The Council Chamber had not been fully repaired. The high vault of the quantum temple still bore the traces of the attack—a fan of hairline fractures radiating from the center skylight, the irregular shadow of scorched crystal where the Krokonian strike teams had breached the wall, a stink of ozone and burnt mycelium that even the best filtration systems could not mask. Along the perimeter, slabs of emergency shielding stood at awkward angles, a patchwork of blue and amber fields buzzing with the raw, unsteady pulse of a defense grid rebuilt in hours, not weeks.
Ryoshi entered with deliberate steps. He had left his helmet at the door, but the pressure band on his temple throbbed in time with the wounds of the building. Seven members of the High Council waited at the round table, their bodies bracketed by the warble of their personal shields, eyes all turned inward to their own calculations. Behind them, junior scribes hovered at hand, hands trembling as they tried to keep up with the real-time record—here a stylus skipped, there a data-sheaf quivered, everywhere the sense of a system pushed to its edge.
Ankin stood at the north quadrant, just inside the shadow of the backup projector. He had traded his field armor for a ceremonial tunic, but the fabric clung too close to the muscle, the color too stark against the bruises that now ringed his forearms. He did not look at Ryoshi, nor at the Council, but at the floor, as if reading a message written just below the surface.
The debate had been going for hours. The first voice to rise was Councilor Velle, a thin woman with an accent that could cut steel. "We have no way of knowing the Krokonian intent," she said, every consonant a gavel. "A measured withdrawal from the mining quarter would allow us to re-establish the perimeter. Every history of occupation begins with the mistake of overcommitment. You know this."
Ryoshi watched the ripple of agreement move around the table. Even after so many cycles, the old habits persisted—the deference to the analytic, the reflex of minimizing loss. He waited for the counterpoint.
Councilor Marek obliged, slamming his palm onto the raw wound of the table's surface. "And if we do nothing? They'll entrench. Fortify. Next assault, they bring orbital support. We lose the whole valley, not just Dustville."
A third, Councilor Kes, spoke with a gentler voice, but the words were no less sharp. "We must consider the civilians. Mining ops are the lifeline for the region. A scorched earth response only serves Krokonian propaganda."
Ryoshi let them circle, weighing their positions as he had weighed the movement of troops hours before. He measured the angle of Ankin's jaw, the rhythm of his breath, and found a thread of impatience that was not his own.
Councilor Marek turned, finally, to Ryoshi. "You led the defense. What's your assessment?"
Ryoshi drew a breath, letting the cold air still his nerves. "The Krokonian force that breached Dustville was not intended to take ground. Their mechs were first-generation; their shield units ran on recycled loops. The perimeter lattice was child's play to disrupt." He let that hang, then added, "They were probing for response. Timing. Coordination. They wanted to see how quickly we would rally, and how we would use our best assets."
Councilor Velle nodded, but did not concede. "You are suggesting restraint, then?"
Ryoshi shook his head. "No. I am suggesting we strike before they can recalibrate. A surgical counter, targeted at their forward ops relay. If we move in the next twenty hours, we retake the mining quarter and possibly draw out their command node."
Councilor Kes leaned in, fingers steepled. "And the cost?"
Ryoshi leveled his gaze. "If we move with precision—minimal civilian risk. If we wait, there is no such assurance."
A silence, heavy and bright.
Councilor Marek broke it. "Who leads the counter?"
"Ankin Varro has the field experience," Ryoshi said, without hesitation. He risked a glance at Ankin, who still did not look up, but whose hands had curled to fists at his sides.
Velle's mouth thinned. "The junior teams are not ready. Two of the acolytes are still in recovery from the last—"
"They will adapt," Ryoshi cut in. "Or they will be lost regardless. The Krokonian intent is to pressure us into paralysis. If we do not move, we are dead already."
The Councilor at the far right, old enough that his hair had gone clear, lifted a hand for silence. "We authorize the operation," he said. "Limited engagement. Highest discretion. No reprisals."
Ryoshi bowed in acceptance. It was more than he had hoped for, less than he feared.
The meeting dissolved. Councilors shuffled to their side rooms, juniors gathering the debris of the debate. Ryoshi waited until the room had thinned to a handful, then crossed to Ankin.
"Walk with me," Ryoshi said.
Ankin moved in silence, the tension in his limbs visible, every step an argument with the world. They took the long corridor, past the half-shattered murals of Order history, down the broken stairs to the outer ring.
"You did well in the field," Ryoshi offered.
Ankin grunted, not quite a reply.
"They've assigned you command of the strike team," Ryoshi added. "Full discretion. You'll need to—"
"Why not you?" Ankin said, and the words were sharp as glass. "You've led every critical op since the Day Zero breach. Council trusts you. The juniors trust you. I—"
Ryoshi held up a hand, stopping him. "That is why it must be you. I am too predictable. You are not."
Ankin's expression twisted, something like a smile but not. "Predictable isn't the same as weak."
"No," Ryoshi agreed. "But it is more easily mapped."
They walked in silence. Beyond the shielded glass, the sun began to rise over the mountain ridge, casting a spray of gold through the web of cracks in the dome. It turned the world outside into a grid of possibility—each line a future, each node a point of decision.
Ankin spoke, at last. "They'll expect a feint."
Ryoshi nodded. "So give them a hammer."
Ankin's eyes flicked up, finally meeting Ryoshi's. For a heartbeat, the old student was there—the restless hunger, the spark of invention—but it was shrouded by something new, something denser and darker at the edge of sight.
"Understood," Ankin said, and the word carried a weight that was both promise and warning.
Ryoshi reached out, placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder. It was a gesture of comfort, but also a test: the contact, the transmission of intent, the reminder of who they were and what they fought for.
Ankin stiffened, then relaxed. Just a fraction, but enough.
"Be careful," Ryoshi said, voice almost a whisper.
Ankin's lips parted, as if to reply, but then closed again. He turned away, already plotting the path to the next violence.
Ryoshi watched him go. At the far end of the corridor, Ankin's outline fractured in the light, and for a second Ryoshi thought he saw not a man, but a shadow with the memory of a face.
He stood there, letting the silence soak in, until the pain in his temple finally dulled.
Above, the cracks in the skylight glittered with the promise of another day.
Night in the high country was an animal unto itself—alive with the shifting of snowpack, the distant shudder of rocks too cold to hold their shape, the wet exhale of wind that had never touched a living tree. The twelve made their ascent in darkness, taking the old service routes through switchback and scree, each step mapped out in silence days before by the reconnaissance teams. Ryoshi moved at the head of the column, every sense attuned to the pressure of space and the risk of sound. He could feel the juniors behind him, disciplined but pulsing with the static of their own anticipation.
Ankin brought up the rear, though not out of caution; it was strategy, and everyone knew it. He was a walking failsafe, a promise that nothing would catch them from behind, and also a warning: this line would not retreat, not unless he said so.
By hour four, they had cleared the dead zone and entered the Krokonian sensor sweep. Here, the world was cut into slices—corridors of surveillance and silence, each as precise as a knife. The strike team spread out, hugging the rock, pulses low, personal shields running on passive. Ryoshi signaled the halt and watched the data plume from his wrist. The first patrol was late, but that was expected; the Krokonian doctrine valued unpredictability over precision.
When the patrol finally appeared, it was almost artless in its predictability: three soldiers in mirror-black armor, moving with that inexhaustible patience that only came from long training. They walked single file, eyes ahead, sensors running a half-second sweep to either side. Ryoshi waited for the optimal interval, then motioned with two fingers. The two flanking juniors melted from their cover, neutralized the patrol in five silent seconds—no drama, just a small loss of heat and three new shadows in the snow.
Ryoshi checked the time. "Seventy minutes to perimeter," he murmured, and the message relayed down the line.
The team moved on. The last kilometer was the worst—a traverse across an open col, no cover but the ridgeline, Krokonian sensors saturated in all spectra. This was where the Source mattered most, where the ancient tricks came into play: the meditative masking of bio-signatures, the walk that was not a walk but a sequence of stillnesses, the trick of never being a single body in one place for more than a breath.
At the edge of the ridge, the strike team regrouped in the shadow of an old mining relay. Below, the lights of Dustville flickered in uneasy blue, the Krokonian occupation force broadcasting its presence with all the subtlety of a siege engine.
Ryoshi crouched and gestured the team into a tight, silent ring. He keyed his throat mic to local only. "Standard three-point incursion. Red team: flank left, target the command nexus in the old admin block. Blue: you take the generator hub. Gold, with me—we hit the comms relay at H-zero."
A junior, the one with a scar under her eye, raised a hand for permission to speak. "What about local resistance?"
Ryoshi answered without pause. "We keep it clean. Minimum force, non-lethal where possible."
At the circle's edge, Ankin shifted, voice a murmur that was not for the team but for Ryoshi alone. "It's not enough."
Ryoshi waited until the juniors had moved off to their gear. Then: "Explain."
Ankin's jaw worked, the muscle standing out like a knot. "If we leave the barracks, they'll regroup. This isn't a data raid, Sensei. We need to break their lines or it'll be the same fight again in two days."
"We hit the command, the power, and their comms. That's the doctrine," Ryoshi said. "Clean. Surgical. No civilians in the crossfire."
Ankin didn't answer at first. When he did, his voice was flat, mechanical. "There will be collateral. The only question is whose."
Ryoshi stared at him, and for a moment saw the boy he'd trained, the one who always looked for the third option when the book said there were only two. That boy was gone.
"We do this my way," Ryoshi said.
A silence, deeper than before. "Yes, Sensei," Ankin replied, but the words rang hollow.
The three teams peeled off. Ryoshi moved with Gold, juniors silent and ready, each one's aura tuned to his own. They glided down the slope, using the old tram support as cover, then spread into the abandoned warehouse that faced the comms relay. Through the slats in the floor, Ryoshi watched the Krokonian sentries below: two squads, bored but alert, rifles set on non-lethal but with the safeties off.
He counted their breaths, measured the rhythm of their patrol, and waited for Blue to hit the generator.
At 0200, precisely on time, the generator hub went down. Not with a bang, but with a slow bleed—first the streetlights, then the relay towers, then the faint hum of the security lattice. The sentries below looked up, expecting the usual—maybe a blackout, maybe a sabotage run. They did not expect the team that dropped from the roof, moving so fast it was almost silent. Ryoshi watched as his juniors took down the sentries with stun rounds, then swept the perimeter for stragglers.
He moved in, using the disruption to walk straight to the comms node. The Krokonian operator there was already trying to reboot the uplink. Ryoshi knocked her out with a targeted pulse, then dropped a virus into the system, overwriting the defense protocols with a four-minute loop.
Red was already at the admin block, their progress visible in the scatter of Krokonian defenders falling back, unsure where the main attack was coming from. Ryoshi keyed his mic. "Red, status?"
A voice came back, breathless but steady. "Three in, two down. Command node is locked but holding."
Ryoshi grinned, just a little. "Hold for ninety seconds. Blue will flush the rest your way."
He closed the comm and turned to see Ankin's team—supposed to be sweeping the comms array's rear—already inside, weapons drawn, visors down. Ankin led them, eyes unreadable behind the mask. He moved not as a leader but as a vanguard, the point of a spear, and the others fell into place behind him with the inevitability of gravity.
Ryoshi moved to intercept, but Ankin was already past him, team slicing through the inner hallway toward the next objective.
"Ankin," Ryoshi said on private band. "Stick to the plan."