The General stood alert for a full minute, weapon raised, before moving to clear the lower floors.
A voice crackled through the wall-mounted micro-speakers. "Impressive. A Homo Deus among you?"
The General didn't hesitate. He fired at the camera. Sparks erupted. "They've seized the security annex," he growled, his voice carrying. "They killed the guards."
"We killed no one," the speaker replied, tone flat. "They are restrained. Some are injured. A few of my people, sadly, are dead. We are not here for violence. We are here for housing. The team you eliminated was sent to ask you to evacuate. This building will collapse shortly."
"An empty threat," The General scoffed. "This structure is a fortress."
"It is. But its foundation rests on the Sewer Roof. And we control the roof. A few strategic charges, and your fortress falls into the Yellow Zone." The voice chuckled, then snapped. "Blame WASA. They were tasked with making us new homes. They failed. Space Y is the only reason we have any hope at all."
Another voice, urgent, cut in from the background: "It's time!"
"Evacuate! Now!" the first voice shouted. "You have ten minutes!"
Through the speakers came the distinct mechanical roar of multiple Rovers igniting.
The General bolted outside.
A heavy, tomblike silence gripped the conference room.
Then, the building quaked. A deep, grinding roar rose from beneath it.
Panic erupted.
On the live video feed, Elara stood rigid. A web of fine, white circuits ignited beneath her skin, crawling from her temples down her jaw. Her eyes became vacant pools of solid white light. Then the power died. The feeds from all eleven Caliphs vanished, leaving the elites alone in the shuddering dark.
They crammed into the analog emergency elevators, descending in a crush of sweating bodies. They burst outside just as the Glenn Research Center groaned, twisted, and collapsed into the Yellow Zone below in a cloud of dust and screaming alloy.
The General returned moments later, moving at a normal pace now, his breath even but his eyes cold. The fifteen Rovers were gone.
"The masses control the Sewer Roofs completely," a dignitary whispered, horrified.
"They didn't attack us," The General rumbled. "They attacked the roof beneath us. The Yellow Zones are their domain. There is no military solution for this."
His B-Wax flickered at his temple.
A priority message from Elara, text-only: Come to Silicon Canyon. Now.
********
Chaos simmered in Silicon Canyon. High above the Onyx Technology spire, a diamond-encrusted bunker hung sealed against the planet's strife.
For five months, Bryce and his team had lived within it, their reward for relentless effort being only failure. Project 782's wireless camera could not beat the hole.
The constant death tolls and casualty reports fed Bryce's obsession. One month remained before Xax Rask and Space Y would rightfully claim the project from him.
In the bunker's library, surrounded by the glow of holographic texts on atomic structures, Bryce finally slumped. Exhaustion carved new lines into his face. For five months, the medical nanites in his bloodstream had purged fatigue toxins, optimized neural pathways, and forced his biology to bypass sleep. It was a chemical superstructure holding up a failing biological one. Five months without rest was breaking him.
He drifted into a shallow, toxic nap.
A sharp, painless ping resonated in the bone behind his ear—the B-Wax's urgent alert. He blinked. Elara's caller ID, a pulsing red WASA emblem, hovered at the edge of his vision.
"What is it?" Bryce groaned.
"These ingrates are forcing my hand!" Elara screamed, her composure gone. "The elites have patience! The masses have nothing but destruction! They've burned factories! They've toppled the Glenn Research Center!"
Bryce stared at the blank wall, a physical pain behind his eyes.
"Are you listening?" Elara pressed.
"I haven't left this bunker in five months," he said, voice low. "I did not know it had escalated to structural collapse. I must meet the deadline. If Xax takes over, he will need months just to begin."
He terminated the call.
"Gift. Convene the team. Now," he barked into his B-Wax.
Forty-eight staff shuffled into the bunker's circular boardroom. Faces were haggard under the flickering holo-lights. Dark bags sagged under eyes. Clothes were stained, rumpled. Some dozed on couches, jolting awake as Bryce entered.
He did not sit.
"The external situation is critical," Bryce said, the words ground between his teeth. "We must meet the deadline. I am out of conceptual runway. You are all exhausted. Rest today. Use the mind-mapping suites. Tomorrow, you will each bring me a viable solution."
A ripple of fear went through the room. They had never seen him this hollow, this tense.
"Bryce. Breathe," Gift said, her voice a steady anchor. "I have an idea. I hesitated because you would likely dismiss it. But we are at an impasse."
"Say it."
"We invite Charlene."
Bryce's jaw clenched, muscles knotting. A denial poised on his lips.
"Hear the rationale," Gift pressed. "She is a generation ahead of us. She has your genes. Yes, she is reckless, but we can contain her. She could see a solution we cannot."
"Your fear is ruining her potential," Mr. Williams, head of telecom, cut in.
Bryce stared at Williams, the color draining from his face. When he spoke, it was a low, wounded snarl. "You know nothing." His fists tightened on the table's edge. "During the war, she built biotech weapons to kill me, blaming me for her mother and sister's deaths. Other scientists mass-produced them. They scorched the Earth. Then, there was the Alien—the one who gifted us knowledge. Charlene betrayed us. She infiltrated our councils and exposed our plans to overthrow Earth's governments. The Alien severed contact after that. She is a psychopath chasing the dopamine hit of invention. Consequences are irrelevant to her."
A deep, old sadness shadowed his eyes.
"I have collaborated with her recently," Williams said, unwavering. "She is different. No more weapons. She has… matured."
Bryce exhaled, a heavy, defeated sound. "Gift. Contact her."
Williams activated a wall-mounted holographic screen.
Gift faced it. The screen flickered, resolving.
Charlene appeared, sprawled on a low couch, a laptop tethered to a nest of glowing gadgets. She was slim, tall, her dreads sharp against her scalp, her frame possessing a lean, athletic strength. She lounged with a defiant ease in simple men's clothing.
Her eyes flashed. The pupils dissolved into a searing, electric white as the nanites in her neural board synced at maximum bandwidth. The video feed to the bunker distorted into jagged static and cut out, overloaded by the raw data stream of her activated Homo Deus System.
"What's the emergency?" Charlene's voice was all sarcasm, filtering through the re-established audio. "Daddy deigns to remember he has a family?"
"We need your help," Gift said, laying it bare. "Project 782. We cannot crack it. The deadline is imminent."
"Is… is he alright?" Charlene's voice lost its edge, cracking slightly.
"He is fine. He is exhausted."
"If he were fine, he would never permit this call," Charlene said, a sigh hissing through the speaker. "Tell the truth."
"We are desperate," Gift admitted.
"Send a shuttle," Charlene said, her tone now all business. "I will ascertain the truth myself."
"Thirty minutes," Gift replied.
"Ten," Charlene shot back. Then, away from the mic: "Roman! Stella! My suite, now!"
"Yes, ma'am," a smooth mechanical voice whirred in the background.
"Pack for a one-month stay at the Onyx Bunker," Charlene ordered. "Stella, you have operational control of the company in my absence."
"A month?" Stella Vex's voice asked, faintly.
"It will only take a month," Charlene said.
The call severed.
A sleek Onyx shuttle descended to her private pad minutes later and whisked her toward the floating diamond in the sky.