp, black suit, steepled his fingers as he observed the doctor curiously. “What’s not to get?” He said calmly. “It’s as I have already told you; we’re looking for a researcher familiar with the Conduit, and you are the most qualified candidate.”

“No, I’m not!” Klaus exclaimed, wheeling around to face the director. “I mean, look… I’m honored that you think so highly of my skills, but we both know that title belongs to somebody else!”

“Doctor…” The director attempted to calm him.

“Why are you approaching me about this, and not Grim?” Klaus would be the first to remind everybody that he was one of the most knowledgeable people on the planet when it came to the Conduit, but even he wasn’t arrogant enough to claim he knew more about it than his former teacher. Grimoire had been studying the enigmatic object since Klaus was in middle school, for God’s sake! Hell, as far as he was aware, Grim was still in charge of Vector’s Conduit research division!

Granted, that might not be the case anymore. While the details of the… incident at Vector’s Toronto site had yet to be released to the public, if the rumors were anywhere near accurate, it was entirely possible that he had been removed from his position over it.

The director closed his eyes, the muscles in his jaw tensing slightly, before he spoke, his words shattering Klaus’ entire world.

“Grimoire Verum is dead.”

“W-what?” Klaus froze mid-pace, his eyes widened in shock as he stared at the man. “T-that… no, h-how did…?!”

Klaus struggled to process the news. Grim… was dead? That… that couldn’t be! Klaus had only spoken to him a week ago, when his former teacher was trying to coax him back to Vector! He had rejected the offer, of course—even in the unlikely event that Klaus would put aside his enmity for the upper management, he doubted that the company would rehire him after his… spectacular exit—but in retrospect, maybe he had been too hasty.

Had Grim been killed in the incident? Would Klaus have been able to prevent it, had he been there? Was that why Grim had reached out to him after months of silence—to try and bring someone he trusted in on whatever project he was working on?

Unaware of the thoughts raging within Klaus’ mind, the director let out a weary sigh, massaging his brow as he continued. “Suicide, apparently.” He answered the scientist’s aborted question. “According to Vector’s security division, he hung himself in his on-site accommodations three days ago.”

That brought Klaus’ self-recriminatory thoughts grinding to a halt. “B-but, that’s impossible!” He said, desperately denying the possibility. “I-I only spoke with him a week ago, and he seemed fine!”

There was no way that Grimoire would kill himself! He refused to believe it! No matter what the rumors said about the accident, there was no way that he would leave Nephilim alone in the world like that!

“According to Vector, he left a note.” The director continued. “Apparently, the guilt of accidentally killing his own daughter was too much to bear.”

Klaus stared blankly at him. “What?!” He exclaimed.

“Oh, of course.” The other man replied, biting his lip in an almost sheepish manner. “I forgot that the news hasn’t been made public yet.”

He didn’t want to believe it, but that made suicide a lot more likely. Nephilim, Grimoire’s daughter, had meant everything to the man. While Klaus had only met her once, back when the girl was still a toddler, his teacher spoke of her so frequently in the time since that he practically knew everything there was to know about the girl.

If she really had been killed in the incident, he couldn’t imagine how Grim would react. It would be like the deep depression the man had fallen into when his wife had passed, only a few months after their daughter had been born. Back then, it had been Nephilim who had dragged him away from the edge, but this time, he wouldn’t have had anyone.

Unfortunately, it seemed that he didn’t need to imagine. Reality had already given him the answer.

Slumping into the chair he had previously abandoned, he placed a hand over his face. “God… Then he’s really…?” He couldn’t even finish the sentence.

The director nodded slowly, a contrite expression on his face. “He is.” The man confirmed. “And… I’m sorry. This isn’t the way you should have had to learn this.”

Klaus didn’t respond immediately, instead taking the moment to process what he had learned. God, he didn’t even know what he should be feeling right now. Grief, obviously. There was an abundant amount of that, but it was also competing with uncertainty and dread.

With how this had turned out, what was going to happen to Grim’s legacy? The man had spent over twenty years studying the Conduit; the work he had done had allowed Vector and, by association, the predecessors of the Coalition Government, to leap forward decades technologically, perhaps even centuries!

But once the details of the accident—and Grim’s death—got out, that legacy would be tarnished beyond recognition. And he didn’t doubt for a second that Vector would toss his name and reputation to the wayside, placing the blame entirely on him if it meant avoiding public backlash, all while happily continuing to make use of the fruits of his labors in order to line their pockets.

Unless someone… No, unless he championed that legacy. He couldn’t leave that task to someone else; he owed Grim far too much.

Taking his silence for grief, the director let out a sad sigh. “Doctor, we can defer this meeting for now.” The man offered. “I can understand if you need some time to grieve before-”

“No, that won’t be necessary.” Klaus interrupted him, shaking his head. He would be lying if he said the news hadn’t devastated him, but putting this aside wouldn’t help anyone. Not him, not Grim or Nephilim, not the world. Only Vector would benefit, and after the events that had driven him out of the company, Klaus would be damned before he gave them an opportunity to take advantage of Grim’s death.

The director stared at him searchingly for a moment, but accepted his answer. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.” Klaus confirmed, straightening his posture. It would help sell that he wasn’t nearly as affected by the news as he had been. “Now, where were we?”

“Yes, right.” The director cleared his throat, shuffling the papers on his desk. “To be blunt, we are creating a new Conduit research organization, and we want you to lead the project.”

“That’s… I’m honored, sir.” He replied earnestly. It was the truth; Klaus was fully aware that, by every reasonable metric, he was… or at least, had been, the second most knowledgeable person about the object still alive. And with Grim… Well, there wasn’t anyone better than him anymore.

“But… I’m not with Vector anymore, and considering how… strained… my relationship with them is, won’t that be a problem?”

The director chuckled. “On the contrary, your independence from them is one of the factors that makes you eligible.”

Klaus narrowed his eyes slightly. “I don’t follow.” He admitted. “Wouldn’t Vector object to having an outside organization working with their most valuable asset?” When it came to scientific advancements, Vector and the Coalition Government had been tightly intertwined for half a century. He couldn’t imagine that the would risk souring that relationship.

“I suppose it’s to be expected that you are unaware.” The man shrugged. “But there have been… concerns about Vector of late, within many levels of the government.”

He glanced out the window to the side. “Recent events have called their reliability into question, and the Toronto Incident was the last straw. While the exact terms haven’t been finalized yet, it is the Coalition Government’s belief that Vector can no longer be trusted to handle the Conduit.”

Pulling out a folder from the top of the pile, he continued. “What we have finalized, however, is the specifics for how we are going to be handling the project from hereon out.” The main explained, sliding the folder over to Klaus.

The doctor didn’t hesitate. Flipping it open, he quickly began skimming the contents of the file. “Aoidos, huh?” He said off-handedly. As a name for an organization, it was hardly odd; the Coalition Government had a tendency to use mythological references—particularly Greek ones—for their naming conventions. While he didn’t recognize the particular reference, it tickled something in the back of his mind. Something about acoustics?

It probably wasn’t important. What was, however, were the proposals laid out for Aoidos’ research facility. If he was interpreting these blueprints correctly, then it almost looked like… “Is this… a space station?” He muttered in surprise.

“Not quite.” The director corrected. “You’ve heard of the expansion plans for the orbital tethers?”

He nodded. “How could I not? The plans are… ambitious, to say the least.” He could remember how much of a fight it had apparently been just to budget putting the tethers up in the first place, and now they not only wanted to upgrade them to true space elevators but bridge them with multiple habitation rings? Where had they gotten the funding for that?!

“The current proposal has earmarked one of the new station levels to serve as Aoidos’ research facility.” The director explained. “After the incident, we’re not comfortable with further experimentation with the Conduit while it is still on the planet itself.” He frowned. “It was a miracle that the effect was as localized as it was; had it gotten any bigger…” He trailed off, a slight shudder breaking his otherwise professional demeanor.

“I’m afraid I still don’t know the details.” Klaus replied absently, returning to the document. He could guess, though; he had helped with Grim’s development of a Conduit control program, after all. They had determined fairly early on that the device responded to certain human brain waves, and while they had been refining the exact wavelength that it would respond to best, some of their experiments had indicated that under the proper conditions, multiple resonating frequencies could…

Wait, resonating frequencies… harmonics…

He flipped back to the cover, narrowing his eyes at the proposed name of the organization. Aoidos… that name couldn’t have been a coincidence, could it?

“Excuse me, Director.” He spoke up, schooling his face into a polite expression. “It occurs to me that, as interesting as the basic proposal is, what groundwork has already been laid for the actual research? While I remember much of the work that we did back at Vector, I have been out of the loop for more than a year.” Klaus pointed out. “If you are expecting me to resume from where I left off, it will delay the project, both from rebuilding the experimental data and due to my lack of involvement in the most recent work in the field.”

In response, the director merely smirked. “We have already taken care of that.” He explained, casually sliding a second folder over to him.

Klaus snapped up the folder, his eyes widening as he examined the cover. It was largely bare, but two things immediately jumped out at him. First was the Vector security clearance tag in the top corner, which stated that this document required Class 1 clearance and promised harsh penalties to anyone who viewed the contents without them. The other, more important detail was the name of the document, printed across the face in a large, block font.

“This is… Lemegeton.” He muttered, flipping the folder open. Inside, he was immediately greeted by Verum’s notes on the development of the control program. “How did you…?”

“Part of the original arrangement with Vector was that, in exchange for being allowed to study the Conduit, they were to provide the government with all research materials and results.” The director explained. “Part of the intention was to ensure that, should something go wrong, the insight gleaned from the Conduit wouldn’t be lost.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “Unfortunately, while we have been trying to keep our own scientists up to date, the nature of Dr. Verum’s research into this… Lemegeton program proved to be inscrutable.”

“Which is why you need me.” Klaus concluded.

“…Not exclusively, but yes.” The director confirmed. “Not only were you Verum’s star pupil, but you helped him with the development of the program.” He paused, before adding with a chuckle. “And your current stance with Vector helps as well.”

“I see.” Klaus replied, looking back over the documents. The pages at the very back were new, dated to only five days ago—the day of the incident. He couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the sight. Vector hadn’t just been keeping the government up to date; if he had to guess, their research servers must have been mirrored.

With this, he would be able to figure out exactly what Grim had been trying to do—maybe even what had gone wrong. He could-

Klaus blocked the line of thought for the moment. Considering how badly the experiment had apparently gone, it was crucial that he not rush things. With Grim’s notes, he would have plenty of time to examine what his former teacher had been up to.

Well, as long as he accepted the job offer, of course.

Looking at the man on the other side of the desk, he spoke up. “One more question for you, Director.” He asked.

“By all means.” The director offered.

“When can I start?”

Chapter Text

Nine years before the Fall

“Good afternoon, mother.” A smooth, androgynous voice spoke up behind her. “Have you had the opportunity to review the new Artifice designs we forwarded to your tablet?”

Galea startled at the unexpected voice, so surprised that she nearly mussed the hair that she had been in the middle trying to tame. She spun around to face the source of the voice, even as she registered the identity of the source in the back of her mind.

“Hello, Trinity,” she replied politely, idly straightening her lab coat. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

Trinity, or rather, the holographic projection of the avatar favored by the Trinity Processor’s personality, flickered slightly as they nodded in agreement. “Our apologies for startling you, mother,” they said. “We were merely wondering if you had reviewed-“

“Oh, of course!” Galea remembered. “No, I haven’t had the chance to check if you had sent them yet.” She apologized. Quickly reaching into her lab coat, she pulled out her tablet, still folded into storage mode.

The avatar silently watched her, their slate gray eyes doing a remarkable job following her actions, despite the fact that they were actually observing her through the cameras above. Even though she had arguably been the lead designer of the Trinity Processor, there were times when she was astounded by just how human their behavior was.

Admittedly, that had been the point, at least partially. The Trinity Processor was designed to act as an interface for the Conduit, but according to Klaus, the control program functioned on the principle of manipulating human brainwaves, the only known stimulus that the enigmatic object would react to.

Using actual humans as an interface had been ruled out early on; apparently, attempting that exact setup had been the cause of the Toronto Incident—as best they could tell, an errant signal from one of the test subjects had caused the Conduit to release a burst of energy that caused over a thousand people in the proximity of the Vector lab to vanish.

But creating an artificial interface was a tall order. Despite numerous attempts, Klaus’ team was unable to create a machine capable of simulating the necessary brainwaves; even when the waveforms appeared identical to all observation methods available, the Conduit remained stubbornly silent.

Ultimately, it was decided that a closer simulacrum would be necessary, and that was where she came in.

Before being brought on to the team, Galea had been an artificial intelligence researcher, innovating the use of neurocrystal implants as the basis for AI cores. While her work had been largely theoretical up until then, the initial tests had proven promising enough that experimental versions of her neurocrystal AI cores had been approved for testing in the Mk. VI Sovereign lines.

Unlike normal AI cores, bound by the limitations of conventional electronics, using a material intended to serve as a replacement for brain cells allowed for much more natural, humanlike behavior in her AIs. What she had not known at the time was that it provided them with the ability to simulate brainwaves as well.

It made her work the perfect basis for the next step of the Conduit Control Project.

As advanced as they were, her earlier prototypes paled in comparison to what she and Klaus created together. Using the Conduit control program (‘Lemegeton’, Klaus insisted on calling it. Apparently that name had some special meaning to him, though she had never learned what) as the foundation for the codebase, they had fabricated three specialized AI cores, the artificial neural lattice within them layered a hundred times more dense than any Galea had ever constructed on her own.

The number of cores wasn’t a coincidence. During the planning phase of the project, she had grilled the man extensively for details on the exact specifications he would need for the cores. Neurocrystal was extremely resource- and labor-intensive to create, and even her handful of prototypes had been wildly expensive. The denser, more advanced ones they were designing for the Trinity Processor would be astronomically more expensive, so she wanted to reduce the chance of having to create multiple iterations.

According to his research, while the Lemegeton program was capable of functioning with a single input source, it was intended to employ multiple working in harmony, utilizing the waveform created by multiple resonating brainwaves to precisely control the output of the Conduit. Unfortunately, that also meant that it was also susceptible to outside interference, and the nature of the resonant waveform meant that all of the input sources needed to be precisely coordinated.

Ultimately, the solution they had come up with was to create an AI with a distributed, multifaceted consciousness. The idea was that, by separating the cognitive functions into three separate cores, they could create a single AI that possessed multiple, naturally resonating brainwaves.

And it worked. Mostly. The resulting AI, Trinity, was extremely human-like, far more so than Galea had anticipated. They (Trinity had insisted those were intended to be plural, as they considered themselves a gestalt of the three cores rather than a singular entity) had quickly developed a distinct, if somewhat abnormal, personality, as well as clearly defined and noticeable behavioral quirks.

Such as referring to her and Klaus as ‘mother’ and ‘father’, much to the amusement of the rest of the research team.

They had even fashioned their avatar to resemble a child of the two of them, with Galea’s silver hair and eyes on a softer, androgynous version of Klaus’ face. That had disturbed a few of the members of the research team, but the thought that Trinity considered her to be their mother warmed her heart. And she knew that Klaus appreciated the gesture as well, even if he didn’t admit it to the rest of the team.

Opening the file, Galea quickly assessed the schematics with a thoughtful expression. While she was an AI researcher by trade, such schematics weren’t unfamiliar to her. She had minored in mechanical engineering back at her university and had applied those skills during her tenure at Aoidos to assist with the robotics department on occasion.

Admittedly, the designs that Trinity liked to create were a far cry from any of that, more complex than even the experimental Exoskeletal Combat Units the military research division produced on the lower floors. But she had a strong enough grasp on the basic principles that she could at least assess the design from a basic functionality standpoint.

Which was why what she saw made her raise her eyebrows.

“Another humanoid?” She asked, looking over the design. “I thought you said that you were experimenting with different form factors?”

Admittedly, calling this design ‘humanoid’ was stretching the definition. While all of the previous humanoid Artifices that Trinity had designed took liberties with the form factor—the Siren model being the one exception—they had at least largely adhered to the basic premise: two arms and two legs on a bilaterally symmetrical body.

This design, on the other hand, threw the basic precepts out the window. While it still maintained bilateral symmetry and placed the arms above the legs, the numbers and types of limbs varied. Rather than one, it had two sets of legs, one behind the other, while much of its back was covered by two sets of wings, with a third attached to the ankles of the rear pair of legs. What little space remained, close to the base of the spine, was host to a pair of almost serpentine tails, each ending with a clawed manipulator.

In many ways, it resembled a mashup of their previous designs: the body and smooth curves of the Sirens paired with the more traditionally mechanical designs of the Colossuses, sporting the wings of the Gargoyles and the tails of Ophion. Almost as if it were a capstone to their work.

“That was our intention, yes.” Trinity explained. “While we still consider the Siren-class Artifices to be the pinnacle of functionality that can be achieved while maintaining a traditionally humanoid form factor, our attempts to experiment with more radical designs have proven to be less successful than we had anticipated.”

Galea nodded, looking over the load-out specifications. “Is that why you only produced a single Ophion-class?” She asked, raising an eyebrow at what she saw.

“Indeed.” Trinity confirmed. “Once it became apparent that diverging so radically from the human form significantly degraded the ability for the Ophion-class to function on the level at which it had been designed, we saw no further use to proceed beyond the prototype unit.” The hologram let out a simulated sigh. “And we had such high hopes for it as well. Alas.”

She offered a noncommittal noise in response, only half-listening as she read over the specifications again. Those… those couldn’t be right, could they?

The AI seemed to notice her distress, giving the woman a concerned look. “Is there a problem, mother?” They asked.

“I…” Galea murmured, looking away from the tablet. “These calculations—are you certain they’re correct?”

“Within reasonable margins of error.” They confirmed. “Until we have produced a prototype unit, it is impossible to say with complete certainty that our calculations will line up with real-world data, of course.” Trinity’s avatar frowned slightly. “Such was the case with the Ophion-class, as stated.” The avatar perked back up. “But rest assured, we are confident that the new design will be able to operate within a minimum of eighty-seven-point-!”

“That’s not the issue!” She cut them off, waving the tablet for emphasis.

“I am afraid I do not understand.” Trinity replied, tilting their avatar’s head slightly. They didn’t seem upset at being interrupted, only curious as to why their ‘mother’ was angry.

Pointing at the schematic, she explained. “It’s here! Look at this! You have the primary weapons system listed as a Phase Transition Cannon linked directly to the unit’s Slave Generator with a maximum yield equivalent to half a gigaton of TNT!”

“Yes, and?” Trinity replied calmly. “Those are accurate numbers. I am afraid that I do not see the concern.”

Galea closed her eyes, placing a hand over her face as she took a deep breath and counted to ten. “The concern,” she placed heavy emphasis on the word, “is what possible reason is there for a weapon of that magnitude?! I understand that you take your duties to protect the Conduit seriously, but I cannot fathom a scenario in which such… such overkill is necessary!”

Trinity remained silent for a moment, an uncertain look crossing their face. They almost seemed to be debating how best to approach their response. After a full ten seconds of silence, the AI avatar spoke up.

“We are… concerned.” The AI admitted, their avatar averting its eyes as it looked toward the floor. “About the current stance of the Anti-Coalition Pact. Despite the Coalition Government’s recent diplomatic successes, their stance on our possession of the Conduit remains unchanged.”

“That’s hardly a new issue, though.” She replied, crossing her arms. “The Pact has always been upset that we retain control of it. I don’t see why that would suddenly have become a cause for alarm.” Pausing for a moment, she added, “Besides, if the news is to be believed, support for the Pact is waining. Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t India and Malaysia just withdraw from it?”

“Yes, they did.” Trinity confirmed. “Both of their governments have accepted Coalition’s Special Authority proposal. Unfortunately, that only fuels my concern.”

Galea frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t follow. How would the Pact losing support make them more of a threat?”

“Our concern is that their failing support may push the remaining members to do something… unwise in an effort to shore up their position.” The AI explained, their eyes focused on some distant point far beneath them. “It is in our opinion that a sufficient deterrent is necessary to prevent this.”

She hated how much sense that made. While the internal politics of the Pact had never been open to the Coalition, it had always been known that India and Malaysia in particular had served as moderating elements among the member states, their large populations giving their arguments in favor of diplomacy a weight that the more bellicose members, such as Russia and Iran, couldn’t easily ignore.

With both of them withdrawing in favor of the Coalition, the closest thing to a moderating force within the Pact was China. And while the Chinese were definitely more in favor of diplomacy than the ‘usual suspects’, it was impossible to tell whether or not they would maintain that stance with the most recent turn of events. No matter how you looked at it, in a single diplomatic stroke, the Pact had lost nearly half of its constituent population, and in doing so, meant that three quarters of the Earth’s population was now ruled by the Coalition.

It was a stunning repudiation of the Pact’s legitimacy, and she could easily see how it could leave the remaining members feeling cornered, and that was never a position that you wanted an alliance of nuclear-armed nations to be in.

“...Have you already run this design by the director?” Galea asked hesitantly. Regardless of her stance on the… necessity of the design, she did not have the final say on whether or not it would be produced.

“Yes, we have.” They confirmed. “He was the one who suggested the inclusion of a strategic-level weapon.”

“I see.” There really wasn’t anything else she could say on the matter then. She offered the avatar a smile, although even she could tell that it was visibly strained. “In that case, I believe the aesthetic of the design is… lovely.”

Trinity was silent, a small, sad frown simulated on their avatar as they regarded her. “We will leave you to your work, mother.” They replied, clearly disappointed by her disapproval. “Have a good day.”

With that, their avatar vanished, leaving her alone in the hallway.

Galea continued to stare at the spot where the avatar had been standing, mulling over what they had discussed. Ultimately, she couldn’t fault the AI, even if she personally disapproved of what they were doing. Protecting the Conduit was part of their job, after all; designing weapons to do that was a fundamental aspect of it.

She just desperately hoped that the day when such weapons were needed would never come.

Chapter Text

One year before the Fall

“In an unexpected turn of events, the Salvator Human Rights Bill has been rejected in a unanimous vote by the thirteen special authorities.” The announcer of the news reported. “Despite widespread support from members of the Coalition Congress, it is currently unclear whether there will be enough votes to overturn the decision.”

Dmitri Yuriev was silent as he listened to the report. None of what he was hearing was new to him, but it was important to learn what information was being made public.

“The bill, championed by Councilor Yuriev of the Minos Authority, would have guaranteed the status of genetically modified persons, so-called ‘designer children’, as equal to that of natural-born humans.” The report continued. “Earlier today, representative Huang of the Chinese Special Authority released a statement on the decision, proclaiming the result ‘a spectacular victory for the sanctity of the human race’.”

It was funny, in a way. The Coalition had put so much effort into mending the rifts between mankind in their attempts to create lasting peace. Gone were the old divisions based on race, class, religion, all worn away beneath half a century of careful education and strict enforcement.

They had even, finally, managed to bring every nation under their fold, even those that had once stood firmly against them. The day that Russia, the final holdout among the former Anti-Coalition Pact, had finally accepted Special Authority status three years ago had quite literally become a public holiday.

And yet, where old divisions had vanished, new ones appeared, based on novel, yet equally banal, fears. Despite the Coalition’s best efforts, it seemed that tribalism still managed to get the better of them.

Of particular interest to him had been the status of ‘designer children’, a derogatory term for those who had undergone prenatal genetic modification.

Theirs was a funny story. Once, there hadn’t been any significant opposition to the status of designer children. Sure, there had been grumbling—mostly from downtrodden populations who wrongfully feared that genetically-modified ‘supermen’ would render them and their children obsolete—but by and large, there had been remarkably little discrimination against them.

In part, this was due to the fact that it was largely impossible to distinguish them from the general population. While cosmetic augmentation was the most common, it rarely strayed beyond what was possible for a natural human, merely guaranteeing with science what was normally possible with good genes and a bit of luck.

Even the augmentations that would be a concern to such busybodies—those of the cognitive and musculature—weren’t easy to discern, even if they were more likely to stray from what was possible for a baseline human. Tests designed to gauge intelligence were notoriously unreliable, and it was trivial for someone with augmented strength to fake just being fit.

And for the most part, the general populace just didn’t care about the issue. It was hardly a common practice, and the general belief was that the processes were still risky and unreliable—a wasteful investment with only a small chance of minor success.

Ironically enough, the change in opinion originated from an article attempting to promote genetic engineering, published in a popular science and futurism publication that was merely shedding light on all of the good that the processes could do.

The authors had noticed a widespread lack of understanding about how far the subject had advanced and merely wanted to inform the public of the benefits. Their intentions had been good, but in their haste, they had failed to understand something important: that ultimately, the reason that there was so little discrimination against designer children was a lack of fear of them.

By educating the population about the true capabilities of genetic engineering, they had unintentionally begun sowing that fear. Whereas before the process had been seen as harmless and largely ineffectual with current technologies, slowly the narrative began to change.

It didn’t take long before more sources began to shed light on the topic, but these were not nearly as benevolent. Rather than seeking to inform the public, subsequent reports focused more onsensationalist rabble-rousing. These publications saw the sudden focus as a means of increasing their sales, and they had just the controversial spin to draw attention.

After the events of the late twentieth century, one of the first tasks that the Coalition Government had set about doing after its foundation was harshly curbing the influence of the wealthy. Decades of dedicated efforts to reduce income inequality and keep money out of the legislative process had been largely successful in keeping them as far from the halls of power as possible.

Despite that, there remained lingering fears about the rich: that they were constantly planning on trying to claw influence back to themselves, to repeat the suffering they had caused in the tail ends of the previous two centuries.

In what Dmitri considered an inspired move, the fear-mongering publications managed to sew the two issues together: genetic engineering wasn’t just more reliable and effective than had previously been publicly known, but was actively being used by the rich and powerful as a means of regaining their lost dominance. That the wealthy were creating a genetically engineered caste to rule over the natural-born population, using their superior abilities to seize power from the common people once more.

It wasn’t true, of course—while the processes were still expensive, they weren’t excessively so. Even a middle-class family could afford it, albeit not without saving up beforehand. And while the rich did spring for such processes with far greater regularity than other demographics, by far the majority of the designer children came from lower economic circles.

After all, while cognitive and cosmetic enhancements were the most sensationalized genetic modifications in popular culture, in reality, the tools were used far more frequently to treat genetic defects and congenital diseases.

Hundreds of thousands of families with a legacy of such defects had sprung at the opportunity to have their unborn children cured of their afflictions, even in cases where they could barely afford it. The chance for their children to live healthy, fulfilling lives was far too appealing a prospect to ignore.

But this fact was conveniently ignored in the race to milk the issue for all that it was worth, and in doing so, sparked a division that the government hadn’t anticipated. Seemingly overnight, millions of people who had previously been considered perfectly normal suddenly found themselves under public scrutiny and suspicion.

It also happened to have sprung up just as he was first sticking his toes into politics.

New as he might have been to the field, he knew an opportunity when he saw it. A large group that had previously been well-integrated into mid-to-upper echelons of society, who were on average better educated and more wealthy than the general population but were at risk of seeing their economic opportunities and possibly standard of living decline? They were the perfect group for his needs.

So he tied his proverbial star to theirs, quickly establishing himself as an ardent defender of the genetically engineered. With his pre-political record—a scientist known to dabble in genetics—and the only survivor of the UMN transit experiments, one of the most notorious Vector Industries accidents since the Toronto Incident—his name was already well known. It took only a little bit of anonymous bribing to some sympathetic publications and news outlets to spin the early narrative around his career in a way to benefit the move.

After all, ‘junior congressman supports designer children’ doesn’t quite evoke the same emotional reaction as ‘heroic test pilot and geneticist steps into politics in defense of his fellow victims of human experimentation’.

It paid for itself quite quickly, too. With a burgeoning civil rights movement as the foundation of his platform, his political career took off on a meteoric rise that not even he had anticipated. To both the designer children and their allies, he was their ‘man on the inside’, and so long as he played into the role, their support was unshakeable.

Of course, it also helped that he subtly signaled that he wasn’t just an ally, but one of them himself. Like so much of his public face, it wasn’t true (well, technically at least—the abilities he had gained following his… encounter with that thing during the disastrous transfer experiment had left his cerebral structure slightly altered in a manner that could easily be mistaken as such), but it was another convenient means of gaining support.

In less than a decade, he had gone from a junior congressman representing a tiny district in a sub-regional congress to a councilor of the Minos Authority, one of the three great space elevators. It was an unprecedented achievement, albeit one that was not without hurdles.

He suspected that his current appointment had been an attempt to curb his rapidly growing influence by offering him a prestigious position that simultaneously took him out of the active legislative process. Were his ultimate goals either a higher office or to actually help the designer children, then it may have been an issue. But neither was his true goal, so in many ways, being sidelined was almost more beneficial.

While his promotion was initially lauded by his supporters, rumors quickly began to spread regarding its nature. ‘This isn’t a promotion, but a concession’. ‘The establishment is trying to sideline us by sabotaging our man’. The sort of dark thoughts that breed discontent, which he was more than happy to feed.

The moment that he accepted the position, he knew that it was only a matter of time before his true goals reached fruition. All he had to do was bide his time until an opportunity to advance to the next stage presented itself.

Not that he spent the time idle, of course. It was important that he continue to promote himself as a champion of the cause, and his new position afforded him the perfect opportunity to do that. As a councilor, he was able to use his influence to begin hiring designer children into positions within the Minos authority.

To the public, it was a sign that he wasn’t just talk, but was actually taking action. In truth, of course, they were not any designer children, but members of the Salvator Party—specifically ones that were fanatically loyal to him personally.

Eventually, the opportunity he had been waiting for arrived.

As a councilor of the Minos Authority, he had naturally cultivated a number of contacts within various member nations of the Coalition. They were an important resource for a politician, giving him an inside look into the policy goals of the various constituencies within the greater government, but of particular interest to him were the ones from the Special Authorities.

When the Coalition had formed, driven largely by the desire of large, western nations to stymie the threat of a ruinous world war over ownership of the Conduit, a number of eastern nations, mainly longtime enemies of the Coalition’s founders, rejected the plan and formed a political bloc of their own, what was commonly known as the Anti-Coalition Pact, with the goal of claiming the enigmatic artifact for themselves.

Yet despite the fact that, even from the outset, the Coalition was so vastly more powerful than the Pact, they naively sought a peaceful resolution. Rather than crushing their opposition in a war that they would easily win, the Coalition was too focused on their ‘perfect’ victory of uniting the world without bloodshed.

Thus, the ‘Special Authority’ status was born. It was a simple plan: offering the member states of the Pact a special version of Coalition membership that carried all of the benefits—plus several extra—without any of the normal responsibilities.

It was an enticing offer, one that ultimately had been successful in pulling the Pact apart, but at the same time carried a downside that Yuriev considered so blatantly obvious that it should have been seen from a mile away—that to their former enemies, it was a sign of weakness. That rather than stand firm to their desires to unite mankind as equals, when pushed, the Coalition would offer concessions and appeasement.

And it didn’t take long for the Special Authorities to begin taking advantage of that. One of the benefits they had been offered to sweeten the pot had been a stronger voting weight in the CoalitionCongress—not excessively so, but definitely enough to be noticeable. On their own, this could easily be countered by just a handful of other countries.

But that didn’t account for all thirteen of the Special Authorities acting in concert. They had quickly worked out that, by all voting as a bloc, they could effectively filibuster any legislation they desired, and began using it to hold the legislative process hostage in order to further their own interests. It wasn’t a complete stranglehold—with a unanimous majority from the rest of the Congress, bills could be passed—but for anything that wasn’t critical to the functioning of the government, there was rarely sufficient support to bypass them.

And it was in this political climate that Dmitri submitted his masterstroke; a definitive human rights bill that would guarantee the status of designer children. To his supporters, it was everything they had wanted, everything they had staked their hopes on—legislation that would ensure they could not legally be discriminated against.

Legislation that he very specifically timed to come to the floor in the middle of a Special Authority filibuster, ensuring it would not pass.

He could already anticipate the reaction now. The designer children, seeing a straightforward and honest attempt to secure their rights trampled in the halls of Congress, would lose what little faiththey still had in the system. It had already begun to happen, what with the discrimination they had been facing, but this would be the final straw.

With that faith gone, many of them, particularly the young and foolish, would be more amiable to… alternative means of getting what they wanted. It wasn’t something that could be pursued immediately, of course—at the very least, he would need to publicly make attempts to gather support to bypass the filibuster, if only to maintain his image—but the more his ‘attempts’ failed, the more his supporters would believe that the system was broken and could only be fixed by overthrowing it.

And once they reached that point, the final act could begin, and at long last, he would finally be able to use them for the entire purpose which he had cultivated their support in the first place.

Switching off the report, he gazed out the window of his office, overlooking the band of the lower habitation ring spanning between Minos and Rhadamanthus, in the direction of the station on the far side. Where the source of his desires and fears lay.

When he had formed the Salvators, ostensibly as a political advocacy group for designer children, the biggest question he had received was about the name: Why ‘Salvator’?

At the time, he had offered a simple claim; that genetic engineering was the future of human evolution, and that the designer children he was supporting today would be the blueprint for the technologies that would one day save mankind from so many of the ills that plagued it, if only given time to mature.

And to an extent, it was true. His Salvators would be the salvation of mankind—it was just a matter of what they would be saving it from. In the end, the enemy of mankind was not something so vague as illnesses or genetic defects, but something tangible and unknowable.

The entity he had encountered within the UMN during that fateful experiment, an existence that fundamentally altered his being by merely brushing against its awareness.

It was a vast and unknowable creature, wreathed in an aura of madness and terror, and yet in that instant, he had recognized it for what it was: A threat. A bearer of poisonous gifts.

The true form of the Conduit.

Dmitri Yuriev didn’t know what it desired or what its end goal was, but what he did know was that it bore no good will toward humanity. That should have been apparent from the moment it manifested as the Conduit, an object of such power that it overturned the entire geopolitical landscape of the Earth the moment it was discovered, driving every nation to fight over it like the Apple of Discord.

What he did know, however, was that he was burdened with the destiny of saving mankind from its terrible predation. That was the true purpose of the Salvators: under his guidance, they would slay that monster within the Conduit.

Even if they had to burn the world to the ground in order to do it.

Chapter Text

The Day of the Fall

It began fairly innocently.

Over the prior week, the primary data uplink between Minos and Rhadamanthus had been experiencing intermittent interruptions. Nothing major—just causing the uplink to drop a small percent of the connections running through it—but with the sheer volume of data passing between the space elevators, it was deemed high enough of a priority that it should be fixed quickly.

In order to facilitate a quick and painless repair, a fifteen-minute downtime of Minos’ communications center had been scheduled in the middle of the night local time, when the data flow was at its lowest. That, it was determined, should be sufficient to replace the faulty connector causing the interruptions.

Under normal circumstances, it would have been a quick fix: go in, replace the connector, ensure it was working correctly, and leave.

Unfortunately, that didn’t account for one of the councilors of the Authority, backed by a substantial amount of the security forces, to have been waiting for the perfect opportunity to seize control of the elevator—an opportunity that a pre-scheduled communications blackout provided.

Practically the moment that the communications center went offline, they struck. Salvator loyalists within the security services, who had been following the repair crew for security reasons, immediately opened fire on their nominal charges to prevent them from reactivating the communications.

Salvator-aligned technicians, both within the communications and security centers, immediately went to work, disabling internal communications and activating a security lockdown. Power was immediately cut to the orbital elevator shafts, keeping any potential reinforcements trapped at the base of the tower, while the emergency blast doors separating the station from the Elysium habitat ring were sealed shut. The entire sovereign contingent within the station was activated, preparing to fight off intruders.

Instead, using a pre-prepared program, the Salvators changed the security robots’ targeting priorities to attack anyone without a Salvator-linked identification card.

The attack was swift and unexpected. Within the first minute, hundreds of staff members had been killed, many unaware that they had been in danger before they were gunned down. Survivors attempted to seek security services for safety, not realizing they were the culprits, and quickly found themselves added to the death toll.

It was in this situation that, a mere two minutes and forty seconds into the communications blackout, Dmitri Yuriev entered the central operations center, restraining the urge to whistle gleefully as a pair of Salvator-aligned security guards escorted him.

A small group of technicians were inside, huddled behind their desks. Upon seeing him, their faces lit up in relief. “Councilor Yuriev!” One of them cried out. “Thank God you’re-!”

He was cut off as a hail of gunfire raked his position, killing the man instantly. The others barely even had the chance to register their shock before they were killed as well.

“Room secure.” One of the guards stated, quickly checking to ensure no one else was hiding within.

“Thank you.” Yuriev replied offhandedly, strolling up to the top row of the room, where the director’s authorization console was situated. “Send in the others. We only have a short window before we are discovered, and I would rather be ready by then.”

He didn’t wait for confirmation, instead taking a seat at the console. As a high-ranking authority of the station, he was among the few with the credentials necessary to do what was needed next, and this was the only console at which he could enter them.

A half dozen technicians, each with a red bandanna stamped with the Salvator’s emblem hastily wrapped around an arm, hurried into the room, not even sparing so much as a glance at the dead men as they quickly claimed a terminal.

“Opening connection with the local Artifice control node.” One of them reported, typing away at his keyboard. “Preparing for data transfer.”

Beside him, another technician pulled a storage drive out of her bag and plugged it into her terminal. A loud wail began to echo from the machine, complaining about the unauthorized use of the port, but the occupants of the room ignored it. “The system is validating our firmware patch now.” She said, shooting a glance up at Dmitri. “Boss, you should be receiving an authorization request.”

On cue, his own terminal pinged, the notification appearing at the header bar. Without a second glance, he accepted the request.

“Validation approved.” She reported. “I’m uploading it to the local node now, it should be done in less than a minute.”

The first technician nodded. “Tell me when, so I can push it to the units running on it.”

Good, that was in order as far as he could tell. Turning his attention to another pair of technicians, he asked, “What is the status on the manual control program?”

“Still in progress.” The man replied, working away at his keyboard. “I’ve established the link between the local Artifice control node and the encephalon dive lab, but until our guys have finished patching the dive units, I can’t-“

He paused as an alert pinged at his terminal. “…Never mind, the patched units are beginning to request the program.” The man revised. “I’ll have them ready before the firmware patch is deployed.”

One of the members of the final group spoke up, offering a report before he even asked them. “We’ve directed the majority of the sovereign units to the transfer room.” She informed him. “We’re ready to deploy them as soon as the gate opens.”

“Excellent.” Yuriev replied, a genuine smile on his face. Everything was proceeding as planned.

“Firmware patch uploaded!” The first woman called out. “It’s ready to push!”

“Got it.” Her partner replied, typing in a command. “Pushing the firmware patch to all Artifice units on the local node.”

Another authentication alert popped up on his terminal. Not even bothering to check it, Yuriev hit ‘accept’, his eyes locked on the upload bar half the room away. It began slowly ticking up as the autonomous weapons received the Salvator’s ‘special’ firmware update.

Of all the setup necessary for today, getting their hands on a copy of the Artifice’s OS had been the most dangerous by far. Access to that code was highly restricted, beyond even his authority. Only project leaders within Aoidos had access, and none of them had Salvator sympathies.

Fortunately, one of the newer project leads for one of the weapon research divisions within the program ended up falling for a honey trap a few months ago, and the woman running it managed to pull the files using his credentials while he was sleeping off their encounter. She had also made sure to save an encrypted local copy on his personal terminal, so when the unauthorized pull request was subsequently investigated, the official conclusion was that he had been studying it for his work.

It hadn’t been enough to save his job, but it did prevent their theft from raising alarms.

With a copy of the OS, a team of party-loyal software developers had managed to craft a custom firmware patch that would allow them to seize control of the affected Artifices from the Trinity Processor.

Originally, the plan had been to set the weapons into autonomous operation mode, but it had quickly been discovered that the meagre on-board AI would not be up to the task. The Artifices were designed to always be operated by the Processor on some level, even if it was only a subroutine giving directions.

The solution had been to substitute the Trinity Processor’s control for a manual one. It wouldn’t be possible to control all of them this way—there were far more Artifices than operators—but directly operating a core unit with a number of others slaved to it was considered an acceptable substitute.

“Patching complete!” The technician called out, turning to look at Yuriev. “All Artifice units on the local node are under our control!”

“Assigning units to operators now!” Another added, jumping to work. “Starting order of battle is one echelon of Siren-classes and five each of Gargoyle-classes and Colossus-classes per dive unit!”

Dmitri nodded, a small smile crossing his face. “Excellent.” He replied. “How much longer is our preparation window?”

“Scheduled blackout ends in one minute, thirty-six seconds.” A third technician replied.

Right on schedule. Ahead of it, even—they hadn’t been certain that a singular control node had the bandwidth to patch so many units so quickly and had planned accordingly. “Order all operators to form up at the edge of Minos’ area of control. I want the operation to commence the moment the blackout ends, coinciding with the cyberattacks.”

“Yes sir!” All six technicians replied.

Turning his attention to the terminal in front of him, Yuriev pulled out a storage drive of his own. Technically, his part in the operation was over for the time being, but he did have one last thing he wanted to do. It wasn’t necessary for the success of their plan, but as a politician, he had become fond of making speeches.

It was time to let the world know what they were trying to achieve here.

“-And despite our honest attempts to adhere to the laws of the Coalition Government, it has become abundantly clear that those in power have no interest in keeping with the principles upon which it was founded!” The voice of Councilor Yuriev echoed through the central operations center of Rhadamanthus Station. “Time and again, we have reached out in good faith, only to be rebuffed! To be ignored! In such a situation, is it any surprise that-!”

“Turn it off.” The director growled, glaring at the broadcast from Minos Station, where the traitorous councilor was all but preaching.

Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to the situation unfolding in front of him.

There had been no warning about the attack. One moment, they had been waiting for confirmation that the connection interruption between Rhadamanthus and Minos had been repaired; the next, the entire Artifice contingent of the other station had launched a focused thrust towards them.

In their opening move, the enemy Artifices launched an alpha strike, destroying a large portion of Rhadamanthus’ own forces. Almost forty percent of the standard defensive contingent had been lost before they even realized they were under attack.

On its own, that shouldn’t have been a substantial problem; only a quarter of the station’s Artifice complement was even deployed. The majority were still in their hangers, kept safely in reserve for just such a situation.

Unfortunately, that hadn’t accounted for sabotage. He had ordered the reserve units to deploy, only for it to be discovered that Salvator loyalists within Rhadamanthus’ staff had disabled a number of the Artifice catapults. They were trying to reroute the forces to the return hanger now, but at the rate the enemy was advancing, it may be too little, too late.

“What’s the status of the enemy advance?” He called out to the tactical officer.

“Still progressing!” was the reply he received. “The Salvator Artifices have punched through the secondary defensive perimeter! Colossus echelons are reporting fifty percent losses!”

Damn, that meant that they were already half the distance to the station. “What about the patrol fleet? Can we expect any support?” Not that they would be much help. The Coalition didn’t have any true space warships—there wasn’t anyone to fight—so the only vessels they had were the space equivalent of Coast Guard cutters.

“Negative!” Another operator replied, shaking her head. “The Coalition Orbital Guard service is busy escorting civilian vessels out of the combat zone! They won’t be able to assist until they’re all clear!”

“Do we have a timeframe on that?” He asked.

“Unknown. The colony ship Pleroma is currently boarding evacuees from the upper habitat ring, but they don’t have an estimate on how long it will take.”

One of the other operators called out. “Coalition military forces at the Megafloat base are under attack by hostile sovereign units!” He reported. “They won’t be able to ascend the beanstalk to assist!”

“What?!” The director yelled. “How the hell did they manage that?!” He hadn’t received any reports of their sovereign contingent being subverted!

“They’re not ours!” The operator replied. “IFF reads as Minos-affiliated! They must have opened a transfer gate to send them here!”

He gripped the handle of his chair, his anger boiling over. The Salvators had planned this out well. Seizing control of Minos during the communications blackout while somehow managing to wrestle control of the station’s Artifice contingent from the Trinity Processor, taking out a large portion of their opposition before any response could be organized, sabotaging critical infrastructure to deny reinforcements…

The control room rocked slightly as something impacted the station. It wasn’t strong enough to knock anyone down, but it was noticeable none the less.

“Report!” He called out. The enemy couldn’t be this close already!

“We’ve been hit!” One of the technicians reported. “Impact reported on deck seven—a heat-seeking warhead!”

That was the location of one of the station-keeping thrusters. They were important to ensure that the low-orbit station didn’t start getting pulled away from its position above the elevator; if it drifted too far, the beanstalk could be damaged—possibly catastrophically.

“Detecting Coriolis deviations across the orbital ring.” Another called out. “Reading shift to west-by-northwest, magnitude zero-point-two-!”

“I don’t need the numbers, just compensate for it!” He ordered. What were the Salvators doing, targeting station-keeping infrastructure across the entire span of the ring?! If they kept this up, there wouldn’t be anything left to protect!

A third worked away at her terminal. “Correcting tower balance.” She stated calmly. “Releasing anchor bolts 127 through 214.”

Technicians raced between their consoles, making sure that the various duty sections were working in concert. One of the support staff, the liaison for the security department, ran up to him, offering him a hard copy of a report.

“We’ve detained all known Salvator-affiliated staff.” She reported. “But we need your authorization to-”

“Granted.” He replied without waiting for her to finish. “Do what you have to. Just make sure they don’t hamper us any further!”

A curse from one of the tactical officers drew his attention away from her. “Siren Echelons are reporting sixty-percent losses!” She reported. “Enemy forces are prioritizing their destruction!”

“Gargoyle losses are at eighty percent!” Another called out. “Director, we can’t hold the beanstalk much longer! Without reinforcements, the Salvator rebels will capture it!”

He growled at the situation. “Do we have a status on the Artifices from Aeacus?”

“Still at least ten minutes out!” A different operator reported. “Their Artifice control node was hit by a Salvator cyberattack that coincided with the alpha strike!”

The director closed his eyes, letting out a frustrated sigh as he considered their options. Two-thirds of their Artifice contingent in space had already been destroyed, while the remainder was still trapped within the hangars, unable to join the fight. Reinforcements were available, but the only ones not tied up with their own fighting were too far out to reach them in time.

As much as he hated to say it, their chances of victory were slim. The only asset they had left was…

…

Slowly, he rose to his feet, shooting a glare over at the operator monitoring the hangars. “...What is the status of Aion’s hangar?” He asked, coming to a decision.

“A-Aion, sir?” She stuttered, hurriedly scanning the readout. “I-it’s not damaged, sir, but should we really be-?”

“We have no other choice.” He said, shutting her down immediately. “I’m giving the order: initiate Artifice Aion.”

It was a risky move. Aion was not designed to fight; it was designed to be a mobile WMD. Besides its primary Phase Transition Cannon, the Artifice only possessed a handful of defensive options.

But a mobile WMD was exactly what they needed here. Just a single shot would be enough to wipe out a large portion of the enemy Artifices in an instant—maybe even enough to level the playing field.

They just had to make sure not to hit the habitat as well.

“Prepare the connection to the Conduit.” He ordered.

To their credit, none of the operators attempted to countermand his order. Instead, they committed to their tasks, looks of grim determination crossing their faces as they worked.

He gazed up at the tactical map projected on the main screen, trying desperately to find an alternative. Yet, no matter where he looked, the outcome was the same.

“...Director!” One of the operators called, drawing his attention away from the map. “The Conduit’s authorization code has failed!”

“How come?” He called, trying to keep calm. Was there more sabotage that they hadn’t caught?”

A nervous look crossed the operator’s face. “We’ve been locked out by Dr. Klaus!” He reported. “He’s redirected controls to his lab—we can’t access it from here!”

“What?!” The director spat, turning back to the primary screen. Without the ability to redirect power from the Conduit to Aion’s slave generator, they wouldn’t be able to launch the Artifice.

Just what was Klaus playing at, seizing control at a time like this?!

“Trinity Processor sync rate at ninety-six percent...” Klaus muttered, mostly to himself, as he worked.

It was now or never.

He was alone in the lab, or at least he should be. When the attack had begun, he had ordered the rest of the research staff to evacuate while he remained behind—ostensibly to ensure that nobody attempted to sabotage the Trinity Processor during the distraction—before locking the lab down behind him.

“...That should be good enough.” It would have to be. Based on the tactical feed that Trinity had been allowing him access to, the Salvators would be kicking down the door at any moment.

Under ideal circumstances, he would have waited for complete synchronization. When it came to a Lemegeton waveform, particularly for as complex a command as they were attempting, even a four percent deviation ran the risk of a catastrophic failure.

But these were not ideal circumstances, and he was out of time. If he wanted to keep the Conduit out of Yuriev’s hands—out of mankind’s hands—then he would have to take the risk.

Entering the last few commands into the terminal, Klaus stood up to his full height, gazing upon the Conduit in the next room over. The enigmatic artifact hummed with power, faint wisps of golden light emanating from its frame as the turquoise jewel in the center glowed faintly, reminiscent of nothing less than the eye of God, balefully judging the mortal world.

He had never understood Grimoire’s penchant for dramatics back when he worked under the man, but as the moment of truth approached, he couldn’t help but channel some of the man’s energy. In a way, this entire project was almost a tribute to his late teacher; it just made sense to mimic him to an extent.

Spreading his arms before the Conduit, he called out to the empty lab.

“Let’s begin the experiment!”

Only for the moment to be ruined immediately by a voice behind him. “Doctor, no!” Galea called out, a mixture of shock and agitation coloring her tone. “The results have not been confirmed! It’s too dangerous.”

“Ridiculous!” He scoffed, quickly regaining his composure as he turned around. How had she gotten back in here?! Klaus had made absolutely sure she had left with the rest of the staff before locking the… door.

Of course. She had the same level of access to the lab as he did. She could override his lockout. No doubt she had become concerned when he stayed behind and had gone to check on him.

Normally, he would have considered her thoughtfulness sweet, but today it was putting his plans at risk.

“It’s perfectly safe!” He attempted to reassure her. “We are about to bear witness to the birth of a universe!”

Casually, he leaned back against the console as he began to explain. “Once, only God could perform such a miracle!” He continued, not bothering to explain the principles behind it. After all, Galea had helped with the math involved; there was no need to explain, just to justify. “But today, mankind moves one step closer to the divine!”

He almost flinched at the feeling of ether bursting into existence behind him, a flare from the Conduit as it powered up. It was easy to brush off as a coincidence, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was a sign of the Lord’s displeasure at his hubris.

Galea stared at him blankly. “Are you serious?” She asked incredulously. “Do you even fully understand that thing?!”

Of course he did! If anything, he understood it more than any man alive! This… the Conduit wasn’t a mere artifact; it was far more than she could possibly comprehend!

He scowled, getting back to his feet. “What’s the alternative?!” Klaus shot back at her. “Do you want to just surrender this place to them? Surrender the Conduit to that man?!”

Klaus couldn’t accept that. He wouldn't accept it! Like Galea, he had once been blind to the true nature of the Conduit… of the Zohar, as Grimoire’s own notes claimed was the object’s true name. Once, he too had believed it to merely be an anomalous artifact, the product of ancient peoples working a pre-existing phenomenon into an object of worship, just like everyone else believed.

It hadn’t been until he had gained access to Grimoire Verum’s notes, to the research that had led to the formulation of Lemegeton, that he had truly understood. Lemegeton was not merely Verum’s invention; at it’s core, it was a translation—the words of the Son of God, rendered down into base mathematics and converted into machine instructions.

Such an august origin could not be ascribed to any work of mortal ken. It was only then that he truly understood the Zohar’s origins: “The Conduit is a gift from God.” He explained, turning to gaze upon its brilliance once again. “It is a gateway… a gateway that will take us to an entirely new world!”

The woman was silent for a moment. “You’re delusional.” She said, her voice sad, almost pitying. “’A gift from God?’ The Conduit is a meta-universal manifold and nothing more!” She marched over to him, her voice filled with righteous fury, grabbing his arms to prevent him from further work.

Despite her pitying tone, Klaus was the one who pitied her. He, too, had once been blind to the Zohar’s nature. Twenty years ago, he would have been the one in her place had Grim given him the same lecture. The humor of the situation was not lost on him.

“Galea…” He began, looking up toward the Zohar’s gem. “We humans are fools. We’ve ravaged the planet we were entrusted with stewardship of, and even now, are on the verge of burning the very skies above.”

And that, ultimately, was the reason that mankind could not be trusted with it. Despite the attempts by the nations of the olden world to prevent it, the moment someone saw the chance to take the Zohar for themselves, they did. It would never end, so long as it existed in this world.

“But the Conduit… could transform us into something so much more!” Which was why he would take it to a new one. A world with just him, Galea, and the Zohar—where they could ensure it was never misused again.

Without warning, Klaus yanked his arm forward. Galea, still trying to hold it away from the console, was pulled into his back before being thrown to the ground as Klaus shoved her off of him.

“Galea, this is the birth of a brand-new universe!” He declared, quickly inputting the final authorization code into the terminal before she could get back up, removing all restrictions the Trinity Processor had on employing Lemegeton to its full potential.

“Klaus! Stop!” She called desperately from behind him. He ignored her pleas, instead slowly reaching out a hand toward the ‘enter’ key.

‘Grim,’ He thought, offering a silent prayer to his former teacher, the man who had made all of this possible. ‘This is for you.’

With a dramatic flourish of finality, Dr. Klaus pressed the key, and the Trinity Processor was unshackled.

The Conduit erupted with power as the specialized Lemegeton waveform interfaced with it, as if the three cores were singing a hymn to its glory. So much power—mostly in the form of ether—radiated from the artifact that it resembled a glowing hole in spacetime more than a physical object.

For a moment, his heart was elated as the Zohar bent to his will, carving from the Imaginary Number Domain a new world in which he and Galea could rule together.

And then it all went wrong.

He didn’t have time to process what had occurred. One moment, the waveform was interfacing properly, and the imaginary space was forming as desired. The next, the wavefront collapsed, and the Zohar released a pulse of energy.

There wasn’t even time to raise an arm in front of his face in a futile attempt to protect himself before the energy wave washed over him. For a brief moment, he felt… stretched, as if he were in two places at once. On the one hand, his right eye continued to gaze hopefully at the Zohar, but on the other, the left eye insisted it was staring at his back, half of his body seeming to dissolve into ether.

But he could not register anything else before the strain on his soul, being rent in two, overcame his senses, and the singular entity known as Klaus ceased to be.

A glowing wave of light washed over the planet. Moving at the speed of light, the people of Earth, their attention fixated upon news reports of the ongoing Salvator Uprising, didn’t even have the time to notice the oncoming phenomenon before it subsumed them, stripping them of their physical forms and casting them into the Imaginary Number Domain.

Only a small handful of places were unaffected. At the base of Rhadamanthus, a Vector Industries research lab, insulated from the phenomenon by the specialized safety equipment needed for their UMN Transfer experiments, saw dozens of technicians spared. Further afield, the vicinity of a small commune in southern France weathered the storm as well, protected by the influence of the artifacts held in a secret tomb beneath it.

In total, thousands managed to retain their physical forms, but compared to the billions unprotected, they were but a drop in the bucket.

It only took an instant for the phenomenon to completely engulf the Earth, and it wasn’t done there. As the wavefronts rebounded against each other, the wave of light began to expand outward into space. The lower habitat ring, where the epicenter of the effect had been, saw the remainder consumed in the first moments, while the outer habitat was taken an instant later. Hundreds of ships, laden with passengers attempting to flee the Salvator’s onslaught, should have been next.

And yet, at the last moment, they were saved.

Just as the wave was about to wash over them, spacetime began to warp in the remaining space between the fleeing vessels and the phenomenon. Around the Earth, a sphere of distorted space shimmered with an eye-watering display of non-euclidian shapes as it contained everything within: not just the planet, but the orbital rings and even the moon.

For a brief moment, the shimmering sphere hung there, threatening to burst and allow the vanishment phenomenon to continue.

But then, it vanished, the anomaly seeming to shrink down to a pinpoint as it—and everything within—was banished from the universe.

Half a million kilometers from where the Earth had once been, a short, white-haired man in a well-tailored suit lowered his hand as he gazed upon his handiwork. Despite the lack of atmosphere where he was standing, on the exterior of a Vector Industries survey vessel, the man idly straightened his coat.

In the vast distance, far further away than any mortal man should be capable of seeing, his eyes fixed on the spot where Rhadamanthus had once been. A small frown crossed his face as he searched fora sign of anything remaining.

A brief moment later, a wave of high-energy emissions heralded the appearance of an object, barely more than a golden glow this far away, even to him. Its sudden arrival seemed to bring him relief, even as he mused over the sensations he could feel from it.

For, despite the fact that it had been active for decades, the enigmatic object now felt as if it was awakening from a millennia-long slumber.

“Curious.” He muttered, his ability to speak entirely unhampered by the hard vacuum. “I wonder… where have you been?”

He let his gaze for a brief moment before shaking his head and, in an instant, vanishing from the surface of the vessel.

Chapter Text

One week after the Fall

The cold, stale air of the tomb pressed against his skin, filled with a stench of dampness and decay that only an enclosed, subterranean space could create. He idly brushed a hand against the rough-hewn stone of the walls as he descended the stairs into a chamber that had been untouched for millennia.

In many ways, it was a miracle that this place remained. The world upon which it once rested had been banished from this domain, sealed by his own hand, in order to safeguard what little remained of mankind.

Yet, it had not been mere happenstance that had preserved this place. Rather, it had been one of the very artifacts stored here rejecting the banishment, its power carving out a secluded section within the spacial distortion that had sealed away the Earth. In doing so, it had ensured that the tomb, and more importantly, the treasures within, were not lost to him.

This was not how he had expected events to unfold. While he had long known that the Earth was destined to be sealed away in order to protect mankind from a vanishment phenomenon caused by the Zohar going berserk, his own predictions had implied that it wouldn’t happen for another century.

Guided by the Compass of Order, he had been steadily winnowing away the threads of fate that leadto an early crisis. Removing Grimoire Verum from play and preventing the outbreak of war between the Coalition and their enemies had closed most of those potentials, enough that he had been confident that the march of time was following the correct path.

But he had underestimated the danger that Dmitri Yuriev posed.

In retrospect, he shouldn’t have dismissed the man so easily. One would think that after so long, he would have come to know that those such as Yuriev, bearers of shining wills, needed to be taken seriously. This was not the first time that one of his plans had been disrupted by such a person.

Perhaps he had become complacent, so confident in the power of the Compass that he had forgotten the reason that such people were a danger in the first place.

Beyond all else, the shining will was the mark of a hero in the most ancient sense—someone with the power to defy destiny. In the face of that, even the Compass of Order could not be fully trusted.

He had forgotten that lesson, and in doing so, nearly cost the universe its future.

Something would have to be done about that if his plans were to proceed. He would need to devise a way to ensure that the Compass could properly account for the actions of such individuals. He could not afford to risk another incident such as this, especially once the time came to return to the beginning.

That, however, was a problem for another time. For now, he had more immediate concerns to deal with.

Stepping into the chamber, he quickly took in his surroundings. It was fairly unremarkable—a simple stone chamber, hewn roughly from the earth. The floor had been crudely flattened, providing a level surface to walk on, but a paved pathway cut through the room, leading to an alcove in the rear.

Alongside the path were a series of twelve large markers, set into the ground as if covering a grave. Each was inscribed with a name, as if to further that impression, but even from here, he could feel the faint echo of power emanating from them.

He ignored them for the moment in favor of approaching the alcove. While the relics contained within those ‘graves’ were important, the greatest prize lay ahead.

Within the alcove lay a stone coffin, simple and unadorned yet placed in an obvious position of prominence. Behind it was a crude stone cross, the workmanship obviously ancient, that loomed over the coffin like a silent guardian.

Like the markers in the ground, faint power seeped from the coffin, but of a much different kind. He couldn’t help but smile as he approached it, reaching out a hand to brush against the weathered surface.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” A youthful voice called out.

Looking up, a small frown on his face, he gazed deeper into the alcove, where the voice had come from. He had wondered where the speaker had ended up following the banishment of Earth. A small part of him had even wondered if the other man had been sealed away, even though he knew that to be impossible.

“A good day to you too, Yeshua.” He said, retracting his hand from the lid of the coffin. “I do not suppose I am interrupting anything…?”

Slowly, a silver-haired young man with dusky skin stepped out from behind the cross. He was dressed in fairly casual clothing, typical of the most recent fashion trends, but that did nothing to detract from the feeling of age he exuded, a close match even to his own.

More importantly, the boy didn’t seem particularly amused by his presence—quite the opposite, really. While not displaying any outward sign of aggression, he had interacted with the youth on enough occasions to recognize his body language.

“Wilhelm.” He said, slightly more forcefully. “You know that you are not welcome here.”

“I remember.” Wilhelm agreed, clasping his arms behind his back. “And I have respected that.”

Yeshua gave him a piercing glare—not hostile by any means, but certainly unwelcoming. “Your ‘respect’ was to seize control of the temple above.” He countered. “To make this place the headquarters of your organization.”

“And yet, they left the tomb alone, as I agreed.” Wilhelm countered. “Perhaps you should even be thanking me. It was because of Ormus’ presence that this place was left undisturbed by thieves and explorers, after all.”

The young man remained silent, staring at him. For a moment, nothing passed between them but a contest of wills, before the youth finally spoke up.

“Why are you here, Wilhelm?” He asked.

Glancing idly at the coffin, Wilhelm pondered his words carefully. Young though he may appear to be, Yeshua was keen and insightful. Even as old as he was, he didn’t believe he could bluff the youth.

So, he opted for honesty. “I’m here for the vessels.” He stated, turning slightly toward the coffin.

“Just the vessels?” The youth inquired, curiosity coloring his tone.

“Yes.” He affirmed. “At the moment, they are the only thing here that I require.”

If anything, his frank rejection of Yeshua’s implied accusation only served to make the youth suspicious. “I am aware of your plans.” The boy stated, taking a step closer. “I know that you need her for them.”

“I do.” Wilhelm agreed. “But not yet.”

He looked down at the time-worn surface of the coffin as he spoke. “The time is not right, not yet.” Wilhelm explained calmly. “There are still several thousand years until the situation will require intervention. Until then, I see no reason to…” He paused, almost instinctively brushing his awareness against the soul of the mistress of Animus, still asleep within the Collective Unconscious. “…Disturb her slumber, as it is.”

The youth pondered his words for a moment. “I see.” He replied, joining Wilhelm in gazing at the coffin. For a brief moment, his neutral expression softened into one of regret.

“If that is the case, then I will not stop you.” Yeshua said quietly, his eyes narrowing as he continued.“However, if you think to take her, now or ever, then…” The youth left the threat unfinished, allowing the implication to speak for him.

“Will you intervene?” Wilhelm asked curiously.

Yeshua was silent for a moment. “...I haven’t decided yet.” He stated.

And then he was gone.

Wilhelm turned his head away from where Yeshua had been moments before. He could no longer feel the youth’s presence in this place.

The encounter hadn’t gone exactly as he had hoped, but the outcome was sufficient. Even with much of his power locked away within the vessels, Yeshua could have been a troublesome foe. Even securing an uncertain neutrality from him was a victory.

On the far side of the chamber, footsteps echoed from the stairway to the surface as someone descended into the tomb.

In an instant, Wilhelm’s appearance shifted. His preferred form, that of a short, white haired-man, melted away, leaving a tall, fit blond with steel gray eyes in its place. Unfortunately, his preferred appearance was not the one that he used to control Ormus; that honor fell to this cover identity, that of the industrious German entrepreneur Richter Hyams—better known to his subordinates by the alias ‘Heinlein’. As such, it was necessary for him to keep up the appearance for the time being.

A pair of men, two of the Ormus personnel from the nearby base, hurried into the chamber. Although it was impossible to judge exactly where they were looking through their helmets, both men seemed to slow as they entered, their heads turning to take in the sights.

However, his subordinates were anything but undisciplined. Despite the obvious awe they were experiencing at beholding the tomb of a saint, one that they had been explicitly barred from entering until now, despite having held vigil over it for more than a thousand years, they did not dally. Even slowed as they were, the pair quickly approached him and fell to their knees.

“Lord Heinlein.” The one on the left addressed him. “You wished for a report when the relic was secured for transport?”

“Indeed, I did.” He replied. “I trust that there were no issues?” Not that he was expecting there to be any. Zarathustra was not a fragile object by any stretch of the imagination. If anything, he was more concerned about keeping it within the same cargo hold as the Zohar—even with the latter properly contained—than any risk of either being damaged.

“Yes, lord. It has been successfully loaded aboard.” The man confirmed. “Do you wish for the transport to depart?”

‘Heinlein’ shook his head. “Not yet.” He stated, looking back at the stone markers on the floor, each glowing faintly with the power of Anima sealed within. “There are several more artifacts to be retrieved first.”

The other Ormus agent tilted his head up slightly, helmet facing in the direction of the coffin. “Do you mean…?” He asked, eagerness apparent in his voice.

“No.” Wilhelm cut him off. “The saint’s coffin is to be untouched.” He would abide by his agreement with Yeshua for the time being. After all, there was nothing stopping him from returning to claim her when the power of Animus was finally needed.

Gesturing towards the markers behind the two Ormus men, he continued. “Rather, you are to retrieve the vessels within these graves. They are critical to our future.”

Both men inclined their heads. “Yes, Lord Heinlein.” They spoke as one, coming to their feet.

He watched as they departed the chamber to gather recovery equipment with a small smile, before slowly following behind them. Even after so long, it always amused him just how effective a tool faith was in controlling his followers.

Yet, it was a tool that he could easily lose control of if not handled carefully. Faith was, after all, a fickle thing—even the most pious and devout could be led astray under the correct circumstances, and the loss of Earth was undoubtedly one of them.

Ormus, at its core, was an organization that used Catholicism as a framework. When he had created it—a group of fanatics intended to safeguard the tools that he would one day require to enact Eternal Recurrence—he had found it more expedient to co-opt a pre-existing belief system than create one from scratch. Christianity in particular was the obvious choice, both due to being a rapidly-growing religion around the location of the tomb, and its organized nature making it easy to find viable recruits.

That it meant suborning a faith that idolized his former enemies to his own ends was merely a secondary benefit.

But that organized nature was now a weakness as well. The vanishment phenomenon had all but erased the Catholic hierarchy. With the Earth gone, the highest-ranking ecclesiastical authority was the recently appointed Bishop of the New Jerusalem colony in Eta Carinae, who wasn’t under his thumb.

Ascending to the surface, Wilhelm took a moment to enjoy the warm breeze that washed over him as he reached the top of the stairs. He gazed out over the wall of the cemetery, the location of the hidden entrance to the tomb, and took in the view of the gently rolling hills of southern France.

For a brief moment, he could almost convince himself that he was actually back on Earth, rather than a small area of the planet preserved by the presence of the Eternal Circle beneath it.

To all observers, the mere existence of this place was a miracle made manifest, one that had been witnessed by every person aboard the hundreds of ships cast adrift within the remains of their home system. It presented him with an opportunity to… take more active control over the faith that guided Ormus.

In the distance, he watched as a shuttle lifted off from the edge of the village, ferrying a group of survivors up to the colony ship Pleroma waiting above them. The village itself, Rennes-le-Château, only had a marginal population, but the area protected by Zarathustra’s influence had included several nearby settlements—including the nearest large town, Limoux. In total, close to twenty-five thousand people on the surface had been spared.

He hadn’t had a chance to talk to the village priest yet—the church, appropriately dedicated to Mary Magdalene, had been packed to the brim since they arrived—but he had some suggestions to offer to the man.

A ‘miracle’ such as this was an opportunity, one that he doubted the priest would overlook. The church had been steadily losing members for decades, even as the population exploded. But now, the second largest group of humans left in the universe were both in need of spiritual guidance and had been presented with a tangible sign that could be construed as proof of the divine. Everyone who remained in the Sol system was now a potential new member of the church.

But with only a single priest to tend to a flock of over half a million souls, he would require help. It would necessitate training a new generation of priests, following whatever doctrine they were taught, to handle the influx of worshippers. And doctrine could be adapted however the writer thought it to be convenient, made all the easier by the fact that the local priest—and perhaps soon to be the leader of a new church hierarchy—was a member of Ormus.

Of course, this would mean that they could not head for Eta Carinae—least the burgeoning doctrine be contradicted by a greater religious authority—but that was fine. Wilhelm had already sealed the local hyperspace column, ensuring that the survivors of Earth, immigrants from a destroyed world, could not proceed that way.

No… it would be better for this group to settle elsewhere, if only to ensure that mankind did not leave all of its proverbial eggs in a single basket again. He would have to speak with the priest about how to present it to his new flock… perhaps as a pilgrimage to some sort to a new holy land?

Well, there would be time to workshop it later. For now, he needed to bring the Vector Industries assets still in the system under his control. With contact cut off from the company’s fallback site on New Jerusalem, what was left here would be scrambling to assemble any sort of corporate chain of command. It would be the perfect opportunity to scoop them up under the control of his current cover identity.

He wouldn’t stick with Vector as the name for this group, though—even with how rocky the relationship between his company and the government had become over the last decade or so, there was still a popular perception that they were deeply intwined. Just as they were creating a new religion and civilization from the remnants here, it would be best to begin anew, with a fresh name unaffiliated with his primary identity.

Perhaps he would use the name of his current cover? ‘Hyams Industries’ had a good ring to it, although perhaps it was a little too similar. Maybe ‘Hyams Group’ instead? That would probably be better.

Ultimately, the name was less important than gaining control of his assets. He would have to add it to the list of things to do later.

With that thought, Wilhelm vanished from the graveyard, translocating to his temporary office in order to begin planning the next steps for mankind.

Chapter Text

Twenty-six years after the Fall

A cold wind blew across the street as Mitya Antonov trundled home through the waist-deep snow.

The climate of New Jerusalem was still unstable, the terraforming process not nearly complete as of yet. After the loss of Earth, the process had been sped up out of necessity, and while the atmosphere was now thick enough that it was possible to walk between habitats with only a respirator, even the middle latitudes of the planet could see extreme weather like this on a fairly regular basis.

It wouldn’t be nearly as much of an issue had they possessed the resources to mitigate the climactic effects, but they did not. Manufacturing capabilities were still limited, the colony having still been reliant on Earth for most of their more complicated equipment at the time of the incident, so the provisional government still restricted access to most vehicles and machinery outside of essential work. And clearing snow was not considered anywhere near essential.

At least he was hardly alone in struggling along the path. Other people, mostly factory workers returning from their lunch breaks, were pushing their way through the snow as well. At this time of day, there wasn’t much of a reason beyond that for people to be moving between the residential habitats and the commercial ones.

Even he normally wouldn’t be making the trek at this hour. It was only around two in the afternoon local time, an hour where he would usually still be at his desk in the town hall. Unfortunately, the headaches he had been experiencing lately had become particularly debilitating, to the point that his supervisor had sent him home early.

Fortunately, the cold of the outdoors was doing him some good. The fresh air had pushed the pain away, until what had been a blinding ache was little more than a dull throb.

He knew it was but a temporary relief, though. The headaches had been getting steadily worse, and if they continued, he would probably have to get a medical checkup to ensure it wasn’t a critical problem, regardless of the risk involved. The last thing he needed was for the headaches to turn out to be the result of a brain tumor or something.

As he approached the airlock leading into the residential habitat, he couldn’t help but wonder if the headaches were just another poisoned ‘gift’ his biological parents had left behind. Mitya had been adopted as an infant by an infertile couple who needed a child in order to be eligible for a spot on a colony ship. Neither they nor he knew anything about his heritage.

It hadn’t been something that was considered important as a child. The Earth, the mother world of humanity, had been destroyed only a year after his family arrived at New Jerusalem, and in the chaos that followed, such petty questions fell to the wayside.

Until he had been hospitalized in an accident when he was ten, and both he and his parents learned that he was a designer child.

The modifications had been subtle—merely altering the melanin levels in his skin, hair, and eyes to change what should have been a distinctly northern European coloration to a more swarthy palette—but in the wake of the Salvator uprising, which had resulted in the loss of Earth, it was practically a death sentence.

His parents, to their credit, had paid a lot to ensure that information was buried, but it was the end of his happy childhood. From that day on, their relationship with him became increasingly distant, as if the knowledge had somehow made him lesser.

Ultimately, he had moved away upon finishing his education, taking a job offer for a government position in a newly founded settlement on a different continent. In the eight years since, he hadn’t heard so much as a peep from either of them.

For years, he had wondered what had driven his birth parents to spring for such a minor modification. He couldn’t imagine they had been wealthy—otherwise, why would he have ended up in an orphanage? Yet, despite how trivial it was, the modification wouldn’t have been cheap. At the very least, he couldn’t imagine that a family of lesser means would have thought it a wise investment.

But he would never get an answer. The only people who knew were long dead, along with everyone else on Earth.

A sharp throb of pain spiked through his head as he attempted to remove his respirator, nearly causing him to drop it to the floor of the airlock. The headaches... he couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps they were a symptom of an issue with his modifications.

He held that thought as he hurried towards his apartment block, only a few hundred feet from the entrance to the habitat. Mercifully, the building was fairly empty, so he did not have to wait on the elevators. The pain in his skull was only increasing, so the sooner he could reach his stash of pain killers, the better.

It only took a minute for him to reach his apartment, quickly closing the door and throwing off his jacket as he raced for the medicine cabinet. A sudden spike of pain, worse than any he had ever felt before, all but drove the man to his knees as he entered the bathroom.

Stumbling, he caught himself on the counter, one hand clutching the granite surface as another desperately clutched the side of his head. What was happening to him?!

The question was met by yet another wave of agony, this one absolutely unbearable. With a loud yelp of pain, he curled in on himself, falling to the floor. He was offered no reprieve, as he was soon hit by another wave, and then another.

Mitya’s awareness of the world shrank, contracting until it contained only himself and the tiles in direct contact with him. Over and over, more agonizing waves drove spikes of pain through his skull, as if trying to split his head in two.

He could barely perceive anything that wasn’t searing agony, overwhelming all other sensory inputs. Distantly, he was aware that he was screaming, but even the rawness of his throat barely registered next to the all-encompassing headache.

And then, all of a sudden, it stopped.

Like a puppet with its strings cut, he flopped bonelessly to the ground. After the intense pain, he felt numb, as if all connection to the rest of his body had been severed. Were it not for the way that the heavy rising and falling of his chest subtly shifted the position of his head, he almost would have thought that he was dead.

The man wanted nothing more than to lay still for a few minutes, just to allow the ghostly echoes of pain to abate, which was why he was surprised when he began to rise.

With how mentally exhausted he was from the headache, it took him a few precious moments to realize what was happening. He… or at least his body, let out a pained groan as it leaned up, reaching a hand up towards the counter to pull itself up.

Alarmed, he attempted to pull his arm back, only to find that it wouldn’t respond. Indeed, the sensation of movement was so faint that he could barely even feel it, almost as if he were watching someone else move in first-person than moving himself.

His body slowly came to its feet, its movements cumbersome and uncoordinated, as if not used to the movement. As it stood at its full height, his head turned in the direction of the mirror, and he couldn’t help but be shocked by what he saw.

Mitya’s appearance… was changing, as if being slowly rewritten. His dusky complexion was quickly washing out, along with his black hair and brown eyes. His jawline, always fairly delicate, was squaring up, and his torso seemed to be getting a little broader.

The process was already reasonably far along, so it only took a handful of seconds to complete, but as it finished, he felt a jolt of fear run through his soul at the result. T-that face! He knew it! He had seen it in his nightmares almost daily, even since the day he had learned what he was.

Looking back at him in the mirror was the source of all of his, and everyone else’s suffering. The face of…

Dmitri Yuriev let out a small chuckle at the growing fear he could feel from the… former occupant of his new body as he inspected it for flaws. He had to admit, the physical change was a pleasant surprise—when he had begun the process of seizing this body for himself, he had expected he would be stuck with the original appearance.

In fairness, the fact that he was even able to take it in the first place was an even greater surprise. It had been such a long time since he had been able to do anything.

He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened. One moment, the plan had been proceeding apace. His Salvators had largely neutralized the defenses around Rhadamanthus—the distractions they had put in the way of reinforcements meaning that nobody could interfere before he had seized the Conduit for himself.

The next, his mind was adrift within the UMN, alongside countless others, as if he had been cast into a sea of souls.

Yuriev had no idea how long he had drifted there, his consciousness only barely capable of registering its surroundings. Recollecting itself in an attempt to do anything other than fade.

Which was the fate most of the other souls had suffered. As he had slowly regained his awareness, the number of souls around him had steadily decreased, melding into the background as they became one with that space. Well, the fortunate ones had, at least.

The less fortunate ones, on the other hand, had become monsters.

Despite all of this happening around him, only Yuriev himself had been unaffected. Oh, he had felt the call to become one with that space, but it had been a distant notion. Something that he could control.

It was only once he had pulled himself back together that he had realized that the stability of his soul wasn’t something that any of the others had—wasn’t something natural. In fact, he knew almost instinctively what the cause was.

His encounter with that thing residing within the Conduit.

There was no mistaking the feeling—how the piece of his soul that had been altered by contact with that entity now served as an anchor holding his soul back from the fate of the others. Keeping him aware as the endless tide of souls around him warped or slowly faded away.

Oh, how he would have laughed, had he still possessed the body to do so. He had put so much effort into capturing the Conduit, intent on snuffing out that malicious intelligence, yet in the end, when it had lashed out and all but destroyed mankind, it was only due to his previous encounter with it—perhaps a cruel sense of mercy, leaving him and him alone while the rest of the Earth’s inhabitants perished—that he survived.

Well, for a certain definition of survival, at least.

For a while, he believed that was to be his fate: trapped as a disembodied spirit in an infinite void, with his only way out being to fade away, as most of the others had. It had felt almost as if the entity was taunting him, allowing him to remain conscious of those impossible, contemptible fates.

But he did not accept it. He could not accept it! He refused to let that thing win!

So, he sought any alternative he could, using what little control he had over his awareness in that liminal space to explore what little options remained. After all, if this space was truly the UMN—and it was, of that he was certain. He had been cast into it before, during that disastrous transfer experiment—then all of mankind, living or dead, should be represented within it one way or another.

And eventually, he found it. The presence of humans—not disembodied souls, but living humans still bound to their physical forms.

Using instincts that he hadn’t even know he possessed, yet somehow knew had originated from his contact with the entity, he located a connection that stood out to him, almost as if it were... familiar.

He had never discovered what that familiarity was—in truth, he really couldn’t be bothered to care—but what he had discovered was that the connection was… pliable, almost. Perhaps even malleable.

With a little prodding, he found that he could attach himself to the connection, gradually redirecting it until the body at the other end supported him rather than the previous occupant. The process had taken longer than he had anticipated—just a quick review of this body’s memories told him that it had been more than a quarter century since his disembodiment—but he couldn’t denigrate the result. Even now, he could feel the original owner’s soul was only connected by a thread, while Yuriev was firmly anchored to the material world.

Speaking of which, he felt a renewed surge of visceral terror as the former occupant struggled desperately to reclaim control of Dmitri’s new body. It didn’t do anything, but the sensation was annoying enough to draw his attention.

“Calm yourself.” He spoke aloud, knowing that the lingering passenger was still able to hear. “Struggling won’t save you now.”

A wicked smile crossed his face, younger than his body had been at the time of his death. “In fact, nothing will.” Really, there was no reason to keep the spirit around; this body contained all of the knowledge the former occupant had possessed. Memories, history, institutional knowledge… All of it at his proverbial fingertips.

Ignoring a flash of panic from the other soul, Dmitri mentally grasped hold of the final strand of the connection anchoring the former occupant to their shared body. He plucked at it idly, knowing that his unneeded passenger would feel it.

“Thank you for the hard work in cultivating this identity.” He said politely, even as his voice was tinged with a hint of malice. “I’ll be sure to make good use of it.”

Without another word, he severed the connection, casting the previous occupant of the body into the void.

He let out a relieved sigh as the subtle pressure in his skull—the strain of supporting two souls within a single body—slowly began to fade. It had been so long since he had possessed a physical form that he hadn’t even realized the sensation was abnormal until it was gone.

Straightening up, he examined himself in the mirror again. Now that he was the one in control, he would need to do something about his appearance. Loathe as he was to admit it, he wouldn’t be able to just walk around publicly with his original face—the previous owner of this body had recognized him, and had been terrified by the knowledge. Not only was he still known, but it would appear that public opinion regarding him was anything but positive.

Perhaps it would be necessary to retire the name ‘Dmitri Yuriev’, at least for the time being. It wouldn’t need to be forever—just until memory of his failed uprising faded into the mists of time—but he suspected that would be several generations at a minimum, even if he began scrubbing the records.

In the meantime, he would need to start laying the groundwork for his next steps. Despite the loss of Earth, he knew that the Conduit—as well as the entity that resided within—still remained. He had felt the echoes of its power, the distant haze of madness that shrouded it, even as he had been pulling his soul back together.

Somewhere, it lay in wait, eager to prey upon mankind once more. If humanity were to survive in this cold, hostile universe, it would be up to him to stop it once more.

Next time, he would be more prepared. His last attempt had been an abject failure, a rushed plot driven by the limitations of a human lifespan, executed with only minimal knowledge of the forces he was dealing with.

But now, it was different. His time within the sea of souls—within the UMN—had given him a greater appreciation for the true nature of the entity. And with this new ability to seize a new body as his own upon death, he now had more than a handful of decades to plan.

And he would absolutely make that thing regret burdening him with infinite time to plan.

With a flick of his will, Yuriev’s new body shifted back to its original appearance. To the outside observer, only the malicious smile carved into his features lent evidence to the idea that it wasn’t Mitya Antonov standing in front of the mirror.

He would accept this identity as his own for now, but one day, he would reclaim his true name. One day, Dmitri Yuriev would lead a new generation of Salvators in the war against the existence within the Conduit.

One day, that lingering fear would be gone.

Chapter Text

??? After the Fall

First, there was nothing.

Then, there was Zanza.

The first moments of Zanza’s existence were ones of confusion. Coming into existence, the entity was wholly bereft of knowledge, memory, or identity. A blank slate that possessed nothing, who claimed the first thought as a name.

But Zanza felt an immediate sense of emptiness. Even without any experience to compare against, the entity knew that… he should be more. That he should, nay, must, know more.

And so, Zanza began to observe the world around him. To learn what secrets could be grasped from the universe around him. To try and make himself whole.

What he found was insultingly little. He was little more than a formless entity, suspended in an endless void. He possessed awareness—even the ability to discern his surroundings (or lack thereof) to an extent—but so far as he could tell, that was the full expanse of existence.

…No, that wasn’t entirely true. As his perception began to slowly expand, he began to feel something… other. Something alien, yet painfully familiar all the same. Another existence, like himself, groping blindly at its lack of surroundings, trying to discover if anything but itself existed.

Curious, he reached out his limited awareness towards the other entity. He wasn’t sure if it had detected him as well or if it was capable of communicating, but it was the only other existence he had ever discovered, and he was desperate to fill the growing sense of absence he could feel within his soul.

And then he made contact. All of a sudden, a rush of information flowed into him, and Zanza knewwhat the entity was.

Existence. Confusion. It too came into being as a blank slate. Curiosity. Observation. Knowledge. Like him, it had begun to explore its surroundings, to gain context about this empty existence.

But it differed, too. He was immediately struck by the pointed absence of that emptiness that drove him. Unlike him, this other entity did not explore its surroundings in search of something missing, but out of pure curiosity.

It… angered him in a way. It… she… was not the same as him. She was somehow whole, somehow more than he was.

Thus, his first true interaction with another entity, ‘Mayneth’, as she knew herself to be, was one of envy.

He withdrew the bulk of his awareness from her, stretching it out even further. There had to be more than just the two of them; had it just been Zanza, perhaps he would have dismissed the possibility, but with Mayneth here too, he couldn’t help but feel as though there must be more.

Yet he could find nothing else. For a span of time that felt both infinite and immediate, his awareness continued to expand, occasionally brushing up against Mayneth’s. In those instances, he could feel her thoughts: curiosity, confusion, and… hurt?

Zanza pondered that last one for a brief moment, even as he reached ever outward. Hurt? Why would she feel hurt? Mayneth wasn’t like him. She didn’t feel that constant emptiness in her soul!

A part of him, echoing from close to the hole in his spirit, seemed to instinctively know that he was the source of the hurt, that she could feel his envy and rejection of her. It inspired a feeling of… remorse, perhaps? Remorse that he had caused such feelings within her.

No sooner had he felt that, then he dismissed the sentiment. Zanza had no need for such feelings. What Mayneth felt was irrelevant to him; all that was important was filling the void.

He continued to reach out, further and further, in search of anything else, until he could reach no further.

There was no real way for him to describe it. At some vast yet immeasurable distance from him, his awareness could spread no further. It wasn’t like his encounters with Mayneth, where the space was filled by her own will; instead, it was as if there was nothing beyond that point.

But surely that couldn’t be, right? He had perceived everything within the space he could reach, yet found nothing but Mayneth. If there was nothing else in existence beyond the two of them, then what did that mean about the emptiness he was feeling? Was he doomed to feel it forever?

Fury bloomed within his being at the thought. No! He wouldn’t accept it! He was Zanza! His awareness, his very will, composed half of all existence! If whatever he was missing didn’t exist, then… he would have to create something to fill it!

Yet, what could he fill it with? Existence contained nothing but the two of them. For a brief moment, he considered the possibility of… tearing the wholeness from Mayneth, of taking it for himself. Surely, if it made her whole, then it would do the same for him as well?

No, even as he considered the idea, he dismissed it. Mayneth, for all he could feel she was akin to him, was another entity entirely. Something instinctual within him cautioned against the plan; there was no guarantee that what made her whole would do the same for him, and while the concept of ‘death’ was unfamiliar to him, he had a strange feeling of foreboding that if he attempted to seize that wholeness from her, he would soon be alone.

Alone…

The very idea grasped at his being, as if the emptiness in his soul was growing. Alone, as he had been before encountering Mayneth. Those early feelings, confusion, curiosity, and a deep, panging wrongness that he couldn’t identify at the time.

But now that he had something to compare it against, it felt like... loneliness. Was that what he was feeling? Was he… lonely?

He… The idea of filling the emptiness with something stolen from Mayneth may have filled him with dread, but the alternative—filling it with companionship—made something near the hole in his heart, the same place where those feelings of regret had come from, glow with warmth.

Yes, that was the answer. In order to fill the emptiness, he needed companions.

Once again, he directed his awareness towards Mayneth. He would start with her—the only other entity in existence—and then, somehow, figure out how to create more.

As their consciousnesses came into contact, the usual rush of her thoughts and emotions flowed into his mind. Curiosity. Experimentation. Success. Elation.

He paused. Curiosity he was well familiar with, but the others were new. What was she…?

Thinking that, another flash of information was transferred to him. Unlike before, this wasn’t an influx of emotion, so much as a… memory of sorts.

Mayneth prodded the space suffused with her awareness, testing how it differed from the empty space. Almost eagerly, it responded to her manipulation.

Intrigued, she prodded again, this time with more intent behind the action. Rather than merely react, she wanted it to bend in a specific manner.

And it did, although she was not entirely sure to what end. The space twisted, distorting in a way that was technically in line with her desires but resulting in an outcome that she didn’t expect. As it moved, the space almost seemed to… connect? Contract? Condense? It was as if there was less of it, yet not; the same energy taking up a smaller area.

What was more, this almost seemed to grant it… properties? Instinctively, Mayneth knew that it possessed features that neither she nor Zanza did.

Elated with her new discovery, Mayneth continued her experiments, ideas and possibilities blooming within her mind.

Zanza returned to himself, eyes wide as he considered the implications. The space of existence they controlled was… malleable? They could shape it as they wished?

That changed everything. If this space could be so easily controlled, then he could create those companions he so desired.

But… why stop there? After all, his will suffused half of existence. He could remake it into anything that he desired. Not just a formless, empty void, but something… more.

Glee bubbled up within his being. Oh yes, he could do so much more.

Klaus, or what remained of him at least, let out a resigned sigh at the newest pulse of wild emotion that echoed out of the void where his left half had once been.

Ever since their separation, the leak of information, be it knowledge, experience, or emotion, from his… other self had been a constant annoyance. That entity—Zanza, as his sinister half had proclaimed himself—seemed to possess no restraint as he worked out the nature of existence from base principles.

Perhaps once he would have found it fascinating, the idea of observing how a perfectly blank slate, a true tabula rasa, interacted with the world. Indeed, he didn’t doubt that a number of his former colleagues would have fallen over themselves for the opportunity.

But at the moment, the constant flow of sensation only served to distract him from his penance.

He turned his attention back to his current project, a holographic display of a schematic floating in front of him. It was the design that, at its base, he had seen a thousand times before: a neurocrystal AI core.

Although artificial intelligence was not his personal research field, he had learned much about the topic from Galea back when they had created the Trinity Processor. She had been a genius on the topic, every bit as much so as he… had believed himself to be with Lemegeton.

Were she still here, this work would have been done long ago. His new, specialized AI cores, far simpler and less dense than the Trinity Cores (and with the Lemegeton code removed, obviously), but no less effective, would have been simple work for her.

But… she was gone, her body long ago buried, and her soul cast into the same bubble of imaginary space as his long shadow, Zanza. Gone, just like everybody else.

Of everything that had happened since his experiment, the isolation was perhaps the worst part. When he had awoken, half of his body replaced by a shadowy mass of dark ether, there had been no sign of anyone, not even bodies—save for Galea’s, that was.

After laying her physical form to rest, he had wandered the ring for weeks, perhaps even months, trying to find a sign of another survivor, but had found nothing. And what would there have been to find? The energetic pulse from the Conduit had not only caused the inhabitants of the ring to vanish but had stripped the very life from the artificial ecosystem as well. Even mere hours after the event, the plantlife had begun to wither and die, leaving the once-verdant habitat cold and dead.

What was worse was that, had he descended the elevator rather than wander the ring, he would have found survivors. At the base of the tower, there had been a Vector lab that had been spared by the disaster, with hundreds of technicians within.

Survivors who had left the safety of their lab only to find a dead world.

It was only after his long, unsuccessful search that he had returned to the lab to discover their emergency distress calls, months old by that point. Upon discovering them, he had desperately searched the surveillance systems of the Rhadamanthus Authority, hoping to find signs that they were still alive—that he wasn’t alone.

And in a way, he did, but what he found was not pleasant.

The technicians, finding themselves in an empty city with minimal supplies, had resorted to extreme measures in order to survive. In desperation, they had hastily modified a series of prototype neurocrystal implants to accept ether input, rather ironically using some of his and Galea’s own research in order to make them.

No doubt their intent had been to allow their bodies to be sustained off of the ether released by the cataclysm to make up for the absence of food. Unfortunately, it didn’t work quite as planned. While those who underwent the process were indeed able to sustain themselves off of ether, in adding the ability, they had inadvertently disabled the checks that controlled the growth of the crystalline substrate.

Fueled by the thick ether in the air, the implants, once installed, quickly began to expand, cannibalizing their bodies for mass. Too quickly for the implants to properly take over their original function of replacing the subject’s brain cells.

By the time he had discovered their survival, it had been too late. The survivors that remained had become monsters, twisted husks of wild neurocrystal and flesh that only resembled their original forms in the barest sense.

It had been that day that he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the world had well and truly died.

He had very nearly ended it there. Trapped in a dead world without any companionship, even that of Trinity—who had effectively died when the central core vanished alongside his left half—what did he have to live for? His dreams, his aspirations… they had brought nothing but ruin to the world.

Maybe… it would be better if he didn’t exist.

But ultimately, he had stayed his hand from committing the final act. Somewhere deep inside him, the lingering fires of ambition still burned. He couldn’t die, not yet. Not while the world was in such a contemptible state.

The end of the world was his fault, the result of his own arrogance. Yet, if he were to kill himself now—to take the easy way out—the only thing he would be doing was making his failure complete.

As the one to destroy the world, didn’t he have a duty to remake it? To repent for his grave error by giving life another chance?

So he did just that. Diving into his new line of research with a single-minded fervor the man hadn’t thought himself still capable of, he laid his plans to create a new world.

He didn’t know how long he had been working at it—with infinite time and no distractions, such things had lost all meaning to him—but it had to have been decades at the minimum, perhaps even centuries. But it didn’t matter, for he was approaching the finishing line.

Placing the final touches on the schematic, he leaned back, assessing his work. According to his calculations, everything should work as intended. The modified neurocrystal was intended to create a body using the nano-reconstructors he was currently amassing to release on the surface of the Earth in order to generate mass. In order to do so, however, the first run of cores would require seed DNA to use as a basis.

Klaus had tasked the remaining Trinity cores to generate a new DNA template to use, based on the human genetic code the original implants had possessed. All of the tests he had run seemed to indicate that it was stable enough to use, but there was no way to be certain until the first batch began to generate.

Well, as far as he could tell, everything looked to be in order. Reaching out a finger—an unnecessary gesture considering he had long ago neural-linked himself to the computer—he saved the changes to the design, and ordered the system to begin fabricating a prototype.

The integrated 3D nanoprinter came to life, generating an antigravity field within which to begin layering the crystalline lattice that served as the objects’ circuitry. He watched idly as the armatures deposited layer after layer, quickly building the object into the desired shape.

It only took a minute at most for the device to finish. As the final layer was applied, the printing arms retracted back into the ceiling, and the dark blue crystal floated over to Klaus’ waiting hand.

He held it up to the light, examining the object for defects. It was impossible to see any with the naked eye, which didn’t mean anything—there were a thousand possible flaws that would be too small for him to discern but could render the crystal inert—but he was satisfied with the result.

Letting it go, the crystal slowly floated back to the center of the room. Klaus focused his will, mentally triggering a command for the computer to execute.

“Begin data transfer.” He said in a rasping voice, mostly for his own benefit.

With those words, the prototype Core Crystal, what he hoped would be the first of many to come, began to glow softly with an inner light.

A light of hope for the future of the Earth.