The man at the desk froze. His fingers gripped the armrest so tightly the knuckles turned white. Radio chatter dissolved into chaotic noise—voices cutting across one another, someone shouting coordinates, someone demanding reinforcements. Muffled explosions punched through the static.

  For ten minutes he listened in silence. Didn't interfere. Gave his people a chance to handle it themselves.

  But when that voice tore from the speakers—familiar, exhausted, edged with resignation—something inside snapped.

  "...repeat, sixth sector, we're surrounded. Need immediate reinfor—"

  The voice cut off mid-word. The airwaves filled with silence, broken only by the crackle of interference.

  The man clenched his jaw. His hand reached for the channel selector, twisted the dial sharply.

  "Lucky P preparing for departure."

  The phrase came out calmly. No excess emotion. No explanation. The order needed no clarification—his people knew what to do.

  A couple of seconds later, his earpiece clicked.

  "Acknowledged. How long?" The voice was crisp, businesslike.

  "Ten minutes. No more."

  "Understood."

  The man leant back in his chair, dragged a palm down his face. Exhaustion crashed over him all at once—heavy, sticky. How many times had he sworn not to get involved? How many times had he promised to stay out of it, let others handle their own problems?

  But every time there was a reason. Every time someone teetered on the brink.

  He stood, crossed to the window. Outside, the city lived its life—lights, movement, bustle. No one knew what happened in the shadows. No one cared.

  The radio crackled back to life.

  "Commander, contact lost with sixth sector. Latest intel—enemy disabled the drop-bot, closing in on it."

  The man turned to the desk, pressed the transmit button.

  "How many personnel in the sector?"

  "Last count—eight. Could be fewer."

  "Evacuation?"

  "Impossible. Unshielded swallows getting shot down on approach."

  He exhaled. His gaze fell on the holographic map spread above the desk. The sixth sector glowed red. Around it—nothing but enemy positions.

  "Time until Lucky P ready?"

  "Five minutes thirty seconds."

  "Speed it up."

  "That's risky..."

  "Speed it up!"

  A pause. Then:

  "Yes, sir."

  The man returned to the window. The city twinkled with lights, serene and distant. Somewhere out there, beyond those walls, people were dying. His brothers. Those who trusted him. Those who believed he wouldn't abandon them.

  He never had.

  Even when he should have.

  The radio crackled again.

  "Lucky P, three minutes to ready. Awaiting orders."

  The man closed his eyes. Drew a deep breath. Then yanked the door open and ran towards his squad's drop-bot.

  The landing field greeted him with the roar of turbines and the smell of kerosene. The man crossed the concrete strip at a brisk pace, ignoring the sweeping searchlight beams. The hectocopter stood in the far corner of the pad, squat and angular, ramp down.

  The soldiers were already waiting.

  Eight men in full kit—sealed exo-armour, weapons ready, helmet visors raised. Three more occupied the pilot seats. No one rushed. No one asked unnecessary questions. They simply stood, prepared.

  Stil noticed the commander first. Gave a brief nod, wordless. Lim checked his paralysis rifle magazine without lifting his head. Baz leant against the hull, eyes closed—conserving energy before the fight.

  Four years together. Four years of shared blood, shared mud, shared rations. They knew him better than he knew himself. Knew he wouldn't abandon his own. Knew he'd lead them where not everyone came back.

  And still they followed.

  The man quickened his pace. The ramp gaped black, red emergency lights blinking inside. His place—forward, by the cockpit. The commander's seat with direct line to HQ, monitors in full view.

  Five metres.

  The turbines shrieked, spinning up. The hectocopter shuddered as if alive.

  Four metres.

  Stil raised his hand—signal that everyone was inside, everyone strapped in.

  Three metres.

  Somewhere to the right a hatch banged. Some maintenance bot emerged, going about its business.

  Two metres.

  The man could already see the cabin—cramped rows of seats, safety harnesses, the soldiers' faces. Lim looked straight at him, grinning that crooked grin of his.

  One metre.

  Flash.

  Not sound—light first. Blinding, white, searing the retinas. Then—the shockwave, punching his chest, knocking him off his feet. The hectocopter bloomed into a flower of flame, metal petals peeling outward, and inside...

  Inside, people were burning.

  The man flew backwards. Air scorched his lungs. The ground rushed closer—hard, merciless. In a moment he'd slam into concrete, shatter his spine, and it would all be over.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Now.

  Right...

  ...now.

  He jerked.

  His eyes snapped open. Darkness. Silence. No fire. No turbine scream.

  Consciousness returned in fits, like a signal through a faulty relay. Flash—darkness. Flash—darkness. Each time a bit longer, a bit clearer. Sounds came first—steady beeping, quiet humming, the rustle of mechanisms. Smells—sterility, ozone and something chemical, nameless.

  When his eyelids finally unstuck, the world crashed down all at once—white, flooded with cold light, geometrically precise.

  A hospital room.

  The automated blinds reacted to the change in his pupil reflex, and the panoramic window glass dimmed, reducing external light intensity by forty per cent.

  He tried to lift his hand, but his body wouldn't obey. His gaze slid downward. Transparent tubes snaked round his wrists, nanoimplants from the life-support system visible beneath the skin. Round sensors adhered to his chest—they pulsed with bluish light in time with his heartbeat.

  "Patient has regained consciousness. Scan initiated."

  The voice came from everywhere and nowhere—neutral, emotionless, with barely perceptible mechanical modulation. A hologram unfolded above the bed—his body, covered in a shimmering diagnostic grid. Organs showed through skin, the circulatory system pulsed in red threads.

  With a faint rustle, a medical drone detached from the wall—streamlined, snow-white, with several pairs of manipulators of varying thickness. Optical sensors focused on his face.

  "Neurocognitive function check required. Patient, state your name."

  He opened his mouth, but his voice wouldn't comply. His throat felt raw, as if someone had driven a rusty nail down it.

  The medical drone moved closer. One manipulator extended, bringing a small capsule of liquid to his lips.

  "Moisturising compound. Please take a sip and state your name."

  The liquid spread coolness, numbness, then relief.

  "Elren," he rasped. "Elren Veynar."

  "Confirmed. Neural activity check. Please follow the point."

  A holographic point appeared above the bed, beginning to move in a complex trajectory. Elren tracked it with his gaze, trying to gather scattered fragments of memory.

  Explosion. Hectocopter. People inside...

  But did that actually happen? What happened to them? If it were real, I couldn't have survived... Why did I see their deaths as if I'd been there? Heavy thoughts wouldn't leave the man in peace.

  "Neuroscan detected anomalies in the hippocampus. False memories possible, induced by coma-withdrawal medication."

  Elren frowned. Coma? He'd been in a coma?

  "How long have I been here?" he asked, his tongue moving sluggishly.

  "Fourteen days, seven hours, thirty-two minutes," the drone answered. "Condition stable. Tissue damage minimised."

  A second drone detached from the opposite wall—bulkier, with expanded functionality. It carried a tray of instruments.

  Elren tried to remember how he'd ended up here. Memory slipped away, fragmenting into disconnected pieces. He remembered... radio chatter? Command refusing launch? No, that was absurd. Arma didn't abandon its own. But who were they? Why did he feel connected to them?

  "Where am I?" he asked, watching the drones methodically check the implants' condition.

  Only now did Elren notice the figure beyond the glass partition. The silhouette stood motionless, arms crossed. The medical drones froze halfway to the bed, as if receiving a silent command.

  The door slid aside soundlessly.

  Elira Domaris entered with measured steps, back straight, chin slightly raised. Fair hair gathered in a strict bun, uniform impeccably pressed. On her left shoulder—a general staff badge.

  She stopped at the edge of the bed, assessed him with a look that held professional appraisal of a patient's condition.

  "I'm glad you woke whilst I was here."

  Her voice steady, businesslike. No hint of joy.

  "Are you?" Elren grimaced, trying to sit up. "Can't say it shows."

  Elira pressed her lips together.

  "Don't get me wrong—I was worried about you."

  "Since when do the general's dogs sympathise with frontline troops?" Elren smirked, ignoring the pulling pain in his ribs. "First I've heard of it!"

  Green eyes flashed.

  "Enough sarcasm. You know perfectly well what I mean." She paused, ran a palm down her face—a gesture of weariness, uncharacteristic for her. "Yes, and your mouth plus your reckless actions brought you to this. This time you've really cocked it up, and the general's furious, baying for your blood."

  "Plenty have wanted my blood." Elren sank back onto the pillow. "Only where are they all now? Whilst I'm lying right here in front of you."

  Elira rolled her eyes.

  "Understand, this time it's serious. I had to stick my neck out to drag your arse from the hell brewing for you. Do you get that? I lied to Nemesis. And for what? To listen to your drivel?"

  The word hit like an electric shock. Nemesis. The soulless machine that had crossed his path before. Last time they'd been powerless against it. Little had changed since then.

  Elren straightened. The dream, which had already begun dissolving in post-awakening fog, returned in a sharp flash. Hectocopter. Fire. Stil. Lim. Baz. All of them...

  "Nemesis, what are you on about? And where are my lads?"

  Elira didn't answer immediately. Her gaze slid aside, fingers tightened on the edge of the tablet she held.

  "Your lads are gone. They all stayed there, in the hecto. I'm truly sorry."

  Silence.

  The medical monitors shrieked—pulse jumping from a steady seventy to one hundred and twenty in three heartbeats. The drone surged forward, manipulators swivelling, preparing to administer a sedative.

  Elren didn't see the drone. Didn't hear the monitors beeping. Didn't feel the tubes in his veins.

  Everything compressed to a single point—her words.

  "Gone."

  Something inside collapsed. Didn't crash thunderously—melted. As if the foundation his entire life stood on turned out to be not stone but sand. And now the sand trickled through his fingers, carrying away faces, voices, laughter.

  Stil, who always entered the fire zone first.

  Lim with his stupid jokes about rations.

  Baz, who slept with his eyes open—a sniper's habit.

  All the rest. Eight men. No—eleven, with the pilots.

  All stayed there.

  His chest constricted. Air stuck somewhere in his throat, refusing to move. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into palms.

  It wasn't true. Couldn't be true. This didn't happen. Arma didn't abandon its own. His people weren't killed by sabotaged hectos. They were professionals. The best of the best.

  But the dream...

  That damned dream had been too sharp. Too real.

  Elren squeezed his eyes shut.

  A voice cut through the noise in his ears—level, insistent.

  "Elren. Elren, listen to me."

  He opened his lids. Elira stood closer, leaning over the bed. Green eyes looked hard, without sympathy.

  "Can you hear me?"

  "I hear you," he forced out through clenched teeth.

  "Good." She straightened, stepped back. "Because it gets worse."

  Elren swallowed. His throat had dried again, despite the moisturising compound.

  "Worse? My people were killed. What could be worse?"

  "That Nemesis considers it your fault."

  The pause stretched, filled only by the monitors' beeping.

  "Mine?" His voice cracked into a shout. "I didn't even get aboard! I was outside when..."

  "When the sabotage triggered," Elira interrupted. "Yes. But the investigation determined the saboteurs entered the hangar using your pass. You violated security protocol—didn't return your identifier after your last shift."

  Elren froze.

  The identifier. A small plastic card he'd genuinely forgotten to return. A trifle. Bureaucratic nonsense no one paid attention to. And why would it be needed when all law-abiding Earth citizens had built-in neurolinks.

  "That's bollocks! Who needs my identifier? Half the base uses others' cards!"

  "Half the base didn't lose eleven personnel in an explosion." Elira folded her arms. "And half the base didn't disobey a direct order from the general."

  "What order?" Elren twitched, but the tubes held him in place. "I acted according to regulations! Evacuating wounded—primary objective!"

  "Not when the Arma Concordia commander himself forbade the sortie." Elira's voice went cold. "You knew about the ban. You ignored it. And now eleven bodies go to the crematorium. Or what's left of them."

  The words hammered like blows. Elren shook his head, trying to banish the nightmare.

  "No. No, that's not true. I remember... I remember them preparing Lucky P. I gave the order to speed up!"

  "You were delirious in the coma." Elira produced a tablet, swiped a finger across the screen. "Medics recorded heightened amygdala activity. False memories, triggered by trauma and medication."

  "False..." Elren fell silent.

  Maybe she was right? Maybe he'd imagined it all? Memory crumbled to shards, each cutting sharper than the last.

  "Listen," Elira said more quietly. "I understand how hard this is for you. I genuinely do. But facts remain facts. Nemesis analysed all the data. Delivered its verdict."

  Elren raised his gaze.

  "What verdict?"

  Elira remained silent for a second. Two. Then pulled from an inner pocket a thin transparent sheet—an official document with a holographic seal.

  "Forty years compulsory detention in the Ether."

  The words hung in the air, heavy and final.

  Elren stared at the sheet, unable to move. Forty years. Four decades in a virtual prison, where every day meant fighting for survival.

  "You're joking?"

  "Nemesis doesn't joke..." Elira held out the document. "Sentence takes effect immediately. As soon as medics authorise consciousness transfer."

  His fingers closed on the sheet. The seal shimmered, confirming authenticity. At the bottom—the algorithm's signature. Cold. Dispassionate. Absolute. And painfully familiar.

  "Forty years," he repeated quietly. "For what? For wanting to save my own?"

  "For disobeying orders and causing people's deaths." Elira turned away. "Nemesis doesn't make mistakes, Elren. Never! It's perfect..."