Pela tapped a sequence on the comms panel, isolating Maris’s transmission to a single, crackling channel. “Maris Corven,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of its usual lilt. “State your position and the number of personnel.” Joren, who had been peering through the main viewport at the solid, mountainous ocean, turned, his brow furrowed with concern. “Pela, are you sure? Those… those are the dispatch teams, aren’t they?” “They’re people,” Pela corrected without looking at him. “And the beacon is not a charity.” The comms channel hissed, then Maris’s voice cut through, sharper than the ice outside. “Vaskan, don’t play games. I’m at the base of the north ascent, just below your repurposed rock. I’ve got three surviving clerks from the south docks outbound, and Rusk Tarin. The scavs are closing fast. They’ve got a modified snow-skiff, probably scavenged from the old patrol fleet. What is this, Vaskan? Some kind of elaborate revenge for the freight audit reports?” Pela ignored the jab. She switched on the outer visual feed, bringing a grainy monochrome image onto the auxiliary screen. Sure enough, a small cluster of figures huddled against the sheer cliff face, their breath pluming in the frigid air. Behind them, a dark, angular shape skittered across the frozen expanse – the snow-skiff, its single headlamp a malevolent eye. It was closer than Maris implied. Rusk Tarin, a hulking shadow even in the poor image quality, was easily identifiable by the massive rifle slung over his shoulder. “Rusk Tarin,” Pela murmured, mostly to herself. A dock-smuggler, known for his ability to acquire anything for a price. And for his network of contacts, which stretched from the legitimate shipping lanes to the underbelly of the city’s forgotten depots. If he was with Maris, things were more complicated than simple survival. “Identify the dispatchers,” Pela said into the comms. “Names, last known assignments.” “Are you serious?” Maris’s voice climbed in pitch, a rare break in her usual composure. “They’re freezing out here! The scavs will be on us in minutes, and you’re asking for paperwork?” “Names, Corven. Now.” Pela’s gaze flickered to the temperature readout for the primary heating unit. It was holding steady, but the gauge vibrated with a low hum that hadn’t been there before. Maris swore, a clipped, guttural sound. “Fine. Kelso Vance, manifest clerk. Delia Crall, sensor tech. And Goran Thune, cargo handler. All of them certified for Category Gamma bio-hazard routines, just like me. Satisfied?” Pela processed the information. Kelso Vance had a known gambling problem, but was meticulous. Delia Crall was brilliant, if socially awkward. Goran Thune was a brawler, loyal to Maris. “Acknowledge receipt. Now, a moment of your time, Corven.” She switched off the comms, leaving Maris to fume in the cold. “Joren, secure the comms. No outbound until I say so. And prime the outer portal for Cycle Beta. We’re going to let them see what they’re begging for.” Joren lifted his eyebrows slightly at the unusual instruction. Pela rarely showed her hand, even to him. He moved to the auxiliary panel, his fingers flying over the holographic interface. “Cycle Beta active, Pela. Visual relay is live.” Pela nodded, then reactivated the comms. “Corven, look up.” Outside, the armored outer plating of the Aegis Beacon’s lower levels began to retract, slowly, almost reluctantly, like massive stone eyelids opening. Behind them, the true structure of Pela’s redoubt showed through. Not just a lighthouse, but a monstrous growth of interlocking steel shipping containers, welded, braced, and layered like scales up the cliff face. Each container was a module, a pressurized compartment, connected by narrow, steel-sleeved corridors. Heat vents, almost invisible against the dark stone, pulsed with faint warmth, forming a visible haze against the glacial air. There was a moment of stunned silence from the comms. Even the distant drone of the snow-skiff seemed to recede, as if in awe. “You… you built this?” Maris’s voice was barely a whisper, the icy condescension utterly absent. It was replaced by a raw, unvarnished respect Pela had never heard from her before. “The stories… I thought it was just the lighthouse. You retrofitted the entire cliff face.” “I had some spare parts and a lot of free time,” Pela replied, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching her lips. The airheaded cargo dispatcher facade was firmly back in place, but Maris now had a different lens through which to view it. “Now, about terms of entry.” “Terms?” Maris’s voice regained a fraction of its steel, but the edge was gone, replaced by a wary caution. “We’re being hunted, Vaskan.” “Precisely,” Pela said, her eyes fixed on Rusk Tarin’s figure on the screen. “Rusk Tarin. You will surrender all weaponry before entering the outer door. Every knife, every slug, every projectile. My internal security routines are linked to heat and metallic signatures. Anything less than full compliance will trigger an immediate vestibule purge. No reprise.” A sharp intake of breath from Maris. Then, Rusk’s low, gravelly voice, tinged with a cynical amusement. “Now, Pela, that ain’t neighborly. What’s a man without his persuader?” “A man who lives,” Pela countered. “And Maris. You will act as my operational deputy for the duration of your stay. I need someone with your logistical acumen, and your… particular brand of ruthlessness. I won’t tolerate dissent or challenges to my authority. Not with these stakes.” This was the hardest part, the direct assertion of power she usually shied away from. Her stomach tightened, but her voice remained level. Another silence, heavier this time. Maris’s directing instincts would chafe at playing subordinate, especially to Pela. But the image of the fortress, the imminent threat, and the absolute authority in Pela’s voice seemed to weigh on her. “You’re serious,” Maris finally said, her voice strained. “Operational deputy. Me. Reporting to *you*.” “Dead serious, Corven. No one else has your experience with crisis deployment. I need you to run the outer patrols, manage resource allocation, and ensure compliance with sanctuary rules. And I need you to do it under my direction. What’s it going to be?” Maris let out a frustrated sigh, a puff of visible vapor in the frigid air. “Fine. Gods help me. I agree. Rusk?” Rusk’s shadowed face was unreadable on the screen. He glanced back at the approaching snow-skiff, then to the impenetrable, glowing fortress. “A man’s got to live, I suppose. Right. All right, Vaskan. Your rules. But don’t expect me to like it.” He began to unshoulder his rifle, the movement stiff. His gaze drifted subtly to a jagged spur of ice a few meters away, where a small, camouflaged satchel was half-buried. Fuel cells. More than enough to run a few personal heaters. No need for Vaskan to know about *that* just yet. “Good,” Pela said, a new kind of tension settling in her shoulders. “Pressure doors cycling now. Move.” The entry bay hissed open, a beacon of warm light against the encroaching dark. One by one, the five figures shuffled in, discarding their weapons into a waiting receptacle within the entry chamber. Kelso Vance looked terrified, Delia Crall was shivering uncontrollably, and Goran Thune glowered. Maris strode in, her eyes fixed on Pela through the reinforced glass, a complex mix of resentment and grudging admiration warring in their depths. As the inner door of the airlock finally sealed, and the last of the perimeter ice was purged, a low, discordant groan emanated from the depths of the lighthouse. On the main console, the primary thermal core’s temperature gauge, which had been holding steady, inexplicably lurched downwards. Ten degrees. In a single, sickening drop. Pela’s cheerful facade shattered entirely. Her eyes, no longer distant, narrowed, tracking the falling needle. “Damn it,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the new, ominous hum of the struggling generator. “It’s already begun.”

Cold Calculations