The gigantic spacecraft, the UNS Virgilio—its name written large and in white along the side of the bow, which appeared wider than it was long—was equipped with a double prow. Its outer hull looked worn and aged. Rust streaks ran visibly from the edges downward, dents scattered between one mounted rifle turret and another, and the portholes were opaque and dirty.
It was escorted by at least four Agusta AW388 helicopters from 2039, heavy and armed to the teeth, equipped with two lateral rotors powered by energy propulsion systems, as well as two Lockheed F-73 H Malthus jets—older aircraft created through Italian-American cooperation during the African War of 2031, yet still effective and fast, with smooth, almost alien shapes and large wings powered by powerful reactors.
The Virgilio slowly descended to land. The power of its engines made not only the ground tremble but the very air itself. Its majestic roar—metal sizzling and vibrating, smoke swirling through turbines spinning at tremendous speed, bending the air to its will—almost sounded like a celestial trombone, a glorious melody, as if a salvific creature were descending from heaven.
The heat, already present in the sunlight spreading across the area, intensified because of that flying ark, whose silver metal shone in the sky, casting a gigantic shadow that seemed to bring anyone who looked upon it to their knees—not out of fear or anguish, but out of reverence and sacred awe. As it descended further, it covered more and more of the sky, emitting robotic sounds that echoed through the trembling, disturbed air. The sunlight refracted around it like a halo, a divine aura emanating from a vessel of God—an ark of salvation—heading toward a new world.
And from the moment Victor stood there on the ground, admiring the magnificence of that ship together with the others, he soon found himself abruptly inside it. After a rather rapid boarding once the Virgilio had landed, he was walking through its corridors—darker and narrower—accompanied by the metallic echo of footsteps against the gray floor covered with grates. Beneath them ran unseen systems that produced a second electronic sound, a kind of "ruan... ruan...", a spiraling noise repeating at regular intervals, accompanied by faint electric crackles whose intensity could be felt with every step.
Later, after placing his belongings in his cabin, Victor stepped out for a walk. He found himself on the ship's mid-deck, completely covered in marble-white surfaces, shining and gleaming under the light of the late afternoon that streamed through the immense window on the left—tall and thick—overlooking the blue sky, blanketed with endless fields of clouds.
The deck was almost empty at that moment; only a few people passed by, mostly members of the crew. An ethereal calm filled the space. The only sound accompanying the young man was a faint, occasional rustle, probably from the air beyond the massive window.
The light also radiated considerable warmth. Victor removed the glossy black jacket he was wearing, remaining in his sleeveless black shirt, his arms and shoulders slightly damp with sweat from the heat trapped inside the jacket.
He continued walking slowly, hands in his pockets, holding the jacket tucked between his right arm and his side, watching the sky outside. At first he was irritated by the sun shining directly in front of him, shielding his eyes with his left hand and tightening his fingers. Despite the burning glare, Victor did not look away. He was mesmerized, as if looking at it made him happy—made him feel at peace.
"It's beautiful..."
Toria seemed to arrive almost by chance.
Victor turned almost abruptly to his left and saw the girl. She was dressed very similarly to the previous evening, except she was no longer wearing the shirt. Her hair was gathered into a large bun at the back of her head, though a few strands hung loose—some stiff, others softer and wavier along her forehead. Much to Victor's surprise, Toria was wearing large black-lensed glasses.
She had just entered the corridor. She, too, had been looking at the view for several minutes already.
"Sorry we didn't see each other this morning," Victor said, his tone slightly melancholic.
"Don't worry about it!" the girl replied as she approached him. "This morning was absolute chaos. I almost got lost."
Victor simply looked at her and smiled.
"But did you eat?" she asked.
"Actually, no. I didn't even go to the mess hall. I'm not hungry at all."
"I see," the girl said, slightly concerned. "But you should eat something later. Even tonight. Skipping meals isn't good for you."
"If you say so, doctor!" he replied jokingly, causing the girl to laugh.
Suddenly, a loud rushing sound swept past the window. Out of the corner of their eyes, the two noticed a streak of shadow pass over them for a brief moment. Startled, they both turned their gazes outside.
It was one of the two F-73s, graceful and majestic, gliding through the sky as if dancing among the clouds—a free spirit, even though in reality it was anything but free. It was most likely conducting a surveillance flight, passing from one side of the Virgilio to the other, which was now about four or five kilometers away from Palermo.
It eventually positioned itself in front of the sun, allowing only a few rays to pass through, creating a bright aura and reducing the aircraft to a simple black silhouette.
Victor and Toria watched in amazement.
"What did you feel?" Toria suddenly asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her gaze fixed on the plane.
"When?" Victor asked, also staring at the silhouette.
"When you were called to arms," Toria replied, turning her gaze back to him.
"I wanted to die," Victor answered, trying to sound as ironic as possible. Yet it was clear from his eyes, from his forced smile, from the false amusement on his face, that he was telling the truth.
Toria responded with a quiet "mh," as if to say I understand. On the outside she seemed indifferent. Inside, it meant something else entirely: I'm sorry... poor soul... God has stopped protecting you.
"When they enlisted me," she said, "I felt like my world had collapsed. I'll be honest... I don't like what I do. I save lives, it's true..."
"And that's more than enough," the boy replied. "No one asks you to love what you do—only to do it. What you do is a great sacrifice. After the attack of the two Ijo, I saw you while you were... dismantling those bodies to replace their parts with mechanical ones. You were suffering. You felt like you were killing a person. And yes, Toria, the Cyberhumans and the Automatons are bodies kept alive to fight—people who would rather die but can't afford to yet. But it's not your fault. You only followed orders, and they're doing the same..."
The girl kept the same expression as she looked at him. She tried to smile because of his words of comfort. But the more she tried, the more she felt like crying, and tears began to gather in her eyes. One of them finally escaped, running down her left cheek.
"Victor..." Her voice grew much thinner than before, almost hoarse, as she slowly lowered her gaze. "...Do you believe in this war? Be honest."
"Yes."
The boy answered almost before she had finished speaking. He stepped closer to her, gently touching her arm. The girl raised her eyes toward him again. He looked at her with determination and seriousness.
"I have to believe in it, Toria. My life—and everyone else's—depends on it."
The girl wiped the tear from her cheek, lightly brushing her hand across her eye.
"What about you?" the boy asked. "Do you believe in it?"
"I think it's wrong to imitate the enemy in order to fight them."
Victor continued looking into her eyes.
"I understand."
Then silence fell between them.
***
8:52 PM, Mega-Class Military Base "Franca Florio," Palermo.
The Virgilio descended slowly onto the runway at Punta Raisi, almost at the same time as the sun, which was slowly drowning in the Tyrrhenian Sea.
More than ten armored buses were stationed at the airport, waiting for the members of the Axel and the Borromini, each with a maximum capacity of about 60 people. Those large vehicles reeked of diesel and were worn on the outside, dented and scratched. The interior was suffocating and extremely dusty, so much so that Victor initially had difficulty breathing, having taken a seat at the back of the fourth bus. It was not possible to lower the windows, which were sealed and disgustingly worn and yellowish.
As soon as everyone had boarded, the buses departed almost immediately, escorted by three Leopard DH44 V tanks, equipped with massive, elongated bodies and metal wheels that, as they rotated, made a tremendous racket, the iron growling as if it were a scream. They were also armed with three cannons arranged evenly across the surface, each of which had two muzzles, firing a double projectile—heavy and lethal.
After crossing the desolate and devastated landscapes of Carini and Palermo, characterized by the degraded environment of large broken buildings—once symbols of progress and technology—collapsed and reduced to rubble that merged with the debris already covering the ground, among destroyed cars, technological wreckage, and, hidden among them, the corpses now reduced to nothing more than broken and worn bones, the buses arrived at the base about an hour later, at 9:39 PM. They passed through a belt of walls—namely the original walls of the city—rebuilt with metal plating and reinforced and armed with every kind of automatic firearm, featuring, for example, as Hansen—who was aboard the first bus—noticed, the latest model KBW submachine guns.