The nerve center of the Markabian Imperial Army was located on the outskirts of the capital, in a small city known as the Imperial Citadel.

  The buildings, ancient and imposing, had a geometric austerity that made them look like massive palaces, though somewhat similar to each other. In front of them were plazas adorned with scarlet flags bearing the imperial crest, along with other symbolic motifs such as statues of winged horses and laurel crowns.

  In stark contrast to the architectural classicism, every so often, steel towers and surveillance posts armed with laser cannons pierced the skyline.

  On the streets and bridges, cars, limousines, and even war tanks moved along, conducting their patrols. Overhead, airplanes and helicopters flew by, while closer to the ground, squadrons of Grenadiers, clad in their armor, soared with Dedalus wings deployed from their backs.

  At the heart of the Citadel, inside the imperial palace, lay the command center known as the Auditorium. Its name stemmed from its size and tiered arrangement: the upper balcony was occupied by the Imperial Council, the bleachers by operators, and the stage housed numerous holographic screens of various sizes.

  That night, the tension in the Auditorium was tangible.

  Voices overlapped in heated exchanges, while phones and alarms rang incessantly. Hundreds of operators worked at their consoles, reporting the chaos at Fort Bellatrix, coordinating medical reinforcements for those tending to the wounded, as senior officers supervised the operations from elevated platforms. Somber faces were everywhere.

  Suspended in the air before everyone, holographic screens of various sizes displayed the destruction caused by the old android A60. No transmission was free from interference. The images flickered with static, and the audio was so fragmented it was nearly impossible to decipher the reports. Some screens showed the Grenadiers battling the android near Level Five, others captured the android moving through a corridor, or Commander Dubhe, leader of the attacked fort, delivering his report.

  It had been a long time since the Imperialists were targeted by such a savage and humiliating attack. That much was evident in the faces of the three generals standing on the command balcony at the back of the Auditorium. They were all members of the Imperial Council, the army’s high command, and all three stood stiffly, arms folded behind their backs, eyes fixed on the images of chaos.

  The first general, a thin man with a wrinkled face, stepped to the edge of the balcony and rested his gloved hands on the railing.

  “Still no communication with Bellatrix?” he asked the officers operating the consoles below.

  “Negative, sir. Their external antenna circuit remains jammed.”

  “And what about the Cyclops? Its registration code? Anything?”

  “There is a suspected link between the unidentified android and an ongoing investigation, but the transmission was cut before Bellatrix could confirm it.”

  “And the Cyclops units here in the Citadel?”

  “They remain deactivated, sir. Do you want us to—”

  “Keep them offline until we understand what triggered the unidentified android’s reaction,” the general said, returning to his position beside his two colleagues. “I don’t want to imagine what could happen if the automatons here were compromised by a cyberattack and turned on us.”

  The second general turned to him.

  “Do you think someone deliberately altered the Cyclops’ Directives?”

  The first general gave him a sharp look, as if to say, “What kind of question is that?”

  “It’s obvious there’s more behind this attack than a programming glitch,” he replied. “It’s no coincidence an android carried an arsenal like that. Besides… An enhanced Cyclops could overpower a battalion of soldiers, but to breach a fort like Bellatrix so effortlessly… No, there had to be more than a terrorist strategy at play here, and not from the Troublemakers. That Cyclops must have received some kind of extra help, something beyond human capabilities that allowed it to bypass our first line of defense.”

  “Beyond human capabilities?” the second general asked. “Are you suggesting the Eddanians might be behind this attack?”

  “That’s a serious accusation,” the third general interjected, joining the debate. His voice trembled slightly, and his double chin wobbled as he spoke. “Historically, the Eddanians have rejected our technology. Why would they use a Cyclops, of all things, for such a brutal attack?”

  “I don’t know, but we can’t wait for the report to confirm if there was Tau radiation activity at Bellatrix. I want answers now.” The first general addressed the operators: “Analyze the electromagnetic spectrums detected during the attack in the affected area and search for traces of quantum radiation.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Turning back to his two colleagues, the first general concluded:

  “There must be many people there suffering from nosebleeds without any previous bruising. Mark my words.”

  Colonel Detective Pablo Rigel entered the Auditorium looking even harsher than usual. His teeth were clenched so tightly that his angular jaw looked out of place, and beneath his furrowed brow, his eyes gleamed like two drops of tar.

  Giving a brief salute to the guard by tapping the visor of his cap, he scanned the room for the officer he sought and descended the steps toward one of the lower levels of the hall.

  Striding with long, purposeful steps, he blended into the chaos around him. The long olive-green coat of his uniform swayed with each step. His gloved hands were tense—one gripping his belt, scratching at the buckle with his thumb, and the other clenched into a fist at his side. He felt the urge to hit something to vent his frustration, but he knew he had to keep his composure, especially in front of his superiors.

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  He cast a sidelong glance at the three generals arguing on the balcony above and found it curious not to see General Benetnasch among them. Benetnasch was a prominent figure in the Imperial Council and was usually present during situations like this.

  When he reached the second-to-last row of operators, Rigel headed toward a particular officer and positioned himself behind him.

  “Did you get what I asked for?” he whispered.

  John Stanton, the operator in question, was a guy with a long face, blond hair, and a high-pitched voice.

  “Yes, sir,” Stanton replied. Removing his headphones and ensuring no one was nearby, he typed a code into his control panel.

  A second holographic screen, tiny enough for them to block it with their bodies, appeared in the lower section of the monitor. It displayed footage from the surveillance cameras at Fort Bellatrix, different from the videos being broadcast on the central screens. The quality was even worse than the others, riddled with distortions that made it nearly impossible to discern what was happening.

  Stanton shrugged apologetically.

  “This is all I could get,” he said.

  “Can you enhance it?”

  “That’ll be difficult,” the guy admitted. “We’re receiving too many transmissions, and we’re under yellow alert, sir. If I push the satellite feed, the data flow will exceed the allowed bandwidth, and we risk losing everything.”

  “You don’t need to remind me we’re under yellow alert, Stanton. Do it.”

  Stanton increased the download rate; as the image began to reconstruct, a red error message appeared. The transmission was lost entirely, and the tiny screen disappeared.

  Both Rigel and Stanton cursed under their breath.

  “Show me the last frame before the cut,” Rigel demanded.

  Stanton replayed the video, and the image stabilized briefly, revealing, amid light distortion and static, the android advancing toward Level Five. It seemed that the only connection Rigel would have with the A60-R8—assuming it was the same unit he was looking for—was through the grainy recording of a security camera.

  “No,” Rigel muttered. This footage didn’t have what he was looking for.

  Maybe they listened to me and didn’t go to Bellatrix, he thought, though he knew it was highly unlikely. He patted the young operator on the shoulder, thanking him for his efforts, and prepared to leave.

  “There’s something odd, sir,” Stanton pointed out in a low voice. Rigel stopped and leaned in closer.

  “There’s a missing segment in the video we just watched,” Stanton continued.

  Rigel frowned.

  “I intercepted the transmissions from security cameras three and five, as you instructed, and redirected them to my receiver,” Stanton explained. “I received the full feed from camera three, but only part of the feed from camera five. A portion of the footage from camera five was… lost along the way.”

  Rigel pressed his lips together.

  “Of course, it could just be a reception error,” Stanton added. “Bellatrix’s antennas are damaged, so it wouldn’t be surprising.”

  Rigel didn’t seem convinced. He left the Auditorium and headed toward the corridors leading to the now-empty conference rooms.

  Ensuring no one was around, he pulled one of the two phones from his pocket—the unregistered one—and dialed a number. Thanks to his team in Systems, he could use Seven-Frequency and speak freely here. Watching the screen where the phrase ‘Calling J.R.’ blinked, he held the phone to his ear, praying not to hear what came next:

  “The call cannot be completed,” said the automated voice for the fourth time. “There are disruptions on the line, or the number you are trying to reach does not exist. Please try again later.”

  Rigel swore, closed his eyes, and turned on his heel.

  Juzo’s phone was dead, which could only mean one thing: Juzo hadn’t heeded his advice and had gone ahead with the plan to infiltrate Bellatrix. This, in turn, could mean two things: that he had used the Mother Auriga and crossed Point Kappa, or that he had perished during the A60’s attack while trying to sneak into the fort. The first option, if true, would be a success; the second, a catastrophe.

  He dialed another number, this time trying to reach Vicky. The response was the same: “The call cannot be completed. There are disruptions on the line, or the number you are trying to reach does not exist. Please try again later.”

  A terrible realization struck him: Vicky had joined Juzo on the mission. Of course! How had he not seen that coming?

  Rigel’s heart skipped a beat. Were Juzo and Vicky’s bodies among the casualties at Bellatrix? If so, beyond the personal tragedy, his double-agent activities would be at risk of exposure; his life would be in danger. Whoever found Juzo’s body would also uncover the forged credentials and the activation card for the Mother Auriga he had given him.

  The Cyclops attack had just ended, but his comrades wouldn’t take long to connect the dots between the android and the students’ murder. After all, the android had gone to Bellatrix in search of the monstrous computer he had brought there as part of his investigation. His name would come up, someone with a sharp mind could tie together Juzo, the computer, and the android, and all fingers would point at him.

  In fact, that scenario could already be unfolding.

  Desperate to find out what had happened and with limited freedom to act—at least as quickly as he needed—he removed his cap and adjusted his hair.

  Suddenly, two Grenadiers appeared at the corner of the corridor. They were covered head to toe in Nemean V.1 armor—the standard issue for soldiers assigned to the Imperial Citadel. They were similar to the V.2s worn by the soldiers who had just fallen at Bellatrix: chrome olive-green breastplates, dark bodysuits underneath, black helmets with Pegasus wings flared at the sides, and the Empire’s crest at the center of the chestplate. However, unlike the V.2s, the V.1s featured an open laurel crown on the belt, and their Daedalus fins were smaller, emerging directly from the shoulder plates themselves.

  Both Grenadiers headed toward Rigel, and he shuddered like never before.

  He knew it was foolish to panic. The attack on Bellatrix had ended barely fifteen minutes ago, and with so many casualties to tend to, it was unlikely that the medics had already discovered Juzo’s body and the incriminating evidence. But his pounding heart ignored logic, filling him with a heat that was hard to conceal.

  Slowly, he slipped the phone into the back pocket of his uniform and glanced down the opposite side of the corridor, scouting for an escape route in case his comrades intended to confront him.

  The two Grenadiers kept coming.

  Maybe they’ll just walk past, he thought, clenching his fist just in case.

  The soldiers stopped in front of him.

  “Sir,” one of them greeted, saluting with military precision. “General Benetnasch is expecting you in his office. It’s urgent, sir.”

  Rigel adjusted his cap, swallowed hard, and returned the salute, trying to act like everything was normal.

  “Understood, soldier,” he replied. Ignoring the fear gnawing at him that he’d been caught, he headed for the general’s office on the upper floor.

  He didn’t glance back, but he could hear the soldiers following him. Whether they were escorting him as protocol dictated or guarding him was unclear. Still, the fact that General Benetnasch wasn’t with the other generals in the Auditorium’s command balcony was odd, and requesting a private meeting with him was even more so. Meetings during a state of alert were always held in the strategy and conference rooms, never in a private office.

  Calm down, you fool, he told himself as he climbed the stairs, reminding himself to act naturally—something he’d failed at ever since hearing about the attack on Bellatrix. He needed to suppress the corrosive doubt that his work as an informant might have been uncovered.

  He thought back to how many times he’d been in similar situations and managed to escape unscathed. Perhaps he deserved a little credit for that.

  Come on, you’ve been doing this for years, he told himself as he stood before the office door. Act like a pro.

  He smoothed out his olive-green uniform, raised his chin, and announced himself.

  “Colonel Detective Rigel reporting, sir.”

  The door slid open and closed behind him, brushing his heels. The cool air conditioning hit the back of his neck, sending a chill down his spine. The Grenadiers had stayed outside, but that didn’t mean he could relax just yet.

  Time for the truth.