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Aidan traced the familiar patterns in the air, crimson light coalescing into geometric certainty. The portal opened with that characteristic sound—not quite thunder, not quite shattering glass, something in between that made reality flinch.
He stepped through without looking back at the three Precursors, leaving them standing in the transformed space like statues in a museum of impossible things.
The moment his foot crossed the threshold, the Mirror Dimension began to collapse.
Not violently—no explosion, no catastrophic failure. It simply unwound, layers of folded space peeling away like tissue paper dissolving in water. The fractured sky reassembled. The inverted geometry corrected itself. Within seconds, the Anteverse staging ground had returned to its original state: barren Gobi desert painted crimson by that artificial sun, manufacturing facilities standing silent and untouched, everything exactly as it had been before a human magician had bent reality into uncomfortable shapes.
The three Precursors stood alone on their observation platform, fish-eyes blinking in confusion and residual terror, trying to process what had just happened.
Behind them, the wormhole pulsed with bioluminescent light, still connected to Earth, still serving its purpose.
For now.
Back on Earth, the logistics of saving the world were being hammered out in conference rooms rather than battlefields.
London had been chosen for the Planetary Warfare Council's first major summit—neutral enough that no single superpower could claim ownership, prestigious enough that the location itself carried weight. The venue was appropriately grand: a historic hall with vaulted ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and enough gilt decoration to fund a small nation's military budget.
Representatives from every major power occupied tiered seating arranged in a semicircle facing the central stage. Minor nations filled the back rows, invited but aware of their limited influence. This was where the real decisions got made—where resources would be allocated, where technologies would be distributed, where the future of human civilization would be negotiated by people in expensive suits speaking through translators.
Patrick Hemitdon took the stage to polite applause.
At sixty-six, he looked every inch the career diplomat—silver-streaked hair immaculately styled, tailored suit without a thread out of place, posture radiating the kind of authority that came from decades navigating international politics. He'd proven himself during the PPDC years, maintaining cooperation between nations that historically couldn't agree on anything. Now he was being asked to do it again, except the stakes were higher and the timeline was shorter.
No pressure.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, voice carrying easily through the hall's acoustics. "This is the Planetary Warfare Council's first general assembly. Today we determine resource allocation for two critical initiatives: the bio-metal Jaeger program and the interstellar probe project."
He paused, letting that sink in. Half the people in this room were still processing the phrase "bio-metal Jaeger program" without suffering existential crises.
"I propose we use the original Hunter Program funding framework as our baseline distribution model."
Murmurs rippled through the assembly. Everyone knew what that meant: the big players contributed the most, controlled the most, reaped the greatest benefits. Smaller nations would need to partner with larger allies or risk being left behind.
The discussions began immediately—dozens of overlapping conversations as delegates huddled with their advisors, calculating costs against benefits, political capital against technological advantage.
The smaller nations were in an impossible position. They wanted access to bio-metal Jaeger technology—wanted it desperately—but lacked the industrial capacity and funding to develop it independently. They needed big brothers. Partners with deep pockets who'd share technology in exchange for... what? Basing rights? Resource access? Political alignment?
And the major powers weren't feeling generous. The Kaiju War had drained treasuries worldwide. The Wall of Life project had burned through funds like kindling. Now they were being asked to finance orbital defense platforms, space fleets, and revolutionary weapons systems that would make current military budgets look like pocket change.
Every dollar mattered. Every resource allocation was zero-sum. Nobody had surplus capacity for charity.
The Jaeger discussion consumed two hours. By the end, the framework was clear: three regional manufacturing centers would produce the bio-metal Jaeger corps.
Asian Theater: China, Japan, South Korea, and Russia pooling resources. Likely operating out of the Hong Kong Shatterdome with satellite facilities.
American Theater: United States, Canada, and select South American partners. Operating from multiple bases along both coasts.
European Theater: Britain, France, Germany, and Scandinavian allies. Coordination through NATO infrastructure.
Collectively designated: The Sun Jaeger Corps.
Half the nations in the room had withdrawn from the program entirely, unable or unwilling to meet the financial requirements. They'd have to rely on allied protection and hope that was enough.
Then came the second agenda item: the interstellar probe initiative.
Ambassador Chen—the American representative Aidan had clashed with during the Kyoto conference—spoke first, her expression carefully neutral.
"The United States is withdrawing from the probe program," she announced. "We believe resources should focus on immediate defensive capabilities. Space exploration can wait until the Jaeger corps and orbital defense platforms are operational."
Translation: We think hunting for neutron stars is a waste of money when we could be building warships.
The floodgates opened. Once America pulled out, smaller nations followed like dominoes. Britain withdrew. France hedged but ultimately declined. Japan expressed interest but cited budget constraints. Within thirty minutes, two-thirds of the potential participants had abandoned the project.
Only three nations remained committed: China, Russia, and Germany. They'd proceed as a limited coalition, splitting costs three ways, and hope Dr. Ryan's technology worked as advertised.
Hemitdon guided the discussion toward dinner recess—everyone was tired, hungry, and tired of being hungry. Negotiations would resume after the meal, working through implementation details until midnight if necessary.
He was opening his mouth to formally call the recess when reality tore open behind him.
A portal materialized in mid-air, ten feet across, geometric patterns rotating in perfect synchronization. Through the opening, you could see the other side: dark red landscape, alien architecture, the unmistakable environment of the Anteverse.
Every conversation died instantly. Three hundred people went silent, staring at the impossible thing that had just appeared in a London conference hall.
Aidan Ryan stepped through, looking slightly rumpled but otherwise unbothered, like he'd just returned from a business trip rather than an interdimensional invasion.
The portal collapsed behind him, light fading, leaving only the faint smell of ozone and burned air.
"Apologies for the dramatic entrance," Aidan said into the stunned silence. "I just returned from the wormhole. I have news. Possibly good news."
He sounded genuinely uncertain about that last part.
Hemitdon recovered first—decades of diplomatic training kicking in, providing scripts for situations that should be impossible. "Dr. Ryan. You've... concluded operations in the colony?"
"There is no colony," Aidan corrected. "Just a staging ground. Three Precursors running Kaiju production. I've left them alive."
"Why?" The Russian representative—a broad-shouldered man with a general's bearing—leaned forward. "If they're vulnerable, why not eliminate the threat?"
"Because the situation is more complicated than we thought." Aidan's expression turned serious. "And I need you to hear this before anyone makes irreversible decisions."
Hemitdon gestured toward the stage. "Please. Address the council."
Aidan climbed the steps, taking position at the central podium like he'd done this a hundred times before. He waited for the room to settle—for the whispers to die down, for everyone's attention to focus—then began.
"The Anteverse isn't a colony. It's a Kaiju factory, operated by a commander named Achilles Ares. I extracted his memories." He said it casually, like memory extraction was a standard intelligence-gathering technique. "What I learned changes everything."
Holographic displays materialized above the stage—Aidan's magic making technology look quaint—showing images from Achilles's memories. The Precursor homeworld. The dungeon cities. The Toxin parasites.
"The Precursors are an ancient civilization. Hundreds of millions of years old. Their homeworld is dying—environmental collapse, toxic atmosphere, the works. But the real threat is a parasitic organism called the Toxin."
The images shifted, showing the facehugger-like creatures, their corrosive blood, their reproductive cycle.
"The Toxin doesn't just kill individual Precursors. It's threatening their entire species. That's why they invaded Earth. Not for conquest or resources, but for survival. They need new territory before their homeworld becomes completely uninhabitable."
The room remained silent, everyone processing this recontextualization of the war.
"I've compiled detailed intelligence on Precursor society, military capabilities, technological assets, political structure—everything Achilles knew, I've extracted and documented. The files are being distributed to your secure networks now."
Aidan paused, making eye contact with different sections of the assembly.
"You have two options. First: I destroy the wormhole. Sever the connection permanently, end the immediate threat, and hope the Precursors never find another route to Earth."
He let that option sit for a moment.
"Second option: negotiation. The Precursors have a political faction—doves, essentially—who want cooperation instead of conquest. They've studied humanity's technological progress and reached a logical conclusion: alliance against the Toxin benefits both species."
Murmurs erupted—some shocked, some outraged, some calculating.
"Before you decide," Aidan said, raising his voice to cut through the noise, "I need to acknowledge something."
His gaze found Ambassador Ms. Candice in the American delegation.
"Ms. Candice , you argued for diplomatic solutions during the Kyoto conference. I dismissed that possibility because I didn't have complete information. You were right to consider it, and I was wrong to reject it out of hand. I apologize."
Candice looked genuinely surprised—politicians rarely admitted error, especially not publicly.
"The choice is yours," Aidan concluded. "I can arrange a negotiation through the wormhole, or I can collapse it permanently. Either way, the coordinates to their homeworld are secure. The strategic initiative remains with humanity."
He stepped back from the podium, leaving three hundred delegates staring at each other, trying to figure out how to vote on whether to negotiate with the civilization that had killed millions of their people.
Patrick Hemitdon took a long, slow breath.
"I believe," he said carefully, "dinner can wait. We have much to discuss."
The murmurs swelled into full conversations—arguments breaking out across the chamber, alliances forming and fracturing in real-time.
History was being written.
The only question was whether it would be written in ink or blood.
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