The silence in the server room was heavy. It felt like the air inside a tomb.
Jake Vance knelt on the tangle of severed cables. He held Yuri's hand. The boy's skin was grey, clammy as wet clay.
Yuri's eyelids fluttered.
"Papa?"
The voice was small. Weak. It wasn't the metallic drone of the System. It was a six-year-old boy.
"I'm here," Jake whispered. He choked back a sob. "I'm right here."
Yuri looked around the dark room. He looked at the black monitors. He shivered violently.
"It's... quiet," Yuri said. " The voices are gone. Uncle Alan is gone."
"He's not coming back," Jake said. He wrapped his heavy fur coat around the boy's shoulders.
"I feel empty," Yuri cried. Tears—real, hot tears—spilled over his cheeks. "I don't know the numbers anymore. I don't know the probability of tomorrow."
"Nobody does, son," Jake said. He picked the boy up. "That's what makes it worth living."
The door banged open. Menzhinsky stood there, breathless. His flashlight beam cut through the gloom.
"The grid is dead, Comrade," Menzhinsky said. "The temperature in the tenements is dropping. We have two hours before the pipes burst."
Jake held his son tighter. The victory against the Ghost had a cost. He had saved the boy, but he had blinded the State.
"The oil," Jake said. "Do we have the Arctic reserves?"
"The tanks are full. But the distribution logic was run by Yuri. Without the algorithm, we can't balance the load."
Jake looked at Oppenheimer, who was standing in the corner, wiping his glasses.
"Robert," Jake said. "Can you run a power grid?"
Oppenheimer looked at the massive, dead server banks.
"I can't run the AI," Oppenheimer said. "But I can bypass the safeties. We can burn the oil raw. Maximum output."
"Do it," Jake ordered. "Turn the sky back on."
The Roof of the Kremlin.
The city below was a black ocean. The only light came from the dying embers of the barbecue fires in Red Square. The party was over. The cold was creeping back in, a physical enemy laying siege to Moscow.
Jake stood by the main projector array. Taranov was loading a belt of heavy ammunition into a nearby anti-air gun, just in case.
"The generators are spinning up!" Oppenheimer's voice crackled over the radio. "Injection in three... two... one."
A low rumble shook the building. It grew into a roar. The smell of burning crude oil flooded the air—thick, black, and powerful.
Then, the light hit.
It didn't flicker. It slammed into existence.
Massive pillars of neon light shot up from the four corners of the city. They pierced the clouds, five miles high.
"Initiate the weave," Jake said.
The beams curved inward. They connected at the apex of the sky, forming a dome. A shimmering, translucent cage of violet and gold light.
It wasn't just a projection. It was thermal insulation. The massive energy output trapped the city's heat, creating a micro-climate.
"Look at it," Taranov breathed.
It was tragically beautiful. A cyberpunk cathedral built over a graveyard. The hologram shifted, raining down pixels of soft blue light that looked like digital snow.
Down in the streets, the people looked up. They stopped shivering. The light bathed them in an artificial warmth.
"The Aurora Dome," Jake said. "Fortress Moscow."
He wasn't hiding the dystopia anymore. He was decorating it.
"Sir," Menzhinsky interrupted, pressing a headset to his ear. "Priority signal from the Arctic. It's the K-1."
"Ramius?"
"He says the water is screaming."
The Arctic Circle. Under the Ice.
Captain Ramius held the sonar handles so hard his knuckles cracked.
"Sound contact!" the sonar officer yelled. "Multiple vectors! They are swarming!"
"Torpedoes?"
"No engine noise," the officer said, his face pale. "Just... clicking. Like whales. But metallic."
Ramius looked at the scope. Dozens of red dots were closing in on the K-1.
"Hoover's pets," Ramius growled. "Autonomous drones."
"They are targeting the drill line!"
The K-1 was still tethered to the sea floor, pumping the crude oil that kept Moscow glowing. If they disconnected, the city would go dark instantly.
"We hold the line," Ramius ordered. "Load the acoustic decoys."
SCREECH.
A horrible sound of tearing metal reverberated through the hull.
"Drone impact on the outer hull!" the engineer shouted. "They aren't exploding! They're latching on!"
Ramius grabbed the periscope, though there was nothing to see but black water.
"They are drilling machines," Ramius realized. "They are trying to bleed us."
"Hull integrity at 80%!"
"Electrify the hull," Ramius barked.
"Captain, we don't have the capacitors—"
"Dump the reactor coolant into the outer skin!" Ramius yelled. "Cook them off!"
The engineer hesitated, then slammed a lever.
Outside, the K-1 glowed with radioactive heat. The water around it boiled instantly.
The sound was horrific—like lobsters screaming in a pot. The drones, clamped to the steel, fried. Their circuits melted. They dropped away into the abyss.
"They are falling back," the sonar officer panted. "But more are coming. Hundreds of them."
"Tell Moscow," Ramius said, wiping sweat from his eyes. "Tell the General Secretary we can hold for twenty-four hours. After that, the Kraken eats us."
The War Room.
Jake listened to the static-filled report. He slammed his fist onto the map.
"He's choking us," Jake said. "Hoover knows the Dome runs on oil. He sends the drones to cut the throat."
"We need to withdraw the sub," Menzhinsky said.
"If we withdraw, the lights go out," Jake snapped. "And if the lights go out, the people remember they are starving."
He looked at the reel of film on the table. Gone with the Wind.
"We need a distraction," Jake said. "We need to hit Hoover so hard he forgets about the Arctic."
He picked up the film.
"Get the editing team," Jake said. "And get the deepfake synthesizer. The one we captured from the Liberty Tower."
"Boss?" Taranov asked. "You want to watch a movie now?"
"No," Jake said. His eyes were cold, calculating. "I want to remake it."
He unspooled a strip of celluloid. He held it up to the light of the holographic map.
"Vivien Leigh," Jake said. "The darling of America. The symbol of the Old South. The American spirit."
"Yes?"
"I want her to defect," Jake said.
The room went silent.
"Sir," Oppenheimer said, stepping forward. "You want to use the synthesizer to make a movie star... a communist?"
"I want to broadcast a new ending," Jake said. "We splice it. We use the IBM Mark V. In the final scene, she doesn't weep for Tara. She looks at the camera and tells the American people that capitalism is a burning house."
"That's blasphemy," Oppenheimer whispered. "To them, it's a religion."
"Exactly," Jake said. "We aren't just stealing their art. We are vandalizing their gods."
He slammed the film back into the canister.
"Operation Red Carpet," Jake declared. "We broadcast it on every frequency. We hijack their TV signal. When Hoover wakes up tomorrow, his favorite movie will be urging his citizens to revolt."
"It will cause chaos," Menzhinsky said. "Riots in the streets of New York."
"Good," Jake said. "Let Hoover deal with his own fires. Maybe then he'll call off his squids."
He turned to the window. The Aurora Dome pulsed above them, a beautiful, neon shield against the night.
"Taranov," Jake said. "Bring me the microphone."
"For the broadcast?"
"No," Jake said. "For the prologue. If we are showing a movie, I need to introduce it."
He adjusted his tunic. He looked at his reflection in the dark glass. He didn't look like a historian anymore. He looked like a director.
"Lights," Jake whispered. "Camera. Revolution."