The sea air whipped at Nandita's face as the Jacquerie drew alongside the Carina in the dark expanse of the river channel. The date was January 1, 1892. This was not a stealth mission; it was a defiant act of war.
"Prepare the grappling hooks!" Sanjeeva's voice, sharp and unwavering, cut through the din of the rushing water. He stood beside Nandita, his hazel eyes burning with the same righteous fury that pulsed in the veins of every member of The Shahid Outfit (TSO) crew. They were few, perhaps twenty against Tennenbaum's forty, but they were fueled by the memories of the Surat massacre.
"For the Rani!" Nandita yelled, invoking the spirit of her inspiration.
"For a Free India!" the crew roared back, echoing her challenge.
The ships met with a grinding screech of wood against wood. TSO's crew swarmed the Carina, engaging in a brutal, chaotic melee against Lord Tennenbaum's well-armed soldiers. Nandita, wielding a curved scimitar with the skill of her warrior ancestors, fought her way through the throng, her eyes fixed on the massive form of Tennenbaum himself.
Tennenbaum, a beast of a man, stood calmly on the quarterdeck, directing his troops with cold contempt. He spotted Nandita, her fierce presence undeniable, and sneered. "A woman leading these rabble? How quaint. You Indians never learn."
Nandita said nothing, but her resolve hardened. She reached the quarterdeck, dispatching two soldiers with quick, merciless strikes. Tennenbaum drew a heavy cavalry saber. Their clash was one of pure will against brute force. The General fought with cruel proficiency, his blows aimed to maim and humiliate. Nandita, driven by the echoes of twenty-five thousand dead, countered every swing, maneuvering with desperate agility.
Suddenly, Tennenbaum landed a grievous, sweeping blow across her midsection. Nandita stumbled back, the searing pain overwhelming. Her scimitar clattered to the deck. Blood bloomed rapidly on her tunic. She looked up, defiant, even as she coughed blood.
Tennenbaum raised his saber for the final strike, savoring the kill. Sanjeeva, seeing his leader fall, broke free from his own engagement and hurled his dagger. It struck Tennenbaum in the shoulder, a glancing but distracting blow. Tennenbaum roared in pain and fury, turning his attention to Sanjeeva.
This instant was all Nandita needed.
Ignoring the agonizing wound, she launched herself at the General. She grabbed his ceremonial pistol from its holster, jammed the muzzle under his chin, and squeezed the trigger.
The sound of the shot was deafening. Lord Tennenbaum, the butcher of Surat, fell without another sound, his large body collapsing on the deck.
Nandita stood over him, the gun falling from her slack fingers. Victory was hers. But it was a victory of sacrifice. She looked around. The fighting had stopped. All of her crewmates—Sanjeeva included, clutching a heavy wound—lay slain. The Carina was ablaze, sinking, and silence reigned over the dark water. She was the last to stand, her strength rapidly failing.
As she sank to her knees, the pain faded, replaced by a torrent of vivid, impossible memories.
Her consciousness fractured, and she experienced the lives she had carried, compressed into a final, blinding flash.
She saw the tragic end of Jason, the young Greek orphan, stabbed in the chest in a narrow street while protecting a woman and her son. She felt the sharp, sudden stop of that life and Jason's final, melancholy thought of a sad, wizened man.
The vision intensified, rushing forward in time. She was now in a green, moss-covered room—the Querencia—standing over a console. She saw a figure, a small girl named Kutti, and felt an immediate, fierce urge to protect her.
In that fleeting, final moment, she heard a voice—an echo from the ancient man in the room with the contraptions—a voice she somehow recognized as her own deepest being, whispering the truth:
"Nandita. Jason. Rahmat. You are the Sequence. Your true designation is Atri."
The knowledge—of Rahmat's innocence, Jason's nobility, and her destiny as Atri, the one who must not fail next time—was the last thing she ever knew.
Nandita collapsed onto the deck of the sinking Carina, a final, fierce breath escaping her lips as the sequence closed.
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In the Querencia :
The large room filled with mechanical contraptions was bathed in the harsh white light. Atan and Katrina were seated, their eyes fixed on the screen of the machine, which now thrummed with activity.
The text on the screen flashed, signaling a new event:
"EXIT 1. SEQUENCE SEGMENT - NANDITA COMPLETE. SUB-SEQUENCE TRAUMA INTEGRATED. SUBJECTS ATRI AND KUTTI OFFLINE."
Atan let out a long, shuddering sigh and leaned back in his chair. The burden of centuries seemed to weigh heavily on his posture.
"She did it," Katrina whispered, relief mixed with weariness. "The Nandita segment is stable, and the past-life memories of Jason are locked in. But the machine is demanding immediate deployment again."
Atan nodded, rubbing his temples. He paused, a strange, half-formed thought crossing his mind. "The names themselves... Atri. Kutti. They resonate with our system's core programming, don't they? Almost like premonitions. The machine often finds ways to weave favorable tidings into the data streams, small anchors for the future we're fighting for."
He quickly dismissed the thought—they had work to do. He pointed to the holographic display where the sequence status glowed and said : "The ultimate form—Atri—is a vessel of perfected resolve. One life is insufficient. It is a composite being. The machine requires multiple, distinct lives—each one a crucible for a specific virtue—to strip away the ego and build an absolute altruist."
Atan emphasized, "Look: Rahmat gave us Innocence and Compassion. Jason gave us Nobility. Nandita gave us Resolve and Sacrifice. The sequence demands more. It needs the grit of a fighter, the wisdom of a scholar, and the compassion of a healer. Only by experiencing the entire spectrum of human suffering and triumph will the final composite consciousness, Atri, be ready."
He took a deep, purposeful breath. "We are out of time. The Others will have felt the closure of the Nandita sequence. We must not give them time to react. Ready the next deployment. The sequence needs its next component. We need to instill Survival and Resilience before the final convergence."
Katrina, already working the controls, confirmed, "The coordinates are ready. The machine is calculating the optimal insertion point for the new past thread." She looked back at Atan, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. "Are we truly certain that running these sequences—these deaths—will turn the tide? It feels like we are just stacking up tragedies."
Atan met her gaze, his expression resolute. "We are creating a champion, Katrina. We are creating hope. The machine shows us these lives are necessary. We are simply the shepherds of the Sequence."
The screen displayed the final commands in bold, red letters:
"SEQUENCE SEGMENT - Salvador Cruz. TRAIT TARGET: SURVIVAL AND RESILIENCE. DEPLOYMENT IMMINENT. NEW TIDINGS INITIATED."