Station of Records
The reroute was announced the way all CNC directives were.
Without justification.
"Attention. All cleared candidates will prepare for station docking.
Destination: Station of Records.
Arrival window: Variable."
That was all.
No explanation followed. No contextual briefing. No mention of why this station existed, or why it had not been listed before the descent.
The message repeated once, then faded from every display.
In Compartment Ten, the survivors stood in loose clusters, waiting for the next instruction that did not come.
Ayush checked his Halo Watch again. The interface had reverted to its default layout, stripped of advanced diagnostics. Even the precision tools he normally accessed with a gesture were locked behind a neutral symbol.
"Reduced access," he muttered. "They're narrowing visibility."
Vedant frowned. "Since when?"
"Since they don't want feedback," Ayush replied.
Gudi crouched near the wall, pressing her palm against the metal. She tilted her head, listening. "It's not them," she said slowly. "The train's… doing something."
Raghu felt it too.
Not as sound, but as intention.
The hum beneath the compartment floor had shifted again. Not louder. Not faster. Just… aligned. As if the train had committed to a path and would no longer entertain deviation.
Lights dimmed briefly, then stabilized at a lower intensity.
A soft vibration rolled through the coach as the rail mechanisms adjusted, unseen forces reconfiguring the train's immense mass.
Someone near the back swallowed audibly. "Why does it feel like we're being packed away?"
No one answered.
Above them, on the Supervisor Deck, Harry stood rigid before his console, hands resting flat on the surface as if bracing against turbulence that never arrived.
His screens were pristine.
No error flags. No alerts. No warnings.
Just locked fields.
He attempted to access the reroute authorization chain.
ACCESS DENIED
REASON: NON-APPLICABLE
Harry exhaled sharply. "That's not a reason."
The system did not respond.
He tried a different angle, pulling up historical data on the Station of Records. The search returned exactly one entry.
STATION STATUS: CONDITIONAL
LAST ACTIVATION: UNAVAILABLE
Harry frowned. "Unavailable isn't a timestamp."
The AI assistant flickered beside him, its voice carefully neutral. "The data does not specify temporal parameters."
"Does the data specify anything?" Harry asked.
"No," the AI replied.
Harry leaned back slowly.
This wasn't concealment. Concealment implied intent.
This was absence.
The kind that suggested the system itself did not consider explanation relevant.
He opened a secure channel to CNC operations.
"Supervisor Harry requesting clarification on Station of Records protocol."
The response came back after a delay that was only slightly too long.
"Station protocols are self-governing.
Supervisor oversight remains unchanged."
Harry stared at the message.
"Self-governing," he repeated under his breath. "That's new."
He typed again. "Requesting confirmation of candidate safety parameters during docking."
Another pause.
"Candidate safety parameters are active."
No elaboration. No reassurance.
Harry closed the channel.
Below, in the compartments, the candidates felt the consequences of that opacity immediately.
Corridor access shifted without warning. Routes they had walked a dozen times now redirected subtly, floor lighting guiding them along paths that felt unfamiliar despite being physically identical.
Raghu followed the light without resistance. Each step felt… anticipated. The floor adjusted underfoot with uncanny precision, micro-corrections smoothing his movement before imbalance could occur.
He stopped.
The floor stilled.
He stepped again.
It responded instantly.
Raghu's pulse quickened, not with fear, but with awareness.
"This isn't normal," Mira whispered beside him.
"No," Raghu said quietly. "It's deliberate."
They reached the viewing corridor just as the external shutters began to open.
Beyond the reinforced glass, the Station of Records came into view.
It did not resemble a station.
There were no platforms. No visible docking arms. No welcoming structures.
Instead, the train approached a vast ring of suspended architecture, layers of metallic arcs rotating slowly around an empty core. Glyphs drifted between the structures, rearranging themselves as if rewriting their own meaning in real time.
The rails did not connect.
They aligned.
The train slowed.
Not because it was commanded to — but because the space ahead had accepted it.
A hush fell over the survivors as the docking process began.
There was no jolt. No sound of clamps engaging. Just a sensation of pressure redistributing, like a breath being held and released.
Then the lights stabilized.
And something else happened.
Across the train, non-essential systems began to shut down.
Personal interfaces dimmed. Secondary diagnostics vanished. Environmental controls locked into minimal operation.
A message appeared on every Halo Watch.
"Docking in progress.
Non-essential functions suspended.
Please remain within designated areas."
Ayush clenched his jaw. "They're blinding us."
"They're simplifying," Gudi corrected softly. "Same effect."
Raghu glanced at his own watch.
For a moment, nothing appeared.
Then, faintly, a line of green text pulsed beneath the standard message.
Alignment Ongoing
It vanished before he could blink.
He said nothing.
On the Supervisor Deck, Harry watched as the same shutdown cascaded through his systems. Layers of oversight peeled away, leaving him with only surface-level telemetry.
"Supervisor authority remains," the AI said calmly. "However, operational scope has narrowed."
Harry laughed once, humorless. "So I can watch."
"Yes," the AI replied. "You may observe."
He leaned forward, eyes fixed on the external feed as the Station of Records completed its rotation, settling into a configuration that felt… expectant.
"Observe what?" Harry asked quietly.
The AI did not answer.
Down below, the survivors felt the train settle fully into place. The hum shifted one last time, deepening into something steady and final.
Raghu closed his eyes.
For a brief moment, he felt the Verdant Pulse stir — not as power, not as instinct, but as resonance. The sword at his side responded in kind, fragments humming softly in agreement.
The train was no longer adjusting.
It had arrived.
And it did not apologize for what it had taken.
It never would.