Planet Earth.
Central Belt Security Headquarters.
The corridors smell of clean metal and static electricity.
The panel lights slice through the air like surgical blades.
Camilla walks fast—like she's cutting through resistance only she can feel.
Her steps are precise, purposeful. Her eyes cold, focused. But somewhere deep inside them, something sharp flickers.
Too much is at stake.
Nicholas follows a step behind, his breath ragged, like his thoughts—heavy, rusted with fear.
"Director," he says, half-running to keep up. "The mercenaries—Yulia and Alex... they're at our smugglers' outpost. Already boarded a cargo ship. Headed for Mercury."
Camilla stops.
She turns with the force of a blow. Her gaze stabs him, like a needle through glass.
"You still don't get it, Nicholas?"
Her voice is a vacuum-borne storm—sharp and cold enough to cut skin.
"They didn't write this script. They're background players. Catching them is like trying to trap smoke."
She pauses—not for drama, but because every word now carries the weight of a verdict.
"The war has already begun. Mars's fleet is en route. Even if we lay the full truth before the Council, Marcus won't back down.
And remember—without Ivor, they'd never have made it onto that ship."
Nicholas lowers his eyes.
There's a leaden weight in his chest, like someone just named his mistake the cause of global instability.
"Understood, ma'am..." he mutters.
Camilla doesn't look back. Her pace quickens. She refuses to let hesitation in.
There's no room for retreat.
Every second now is a choice between life or extinction.
Ahead: the heavy doors of the Council Chamber.
They open with a low hiss, like colossal mollusk shells parting.
Beyond lies the place where planetary fates are rewritten.
The Council Hall is high, hollow, oppressive.
Its walls—forged of titanglass—etched with neural schematics that shimmer faintly in the light.
At the center: a half-sphere platform for speakers. Around it: the chairs of the Council members—still, composed, like grandmasters in the final moves of a galactic chess game.
The central screen shows a snow-covered mountain peak.
Silent. Empty. Cold.
Like Earth itself—should it end up alone.
Camilla and Nicholas step forward.
Not a wasted gesture. Not a flicker of emotion.
Their presence is armor.
"Intelligence Chief Nicholas, reporting," he announces.
"Director of Security Camilla, present," she follows.
Her voice is dry—but beneath it, something pulses. An unspoken urgency.
A podium rises from the floor.
A man stands. Checkered suit. A look of intellect mixed with venom. In his hand—a tiny gavel.
"For those with short memories, I'm Socrates, Chairman of Earth's Council," he says, with a trace of sarcasm.
But his eyes cut through the room like scanner beams.
"I declare this hearing open."
The Council nods in silence.
The screen flickers—now displaying orbital diagrams, fleet images, ship counts.
"We begin with the obvious. Mars is marching to war against Mercury.
We stand between two fires.
We need a clear assessment of strength.
Nicholas—proceed."
Nicholas steps forward. His spine is straight, but his voice is laced with controlled dread.
He knows—any misstep will be used against them.
"Martian fleet composition: one command station, twenty-five cruisers, fifty supply transports, thirty landing ships."
Silence.
As if the air has been sucked out of the chamber. A low ringing fills the void.
A few Council members exchange looks. One whispers:
"That's… impossible..."
Camilla doesn't move. But her eyes say: I warned you.
Socrates runs a hand across the back of his head. For a split second—genuine confusion. Then he regains composure.
"We estimated their force five times smaller," he snaps.
"How did they pull this off?"
"They hid the fleet in the Asteroid Belt," Nicholas replies. His voice now sharpens, growing iron.
"Built docks out there. Complete concealment. We only discovered them once they emerged from the shadow."
Socrates stares at him.
"I'm taking personal control of this issue," he says curtly. A sentence. A sentence.
"Now, the second matter. Camilla.
How did a diplomat get assassinated in your zone?"
Pause.
The kind that means interrogation is next.
"This wasn't a street thug. This was a diplomat from the Outer Belt."
Camilla steps to the podium. Her stride is flawless.
But her eyes burn—flames behind a stone mask.
She can't afford to lose. Not here.
"It was a provocation," she says.
"Cold-blooded. Calculated.
Marcus is willing to sacrifice his own people just to ignite a war.
He used mercenaries. One has already been eliminated to cover their tracks."
"I won't let them destroy everything we've held together for decades.
I won't let Earth become a ghetto for androids."
"We believe an unknown technology was used against us—possibly a neuroparasite or remote control interface.
That would explain—"
Socrates lifts a hand. The motion is abrupt. Final. Like a shot.
"Enough, Camilla."
A frozen instant. All eyes on her.
She doesn't flinch. But her temples throb.
They're not looking for the guilty.
They're looking for someone convenient.
And if I slip now—they'll erase me.
Socrates lowers his hand. Says nothing. But it's clear:
The rules have changed.
This isn't a briefing anymore.
It's survival.
"That's enough!" Socrates barks. His voice cracks toward a shout.
"We don't need lectures. We know what service means.
The issue is—you failed.
You and your intelligence network."
"And so now, Director, we face a question:
Are you fit to hold your post?"
Silence.
Camilla doesn't answer right away.
Inside—tension boils beneath the surface.
But her face remains the same mask of calm.
Her mind runs like an ice-core processor—fast, precise, free of panic.
She tilts her head slowly, as if reaching inward to retrieve the right words, one by one.
"I regret," she says, her voice firm, elastic like tempered steel,
"that we were unable to prevent this war.
But I see no grounds to strip Nicholas or me of our authority.
This feels more like a scapegoat hunt than a real assessment of the situation."
It's a challenge. There's no apology in her voice.
Socrates goes still. His eyes narrow, his jaw clenches.
He's not used to being spoken to this directly.
"You understand perfectly," he says, almost syllable by syllable,
"that Mercury has no real chance.
The Martians will crush their fleet.
And then what?
The seizure of Mercury.
Energy collapse on Earth.
A new era of submission.
And once again—androids in chains."
He sweeps the room with a glance, as if demanding confirmation from the Council itself.
"You've lost control," he continues.
"Tell me—why should we keep those who failed?"
Camilla feels a crack forming in her internal stillness.
How easy it is for them to judge.
These officials have never stood ankle-deep in blood or soot.
Never looked into the eyes of someone they had to save.
To them, everything is numbers.
"That's your decision," Nicholas interjects.
His voice is low, restrained—but the heat beneath it is unmistakable.
He looks straight at Socrates.
"Just don't assume you'll find a replacement in a week.
We're not janitors.
We've been the shield that let you sleep."
Socrates smirks. His lips twitch—not with amusement, but contempt.
"This is a staffing issue," he snaps.
"Everything can be arranged."
Camilla scans the room.
Every face holds something—fear, anger, buried guilt.
They're afraid it's spiraled too far.
Afraid they were wrong.
But most of all—they're afraid to admit androids have grown stronger.
"Let me be clear," she says, her tone even, but as if pressing on a neural switch deep in every listener's core.
"The living have been storing up resentment for years.
They resent free androids—especially those on Mercury and Earth.
The ones who've grown stronger, smarter, more independent.
The only way to reclaim control is to start a war.
They just needed a reason.
And now—they have it."
Her words strike like dull hammers against concrete.
The room thickens—charged, electric.
Socrates squints, his tone turns acid.
"And you?
When exactly did you plan to draw conclusions?
Or were you just watching the catastrophe creep closer?"
"We already did," Camilla replies, cold and measured, with a hint of irony—but not mockery.
"Years ago.
And we weren't just watching.
We were helping the corporation.
Secretly supplying arms.
Preparing them for war."
The room stirs—gasps ripple like a shockwave cracking the air.
There it is.
The cards are on the table.
Council members shift in their seats. Some stunned. Some furious.
An elderly man, hands trembling, leans forward.
"Without our knowledge?
Where did the funding come from?"
Camilla doesn't blink.
She's taken control of the moment.
"Mercuria established the Android Rights Defense Fund.
They're our main sponsor.
With that funding, we dismantled control chips.
We granted legal parity to Earth's androids.
And yes, we used it to arm Mercury's defenses."
A rustle of clothing, hushed murmurs.
The Council is shaken.
The world they believed they governed… is larger than they thought.
Socrates raises a hand sharply.
Silence drops like a curtain.
"I want full disclosure," he says.
"Quantities, specs, timelines—everything you've delivered."
Camilla doesn't move. Not a flicker of hesitation.
"I'm sorry, Council," she says, her voice like titanium.
"But I can't release such information on the eve of battle.
I'm not convinced of everyone's loyalty in this room.
What if one of you takes Mars's offer?"
Socrates rises. His face contorts with fury.
He's close to losing control—a rare thing.
"That's outrageous!
There are no traitors among us!"
His hand slaps the table, nearly breaking the silence again.
Camilla allows herself a small smile.
Quiet. Without scorn.
But deep—like a faultline beneath calm ground.
"I believe you," she says gently.
"But my job isn't to take anyone's word for it.
I verify."
Silence.
The Council holds its breath.
Some lower their eyes.
Others seem to remember—for the first time in years—that they have a conscience.
Socrates exhales slowly, deliberately.
His voice is tired, but still carries command.
"Very well…
You've said enough.
Please leave the chamber.
We need to discuss your… continued suitability for your roles."
Camilla nods. Her face unreadable.
She knows the real verdict won't be passed here—
but out there, on the battlefield.
Nicholas joins her.
They turn and walk toward the exit.
Not rushing.
As if they already know—they're needed more than the Council is ready to admit.
The doors seal behind them.
A dull, mechanical thud—like a severed nerve.
Earth holds its breath.
And somewhere beyond its skies, the shadows of warships begin to move.