Cain pulled his hand back slowly. The cold lingered in his glove. Not just temperature — the kind that settled in the bones when you were too close to something that didn't want to be disturbed.
He turned from the rack, eyes drifting across the vault. Dozens of rows. Hundreds of modules. Each one a piece of someone. A piece of something.
Not just data. Not just code.
"MERIT," he said quietly. "If they're still alive... are they aware?"
A long pause.
"I can't be certain."
He looked toward the memory banks — then past them, toward the door they'd come through. The cold hadn't relented. The frost still edged every seam. Outside this chamber, war waited. Death. The Empire. Everything the Resistance still feared.
And this...
This was the solution.
Not a weapon. Not in the traditional sense. Not a warhead. Not a railgun. Not an orbital strike.
Mids. People, maybe not in the traditional sense, but in the essence. Archived. Shaped. Preserved in crystal like insects in amber. Some fractured. Some forgotten. Some - alive.
Cain took a slow breath, his visor fogging at the edges, then cleared by MERIT's filtration system a half-second later. The silence inside the vault pressed in—not hostile. Not warm. Just patient. Like everything here had been waiting for someone to ask the right question.
"MERIT," he said. "If these cores are still stable... can they be used?"
A pause.
"Imperial technology is not compatible with MERIT system. Direct installation into a walker might be catastrophic without adaptation. They still remember death of their pilots, and to them, they are the pilots who died."
Cain stepped closer to the central interface bank. Lights flickered across the console's face, sluggish and irregular, but the system was alive. Waiting.
"Independent behaviour modules cannot function effectively without a human pilot." MERIT suddenly said. "Even if we bring all of them, we can't use them effectively. Resistance lacks both MERIT-compatible walkers and Pilots"
"So we bring one, maybe two?"
"Affirmative," MERIT replied. "Any more will be a liability."
"We can always come back."
"Affirmative."
Cain's eyes moved across the racks. Most of the names were unreadable. Some were scratched through. Some never had names at all—just serials, or scratched warnings.
He passed ERIS-A
Then VESNA.
Then a row with no labels—just black crystals sealed in red polymer.
"Which one," he asked, "do you think is most useful?"
MERIT hesitated.
"That depends what you want."
Cain stopped walking. Looked toward the far end of the vault.
Where the ceiling had collapsed slightly. Where the cold felt deeper. Where the white pulse still blinked.
"I want a perfect soldier."
There, encased in a separate housing unit — frosted glass fractured at the corners—was a core unlike the others. Not palm-sized. Not uniform. It was irregular, almost organic in shape. Its outer plating looked grown, not cast. And inside it, something faint flickered.
Slow. Steady. Like breath.
"What's that one?" Cain asked.
MERIT didn't answer immediately.
Then:
"My readings suggest, this is a combination module. Not an imprint."
"What do you mean by that?"
Cain stepped closer to the casing. The HUD dimmed, lens filters flickering to adjust. The core responded—light pulsed, soft and rhythmic. Not a beacon. Not a signal.
A heartbeat.
"As war came to an end, pilots got scarce. Those who remained lacked experience. Thus, it was created - the amalgamation of thousands of hours of experience, a psyche carefully crafted to be a perfect killing machine. Something that does not know fear, or remorse, or... Mercy."
Cain exhaled slowly.
"And it's still running."
"Affirmative."
Cain smiled behind the mask. He didn't need a warhead. He just found something much more powerfull.
"We will take Him.... Her... It... Whatever. At least he is not having a PTSD."
He knelt and unlocked the cradle clamps. The core resisted — not with force, but with weight. It was heavier than expected. Denser. Like it wanted to stay. He unsealed a storage cell with a faint hiss, and pulled a crystal module out, just now noticing a thin, spider silk thin crack in it.
"Let's not drop this one," Cain muttered, carefully laying it in his pocket. "Let's get out of here,"
MERIT didn't respond.
Cain turned and stepped through the frost again — leaving the dead to sleep in their coffins of light.
Suddenly, a whole complex shook violently, frost crystals broke off the ceiling. Sirens started to wail.
Not mechanical klaxons or internal lockdowns. The kind of alarm which drills into you skull. It howled through substructure in a slow, rising tone, shaking snow loose from the walls.
"MERIT," Cain said, breath tight. "What the hell is this?"
"Orbital breach alarm template matches recorded sound. Possible source: Krosa cruiser. Possible cause: Orbital bombardment."
"Krosa? What the hell does it do here, trying to finish the job?"
"Bombardment is targeting upper sectors. We have limited time. Substructure interference is delaying penetration. Logic dictates that someone directed them here."
"You are Sherlock Holmes, did I tell you that?"
"Is that sarcasm I detect?"
"No, this is your happy birtday song, what do you think?"
The walls trembled again, and a muffled roar rolled through the corridor.
"They're not guessing," Cain muttered. "Either they saw us... or someone told them where to look."
"Cruiser has altered course," MERIT reported. "Orbital bombardment confirmed. Impact imminent."
"Map the exit route!"
"Previous exit route compromised," MERIT replied, as HUD flickered. "Shaft left by orbital charge is collapsing. Upper levels breached."
Cain sprinted through administrative corridor, frost blooming under his feet as the world above screamed.
"Options!"
"Evacuation map required," MERIT said. "Visual scan preferred."
Cain's feet slid on frosted floor, as he abruptly stopped next to the large wooden frame, glass completely frosted over. He hastily wiped frost from it, letting MERIT scan the map.
For solid couple of seconds silence was hanging heavy in the air, interrupted by tremors, caused by shockwaves. Finally, MERIT spoke.
"Hangar Three. ICBM launch tubes. System is obsolete, but intact."
"Everything is obsolete here!" Cain already screamed, as roar above grew louder. "Map the route!"
"Affirmative," MERIT responded, as HUD flickered with a waypoint.
Cain reached it within minutes — a cylindrical shaft, hundreds of meters tall, with gates large enough to let even a biggest of walkers in. Right in the middle of it, clamped to the launch rails, surrounded by scaffolding and railings, was a huge rocket, its tip barely visible high above, while the fins were drowning in the darkness down below.
"MERIT, can you launch this thing?"
"Negative, network non-"
"Non-existant by design, yes, I remember. Not what I asked."
"Manual override is possible, however it needs to be refueled, and its warhead loaded."
"I don't need its warhead. Point me towards control room."
"Upper ring," MERIT replied. "Seventeen meters above primary gantry. Access panel B-2. Manual ignition assembly and core vent regulators are housed behind reinforced shielding. Hydraulic system will need reactivation."
"Whatever," Cain muttered. "Show me the path."
His HUD lit with faint markers — directional arrows glowing dull amber. One flickered, then steadied. He followed them across the curved walkway, boots scraping ice. The rocket loomed beside him the whole way, close enough to touch — massive and scarred, its hull scorched from decades of chemical rot and neglect, yet still intact. Its paint had long since peeled away. Only stenciled warnings remained, faded to near-invisibility.
He passed a side panel labeled:
STRATEGIC NUCLEAR DELIVERY PLATFORM / SVAROG-CLASS
No insignia. No nation. Just a weapon that had waited too long for a reason to move.
Cain swallowed. He had stepped out of the past. Out of a vault where minds had been frozen in failure. And now he stood inside something meant to scream through the sky, not wait beneath it.
The upper access door was half-jammed. He shoved his shoulder against it — metal shrieked as hinges finally gave, and the cold followed him inside.
The missile control room was tiny.
Cramped, even — a curved capsule of outdated consoles, pressure monitors, fuse junctions, and rotary interface nodes. Every surface was sheathed in frost, most of the displays long dead or locked in endless boot sequences in the faint traces of power still trickling here. A single overhead light sputtered weakly, buzzing like a trapped insect.
But the override station — that was still intact.
A bulky, sealed unit fixed to the far wall, its interface protected by a heavy glass casing and a physical key slot.
"MERIT, how much of this can you walk me through?"
"Most. The Svarog series was built with human fallback in mind. Systems are analog-digital hybrids. With manual assistance, I can calculate proper ignition vectors and depressurization cycles. But you will need to prime the coolant intake and initiate fuel feed yourself."
Cain was already moving.
He pulled the cover free — glass shattered, falling in a crystalline spray. The controls beneath were primitive: two toggle switches, a pressure wheel, and a keyhole. He ignored it.
"Where's the feed valve?"
"Two levels below launch platform. Access hatch G-9. Fuel chamber buried under old distribution grids. You will need to reroute from the reactor tap."
Cain grunted.
"Can you reroute it?"
"Negative. Wireless access..."
"Yes, yes, I know, please shut it.
"You'll have to initiate manually."
Cain wiped frost off the override panel.
"Legacy architecture detected," MERIT said calmly. "Some of these systems share instruction sets with VOIN-1's framework."
"How are we going to launch it from here? There are ten layers of protocols for this thing."
"Legacy architecture detected," MERIT said calmly. "Some of these systems share instruction sets with VOIN-1's framework. Also, this system is equipped with a Dead Man's Hand."
Cain looked up. "A what?"
"Ural Defence Belt was a part of Russian Perimeter system. If command uplink is lost and override is engaged, the missile's control logic defaults to autonomous deployment. It attempts to reacquire orders. If a catastrophic impact is detected and multiple command centres do not respond within fixed time frame..."
"It launches."
"Correct."
Mountain shook once again.
The override console waited at the far wall. No key slot blinking. No welcome. Just a metal plate covered in rime and warning stencils in a language no one spoke anymore.
He wiped it clean.
"MERIT?" he asked.
"System is inert. No ignition signal present. Command uplink is unreachable."
Cain stared at the console for a beat. Then reached for the power switch. Flipped it.
The console hummed. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the console sparked once — flickered — and finally came to life with a reluctant groan.
Then:
AUTONOMOUS STRIKE PROTOCOL ENGAGED
COMMAND CONFIRMATION: NULL... ATTEMPTING TO RECONNECT IN 5...
COMMAND CONFIRMATION: NULL
DEAD MAN'S HAND AUTHORIZED
LAUNCH SEQUENCE STANDING BY
He exhaled.
"No key," he muttered. "Just trust issues."
MERIT's voice followed.
"This system never trusted its makers to survive. It will attempt to complete final directive."
"Good," Cain said. "Because we've got something to deliver."
He didn't know if it was justice or just another mistake. But it was in motion now, and he'd lit the fuse.
Cain rushed outside, as letters kept blinking. He descended fast — down rusted ladders, past sealed maintenance doors, through shafts so narrow he had to turn sideways to move. The structure groaned now and then — distant, tectonic. Not failure. Just stress. As if the mountain hadn't decided whether it would hold together for one last launch.
The fuel room was darker. Wider. Floor coated in old coolant residue — greenish, frozen into ribbed sheets that cracked under his boots. Thick pipes ran along the walls, twisted and insulated, each marked with faded stenciling:
REACTOR AUX FEED
MISSILE FUEL LINE — PRIMARY
COMPRESSOR GRID CONTROL — DEACTIVATED
He stopped at the fuel pipe — a wide, pressure-sealed trunkline, hand-painted warnings along its curve. A rotary valve sat in the junction, half-frozen, resistant to touch.
Cain crouched beside it.
"MERIT, this it?"
"Confirmed. That's the feed line. It routes propellant to the missile tankage system."
He gripped the valve and strained. It resisted. Then, with a heavy metallic groan, it gave.
Somewhere behind the wall, a pair of magnetic locks disengaged. The pipe rumbled. Fuel lines unsealed.
But nothing moved.
Cain stood still, listening. The silence was total. Mountain shook violently once again, making it snow inside.
"There is no pressure," he muttered.
"Affirmative," MERIT replied. "Compressor grid remains offline."
"And the base reactor's dead."
"Affirmative. Chernobog's maintenance bus runs on pre-war signal standards. I can emulate those protocols."
Cain narrowed his eyes.
"How?"
"I was technically part of VOIN-1's onboard architecture once," MERIT said. "Our systems share legacy instruction sets. Those languages were never fully deprecated."
"That's convenient," Cain muttered.
"Only if Chernobog's system isn't fully shut down," MERIT replied. "Walkers of that class are docked with an auxiliary feed — like a nuclear vessel tied to shore power. I can trigger reverse draw — use his standby loop to power the compressor grid."
Cain glanced down the corridor.
"The connection is internal to the auxiliary feed. I can mimic cradle handshake protocols remotely — no physical port needed."
"And if the feed's still hot?"
A pause.
"...we'll need a much bigger wrench."
A pause hung heavy in the air. Then MERIT's tone shifted — not louder. Just deeper. Focused. From somewhere below, the metal groaned — low, deep. Not movement. Not yet. But pressure cycling, like lungs remembering air.
"Chernobog?" he asked quietly.
"No full startup," MERIT replied. "But systems are warming. Auxiliary turbines stabilizing. Power feed authorized."
The walls trembled faintly. Lights dimmed. A sound like breathing passed through the floor — not mechanical, but alive.
"Good." Cain turned back to the valve. "Let's wake the rest."
"Fuel compressor?"
"Online in ten seconds."
From deep below, something ancient groaned. A turbine kicked. Pistons fired.
The walls shuddered faintly as pressure climbed in the pipe.
A faint hiss. Then a slow, rising whine — the sound of fuel moving through a system that hadn't flowed in decades.
"Flow is stable," MERIT said. "Missile fueling has begun."
Cain turned, exhaling.
"And Chernobog?"
"Twin reactor system holding. Output at sixty-one percent. Integrity nominal."
"Good. We're going to need him."
"Fuel cycle initiated," MERIT said. "Thirty percent. Launch clamps will disengage at ninety."
Cain wiped a smear of frost from his visor.
"Then we better move," he said as ran back toward the cradle, where the monster waited — cold-blooded, half-forgotten, braced to ride fire into the sky.
The conduits exhaled under pressure, a shudder like something deep-buried trying to remember how to move.Cain turned the wheel until it stopped, then stepped back as the lines overhead hissed with pressure. Steam curled through a rupture in one of the gaskets. The smell hit him a moment later — not sharp, not toxic — just hot, like reactor breath expelled through too many decades of silence.
"Fuel transfer underway," MERIT confirmed. "Compression rising. Seventy-two percent. Launch will engage automatically at ninety."
"I heard you first time!"
Cain didn't wait. He was already on the move, back up the service ladders, boots slamming metal with each ascent. The silo vibrated now — not from impact, not yet — just tension. Like something coiled around the rocket's bones was finally starting to wake.
The launch clamps were humming.
The missile pulsed in its restraints, its hull streaked in cold vapor and residual ice. The platform shivered underfoot. Cain crossed the gantry at speed, ignoring the frost, ignoring the vertigo. High above, layers of soil started to shift, as an enormous blast-proof cap of the missile silo began to open, letting dim sunlight bleed inside. He tapped his pocket, as if checking if the crystal module is still there.
"Cain. What are we doing?" MERIT suddenly asked.
"Eight years ago, the Perimeter system let an atomic djinn out of its bottle." Cain smirked beneath the mask. "I think we're about to summon something worse."