Elara's command was a live wire in the telecom room.
The team jumped. Minutes later, a four-cornered holoscreen resolved on the wall, projected from her B-Wax. Bryce Onyx materialized within it—tall, dark-skinned, his white lab coat stark against a backdrop of chaotic machinery. A soldering iron in his hand spat a tiny arc of blue fire.
"This is a disruption," Bryce said, not looking up. A tool clattered to the floor.
"Are you monitoring the feeds?" Elara's voice was all edge.
"Gossip, Elara?" He smirked, retrieving the tool. His focus stayed on his work.
"The Masses rioted. In the Canyon. They breached the Sewer Roof."
Bryce went still.
The tool hit the floor again. This time, he didn't pick it up.
He turned to face her fully. A slow, calm smile spread across his face. "I warned you all. Their suffering has a limit. I advocated for faster alternatives. You all placed your bet on Europa." He let out a long, controlled sigh. "How did you contain it?"
"I lied to them," she said, the admission sharp in her mouth. She bit her lower lip. "Promised faster solutions."
She waited for his judgment. It didn't come.
"That is no longer a lie," Bryce stated, his voice low and final. "Call a Conclave. Tomorrow. Physical attendance. Every Caliph. No proxies."
Elara's frown was instant. "That's an overreaction. A secure channel conference is sufficient. We have schedules—"
"Do it." The words were a guillotine blade falling. "I would have summoned them myself, but I am at a critical juncture with a bio-proactive nanoparticle matrix. I cannot be distracted today."
The screen died, plunging the room into a colder silence.
Elara hissed through her teeth.
"I shouldn't have called him," she muttered to the empty air. She brought a thumb to her mouth, worrying at the nail with her teeth. "They riot because they still have the freedom to move."
"Get me The General's contact." She ordered as she stormed back to her office. "Dispatch to all embedded assets in the protest group. The offer is eight million Central Digital Currency. For the identity of the Masked Man." she barked at the air, passing a command to her B-Wax.
**********
Silicon Canyon's main gates swung wide open.
The rioters filtered out, funneling onto the Staircase—the vast, conveyor-like platform that connected the corporate Orange Zone to the residential Yellow Zone below.
The crowd bled away into the C.R.A., the Caliphates Residential Area, a dense honeycomb of housing blocks beneath the canyon's floating underbelly. Below, the protesters who had remained to guard the Sewer Roof's mechanisms watched the others return with silent, hopeful eyes.
Transport was a chaos of contrast. Most piled into shared, gritty Rovers. A few revved personal Rovers drove away.
But two vehicles stole every eye.
Micro Utility Transports. MUTs. Diamond-dust composite shells, compact forms hinting at expandable interiors. They glided to a stop where the riot's vanguard congregated. The leaders piled in silently. The vehicles sped off, leaving a wake of resentment and speculation.
The fifteen dissenters—the ones who had aimed their weapons inward—also drew looks. They had their own, less-flashy vehicles. They lingered near the canyon walls, a deliberate island of calm after the storm.
One of them, a man with nervous eyes, stayed outside his Rover. He made small talk with a passerby, but his attention was glued to the departing MUTs.
He alone had seen the leaders board.
A thought took root. It split into two vines: Curiosity. And Greed.
They had all received the asset-ping from Elara's network. 8 million CDC for the Masked Man identity.
His cell leader had urged caution. "We plan. We move as a unit. It's the only safe way."
If I wait for the committee, the man thought, my share might be 500,000. That is if they even find the courage to act. I need the full eight. I need to get a real B-Wax. His hand drifted to the cheap, Android phone in his pocket. A wave of hot shame washed over him. I can't keep using this antique. Not in this world. It is so outdated.
Decision crystallized.
He slipped into his Rover—a dented, wheezing thing—and pulled out, tailing the glittering MUTs at a careful distance.
They descended into the 12.G Zone, a private Orange sector. The air here hummed with a different frequency—the deep, resonant drone of telecom factories and wireless array farms. The sound swallowed his engine's sputter, his own quickened breath.
The MUTs turned into the secure garage of the Tekkins Telecommunication Satellite Factory, Unit 8Y.
The man parked in the shadow. Fear, cold and slick, coiled in his gut. These were the people his group had publicly challenged. The ones who wanted war.
But eight million CDC…
"Fuck it," he breathed.
He slid out, ducked, and rolled under the chassis of the nearest MUT. The smell of hot alloy and ozone filled his nose. He peered into the vast garage.
He frowned.
Thirty-one people sat on four low sofas arranged in a square. They were removing masks, wiping faces. The man in the respirator mask was not among them.
"A waste of time," he whispered, deflating. He began to ease back out.
He froze.
As one, the group stood. They joined hands, forming a silent circle.
A woman's voice, low and fervent, broke the industrial hum. "Guided by the Unseen Hand!"
"May we impeach Tyranny!" the collective responded, their voices a single chord of hatred. They sat, the ritual complete.
The air in the garage felt heavier, charged.
A new sound: the near-silent whine of a high-end turbine. A black Tesla Rover descended from a rooftop pad, sliding into the garage beside the MUTs.
A man in a severe gray suit emerged.
"Peter. You called this meeting, yet you're the last to arrive," the woman said. "We had begun."
"Apologies. I was profiling the crowd for potential recruits." Peter's voice was clipped, efficient. "We must be quick. I noted an unfamiliar Rover outside. Civilians are prone to foolish intrusion."
Under the MUT, the dissenter's heart hammered against his ribs. A fierce, wild smile stretched his lips. Luck. Pure luck. He arrives as I'm about to leave. And I have his name.
His phone chose that moment to ring.
The shrill, noisy ringtone—a default chime—shattered the silence.
It echoed off the concrete like a gunshot.
He fumbled, pressed a button, killing the call. The silence that followed was absolute.
Peter's head turned. Slowly. His eyes pinpointed the sound's source.
The dissenter scrambled up and ran.
Peter's hand moved to his inner suit pocket. It emerged holding a sleek, matte-black pistol. He didn't shout. He didn't aim.
He simply raised it and fired three times.
Silenced rounds punched into the dissenter's back. He stumbled, fell face-first onto the concrete. A final, wet gasp. Then stillness.
Peter walked over, holstering the pistol. "This venue is compromised. Dispose of the body. Sanitize the area." He moved towards his Rover.
He paused, one hand on the door. He didn't look back.
"One thing more. Her Excellency must never hear of this incident."
The Tesla's door sealed. It lifted off, gliding out into the drone-filled sky, leaving the others in the garage with the dead man and his android phone that continued ringing.